Snowbound - Harlequin.com

JANICE KAY JOHNSON 217
“Oh, I suppose.” She scowled at him. “Well, great.
Now I’m going to have to watch everything I say.”
John shook his head. “No. Just go with your instincts.
You have good ones. I heard you talking to the
kids.” He suddenly stopped and lifted a hand. “Shh.”
Fiona, too, heard a crunch of snow and rustle of
branches. She waited, breathless, looking in the direction
of the sound. There was silence, and she might
have given up had John not remained so still.
A deer stepped out onto the creekside trail not twenty
feet ahead of them, followed closely by a second. She
wasn’t sure, but thought they were does. Did male deer
have antlers year around? One was noticeably larger than
the other. Mother and yearling? They looked directly at
John and Fiona, momentarily freezing, their haunches
bunching as if in preparation for flight, but in the absence
of movement they relaxed and crunched forward to the
creek, their delicate hooves piercing the snow.
In still spots the creek was iced over, but where water
eddied or raced over rocks, it ran free between snowy
banks. They both drank, lifting their heads frequently
to listen for danger.
Abruptly, either having drunk their fill or hearing
something human ears couldn’t catch, they sprang back
into the woods. Their leaps were awkward, and she
imagined how difficult heavy snow must be for them.
“Ooh,” she murmured, when they were gone. “They
were beautiful.”
“Not looking too bad, either. I’ll worry if winter gets
too harsh.”
She reached for his hand, and was warmed by it