James was on the porch, his long frame silhouetted in the faint light from a single bulb. “That’s it. You come on, now. It’s freezing out here.”

Willow pulled back.

The dog whined plaintively.

“Leave it!” James ordered, his voice firm.

Willow’s heart was beating so fast she thought it might fly out of her chest. A nervous sweat chilled her face. What would she do if James decided to investigate why his dog was behaving oddly? What if, at this moment, he was walking this way and she’d have to explain herself? Could she say that she’d just come by to check on things after she and Sophia had put the house together? Would he buy that she left rather than bother him? She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and heard the sound of keys jangling, then the creak of a door opening.

Then, more softly, over the frustrated whine of the shepherd, James said, “That’s a good boy. Come on in, now. What’s the matter with you?”

With a soft thud, the door was closed.

Oh, thank God.

Willow sank against the rough boards of the shed.

Her pulse pounded in her temple, and she let her breath out slowly, but she couldn’t stay here another second. It was too damned dangerous. She sent a nervous glance back to the row of trees, saw nothing, and dared to look at the house again. James was turning on the lights, settling in. Patches of warm illumination from the windows reflected on the snow.

Go!

Screwing up her courage, she took off, running brokenly across the parking area to the lane. She ducked through the hedgerow of firs, then scrambled over a fence, her leg throbbing. On the far side, she took off, hobbling along the icy lane that paralleled James’s driveway, the twin ruts that led from the county road to the shop where the tiny houses were built. She’d parked her car on the far side of the inn. If she could just get there . . . She cast a glance over her shoulder, just to be certain she wasn’t being followed.

The snowy landscape was empty, almost eerily so.

Willow was alone—as she had been most of her life.

She limped along the lane, and finally the hotel and café came into view, Christmas lights sparkling, customers still searching for that perfect tree even in mid-December. Man, oh, man, she thought, crossing the parking area in front of the hotel, if she had a husband and family, she would clean up the last dish from Thanksgiving, then drive to the nearest lot, buy a tree, and decorate it immediately, to stretch out the holiday season.

Not if, Willow.When. Remember that. When you and James are married and have children . . .

She spied her car where she’d left it and felt a rush of relief.

She’d gotten away with it!