Chapter One
                                        
          "Angels?! You're kidding, right?"
     Sasha Frazier paced in front of Bob Danza's desk, nearly upsetting the mountain of papers that balanced
precariously in his `in' box. Glaring at the gold placard on his desk that read `Robert Danza - Editor of The World
Tattler' she raised eyes of the darkest brown to clash with his milky blue stare. She turned and placed her palms on
his desk, leaning over, hoping to achieve a good enough loom to intimidate her boss.
     "Look, I know we're not the LA Times here, but we could at least act as if we have our finger on the pulse of
the country. Angels are old news, last year's fad - today's birdcage liner. Nobody's interested anymore. I..."
     Bob raised his palm toward her and she noticed that his cheeks were getting red. His face always turned that
I'm-gonna-have-a-stroke-now crimson when he had made up his mind about something and someone was trying to
change it. With a resigned sigh, she plopped into the well-worn visitor's chair in front of his desk. Chewing her gum
as though it were a very specific, very tender part of Mr Robert Danza, she slid the chair to the side so she could see
around Mount `In'.
     "Okay."
     One more job to keep her busy, to use as an excuse for not writing her Pulitzer Prize winning novel, to keep
Big Mac's on the table for another month.
     Bob smiled and nodded, wearing his `good girl' look that made Sasha want to rip off his face and drop it into
his `out' basket!
     "I want you to check out this guy in Utah."
     "Utah?!"
     He raised his palm once again.
     "Yeah, I know. Farthest from the sun, Mormon central. Live with it."
     He tossed a manila envelope in her direction. Miraculously finding the only clear path on that catastrophe he
laughingly called a desk, it slid to the ground at her feet. She glared at him as she picked it up and let the contents
fall onto her lap. A newspaper article, the headline reading `Miraculous Events Continue' caught her eye. She snorted
her contempt.
     "Bob, these are the people that consider birds eating bugs to be a miracle. I hope there's more than this."
     Bob frowned his displeasure at her scoffing and motioned for her to look at the rest of the papers she held.
With a dramatic sigh, Sasha complied.
     Next was a picture of what must have once been a car, though Sasha wouldn't have testified to that fact. She
could just make out what looked to be a fender, but the rest was a flat, burned out pile of rubble. She arched a
quizzical eyebrow, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.
     "Let me guess, someone saw the outline of the Archangel Gabriel in the flames, complete with trumpet."
     That earned her another frown accompanied by rolled eyes.
     "Four kids died in that accident...,"
     "Sad, but not news."
     He ignored her interruption, the harshness of his voice warning her that he was about to say something that
would make the reporter in her start to salivate.
     "...but one girl walked away without a scratch. Next."
     Her curiosity beginning to tingle, Sasha wanted to unleash the barrage of questions in her mind, but she
figured she'd get more information if she just let Danza continue, uninterrupted, in lecture mode. The next picture
looked to be an unplanned meeting between a train and some kind of van. The van was toast, its passenger
compartment in pieces all over one side of the tracks, the front half on the other side.
     "Don't tell me someone walked away from this alive."
     He nodded solemnly.
     "That van was carrying a school choir. They were coming back from a nursing home where they put on a
Valentine's Day show for the geezers. The weather was lousy - snow up to a horse's butt and fog thick as pea soup -
but the kids didn't want to disappoint the old folks. Van stalled on the tracks."
     He leaned forward and Sasha knew he was coming in for the kill, preparing to whack her with the hook that
would send her to the sanctimonious armpit of America in pursuit of a truth that no one ever believed anyway.
     "All twelve kids, and the teacher who was driving, survived unhurt."
     Sasha sat up, nearly dumping the contents of her lap onto the floor.
     "Oh, come on! Nobody walked away from that without some serious bodily injury."
     Danza shook his head.
     "Not a cut or broken bone among them. All they remember is seeing the bright headlight of the oncoming

train, then they were sitting on the ground by the side of the road, maybe twenty yards from the smoking van.
Nobody knows how they got there, but one girl says she thinks she saw a guy standing just beyond the edge of the
fog."
     "Mass hysteria in response to extreme trauma."
     "That quarter of Psyche 101 sure paid off, Frazier. Now, get your butt out to Utah and write me a front page
story."
     "You wouldn't want to, oh, I don't know, give me a clue as to where I might start this wild goose chase."
     The editor of the paper someone had once called `the best bathroom entertainment around' harrumphed, then
glared at her as he lit a cigarette, knowing her hatred of the smoke was a surefire way to chase her from his office.
     "Do I have to do your job for you, Frazier? If you bothered to read the background materials I gave you, you
would find that the locals in a town called Pleasant Grove say this hermit is responsible, that he's the second coming
or something. Check it out. You've got an hour to catch your plane."
     All manner of expletives rose to Sasha's lips, but she bit her tongue and rushed out the door, knowing it
would do absolutely no good to give Bob Danza a piece of her mind. The futile effort would just make her late for
her plane, and she hated flying stand-by.
     After running around like a headless chicken for an hour, and just barely making her plane, Sasha breathed a
sigh of relief as the 747 rose above the ugly city of New York. Anyone who thought there was anything good in that
city was a tourist who had just gotten off the plane. Give 'em an hour, they'd know the crime-ridden,
nobody-cares-about-anyone-but-themselves truth.
     How she hated the dark city. Metropolis without Batman to keep it safe. She had promised herself long ago
that some day she would live somewhere that you could actually see the sky. A clear blue sky, instead of the New
York building topper of a milky grey color that God had never meant the sky to be.
     God. Well, there was a subject that had been bound to come up. Angels were God's messengers, His soldiers,
His henchmen. If you believed in them then you had to believe in The Big Guy. Right?
     Did she believe in God?
     Sasha had tried not to examine her beliefs in that direction for a long time. Now, safe on a plane with a hot
story waiting for her, she let her mind drift into those dark hallways of memory that she had avoided for so long.
     She was ten years old, so proud of the beautiful white dress her mother had made for her confirmation. Today
was the day she would become an adult in the eyes of God, worthy to do his bidding. Standing before the altar, she
listened in awe as Father Roy spoke the Latin words that would draw God's attention to her. A shiver ran through her
as the cold wafer touched her tongue and she imagined she could feel God's eyes upon her, His smile warming her
face like the sun.
     Afterwards, her parents held a party in her honor at her house. She basked in the center-of-attention sunshine,
trying her best to be humble as everyone congratulated her. God was so very real to her. She thanked Him for
choosing her as one of His own, promising to make Him proud of her, to do anything He asked of her. Not only did
she believe in God as though He were a solid stone standing before her, she loved Him as much as she loved her
Daddy.
     After the initial explosion of attention to the pretty little girl, the adults had began enjoying their wine and the
focus shifted away from Sasha. That made her rather unhappy. Wandering through the house looking for someone
who hadn't congratulated her yet, she decided to go to her room and wait for someone to come looking for her, which
she was certain they would. She was quite surprised to find Father Roy sitting on her bed, holding her favorite doll in
his lap. When she opened the door, he looked up and smiled, a lop-sided grin that told her he might have had one too
many glasses of wine. The slight slur in his words bore out that conclusion.
     "Sasha, my pretty angel, come in. Come, little girl, come sit with us."
     Happy to have someone's undivided attention again, Sasha happily jumped onto the bed beside the
middle-aged priest. He turned and looked down at her and for just a moment Sasha saw something in his eyes that
frightened her. When he smiled and patted her hand where it lay on the bed, she pushed her fear aside as childish and
immature.
     "Sasha, you are an especially good little girl. Do you know how I know that?"
     Wide-eyed, Sasha shook her head, her black curls bobbing about her shoulders.
     "Because God told me."
     Sasha gasped.
     "Yes, he told me he has great plans for you. If..."
     Feeling privy to a great secret, Sasha held her breath so as not to miss a single word.
     "If you are willing to do His will without question, as do all God's obedient servants. Are you willing to
submit to God's will, Sasha?"
     Sasha nodded furiously, ready and eager to do God's bidding. Father Roy's smile widened as he patted her
bare knee. She didn't notice when he left his hand on her leg, she was too entranced by his serious voice.
     "God wants you to serve the church, Sasha. Do you understand that I represent the church?"
     Once again, she nodded with the serious enthusiasm of a child. Father Roy started running his hand up and
down her thigh, stopping just at the hem of her pure white dress.
     "Good. There are things we must keep secret, to protect God's confidence. Your calling is one of those

things."
     Sasha jumped as his hand slid beneath her dress and smoothed over the cotton-covered mound at the junction
of her thighs. Leaning over her, he used his body to force her to lay back on the bed. As his hand continued its
stroking, his breathing speeded, making her wonder if he were having a vision.
     "That's a good little angel. Just lie back and I will show you the calling God has for you."
     Doubt blared brightly in Sasha's brain as the priest slipped his hand into her panties. Wasn't this a nasty thing?
Her mother had told her not to touch herself there except to wash. Was Mommy wrong? Did God want Father Roy to
do nasty things? Maybe priests had special privileges.
     As the priest's breathing became more labored and he began rubbing himself against her thigh, Sasha decided
something was seriously wrong. Father Roy wasn't having a vision, he was acting like her older brother, Sammy, did
when he looked at those magazines he kept under his mattress that Mommy wasn't supposed to know about.
     Sasha began to wriggle in an attempt to dislodge Father Roy from his position over her body. The first
stirrings of fear made her voice louder than she had planned.
     "Father..."
     "Hush, my child, hush. The Lord is very pleased with you."
     As he rubbed himself faster and harder against her thigh, he slid his finger between her legs. The jolt of
unfamiliar, yet rather pleasant, sensation broke the spell. Though too young to truly understand, Sasha felt in her
heart that the activity in which Father Roy was forcing her to participate was wrong. As the movement of his finger
began to hurt, she screamed and kicked, relieved when he grabbed his midsection and roll over on her bed, moaning.
     Her mother opened the door to find Sasha standing in front of her bed, aiming another kick at Father Roy's
shin.
     "Sasha! What on earth are you doing?"
     The priest quickly jumped to his feet, though his face was florid and rivulets of sweat streaked down his
cheeks. His voice was strained.
     "Elena! Sasha and I were just discussing her new responsibilities to the Lord when I suddenly felt ill and
needed to lie down. I'm afraid I have imbibed too heartily of your fine wine. Please excuse me."
     With a meaningful look to Sasha, he quickly exited the room leaving her confused and angry and...sad.
     A bump of turbulence jolted Sasha back to the present. She was glad of that. She didn't care to delve too
deeply into the emotions that particular incident had forced on a too-young innocent who had grown into a cynical
reporter. Keeping a tight rein on herself, she remembered the conclusion of what she was sure Oprah would call `her
childhood trauma'.
     Sasha had been more than willing to tell her mother everything that had occurred on her bed that day and she
had begun in a jumble of words that made little sense. She understood now that her mother had heard enough to
know she didn't want to hear the whole story. Elena Frazier had smiled that all-knowing smile she wore when
ignoring the world and sticking her head in the sand and blithely instructed Sasha to attend to her guests. Then she
had turned and left Sasha alone in her room.
     Deserted and confused, Sasha had knelt beside her bed and begun to pray. But something was wrong, she
didn't feel God listening as He had always been before. She realized she was praying just as Father Roy had taught
her. But if he was a bad man - and since he had lied to her mother she had no doubt of that - then maybe he had
taught her wrong. But he was a man of God. With a child's simple A-plus-B logic, Sasha had decided then and there
that God was something bad men made up so they could do nasty things to little girls.
     Watching the clouds float by her window, a tear slipped from the corner of Sasha's eye as she remembered
her mother's response when, later that night, Sasha had tried to tell her what the priest had done.
     "It's your godless gypsy blood! Even a pious man of God like Father Roy finds it hard to resist. I knew that
dress was too short, too pretty. Now go take a bath and wash away the Father's sin. Ask the Lord's forgiveness and
never mention this again. Do you understand?"
     Oh, yes. Sasha, for all her young years, had understood a great deal that night. She had never prayed again,
though she had learned to fake it pretty well to keep her parents happy. She had thrown up so often on Sunday
morning to get out of church that her father had joked she was allergic to Sundays. Eventually, her parents had gotten
the message and stopped forcing her to attend church.
     The pain and confusion of that night had eaten away at her for several years before she had discovered the
wonderful world of writing. On her twelfth birthday, Aunt Sophie - a woman her mother loathed and Sasha had often
wished were her mother - had given her a diary. The wise old woman had looked into Sasha's eyes and whispered in
her heavy Romanian accent, "Tell it everything you need to say, all the things these fools won't hear. When the time
comes, my girl, your destiny will lead you to some of the strangest places in this world, and beyond. Your heart must
be unburdened so that you can trust its judgement. Pour your pain into this book, then burn it when it is full, and I

will give you another. Each burning will cleanse your heart."
     Sasha wondered even now at how intuitive Aunt Sophie had been. She had escaped the Nazi occupation of
Germany - `by the skin of my teeth' she liked to say. Nazis were as friendly toward Gypsies as they were toward
Jews. Sophie had told Sasha once of the friends she had come upon dead in a hole by the side of the road. The
German soldiers had made them dig their grave, then slaughtered them and not even bothered to throw the dirt in on
top of them.
     Memories of Aunt Sophie were never complete without `the argument'. Sasha's mother had always referred to
it that way, in quotes, as though it were some earth shattering occurrence. But then, any time Roberto denied Elena
anything, she acted as though the world were coming to an end.
     When Sophie passed away in her sleep, Elena had declared that she would have `a good Christian burial'
instead of the cremation she had requested. Roberto, Sasha's father, had tried to reason with his wife, saying she was
being petty, taking out her dislike of the woman in an inappropriate fashion. As usual, he had been ignored as Elena
picked up the phone to make the arrangements. Roberto had told Sasha to go to her room, but, knowing something
interesting was about to happen, she had crouched in the hallway, watching and listening. Roberto had taken the
phone from her mother's hand and spoke into the receiver, instructing the mortician to prepare the body for
cremation. Sasha had thought her mother was going to have a fit. Her face had turned the color of beets, her
dyed-blonde hair accenting her anger. As Roberto had calmly placed the receiver in its cradle, Elena had opened her
mouth to begin the harangue Sasha knew from experience could go on for hours.
     "No!"
     Both she and her mother had jumped at the unexpected ferocity in Roberto's single shouted word. Elena had
stared open-mouthed at her husband as though he had grown another head.
     "You may choose to do everything possible to deny your blood, Elena, and, God help me, I've let you work
you ways on Sasha to whitewash her mind, but I will not let your shame at your heritage defile Sophie in death. She
was my sister and I loved her dearly."
     He had paused to swallow a sob, then continued, strength, and pride, in his voice Sasha had never dreamed
possible from her soft-spoken, easy-going father.
     "I am a Gypsy, as are you, as is our beautiful daughter. Why you have chosen to try to erase our heritage, I do
not know, but I will not have it spill over onto Sophie now that she can no longer defend herself. She will be burned
in death as befits her blood. There will be nothing more said on the subject."
     Sasha's parents had stared hard at each other for a minute, then Elena had lowered her eyes and - Sasha
couldn't believe her ears! - quietly acquiesced, "As you wish, Roberto."
     At the ripe old age of sixteen, Sasha had begun learning about her Gypsy heritage from her father, a subject
that had been forbidden till then. She knew her looks - blue-black hair, dark brown eyes and deep olive skin - came
from the blood. Her father explained to her that she had also inherited the desire to roam, to explore her world, from
her Gypsy ancestors.
     By then she had been writing for the school newspaper and had decided she wanted to be world class
reporter. Unfortunately, her grades didn't help much. She found it hard to concentrate, her mind always drifting to
more interesting subjects than math or home economics. She graduated, `by the skin of her teeth', and immediately
started applying for jobs at the local papers. When she was offered the position of gofer, she was so insulted she had
packed a bag and told her parents she was going somewhere her superior talent would be appreciated.
     New York City beckoned.
     Like a fool, she answered.
     She spent a year in the mailroom of the prestigious New York Times, another as the office gofer at The
Washington Post, still another as junior reporter at The Portland Gazette, where she had managed to have two
articles printed. One detailed a local bar fight that started when one patron called another a Republican, the other
was the rundown on a cat show. And she had nearly starved to keep that job!
     Finally, two years ago, employment had come along that would keep her in room and board, and get her name
in print. Okay, so `The World Tattler' wasn't the most prestigious paper, but it would do till something really great
came along.
     With that in mind, Sasha decided it was time to stop daydreaming and study the background on her new story.
Who knows, she thought with a wry grin, maybe this will be the one that changes my life forever. Yeah, right!                                        
                                  Chapter Two
                                        
     Sasha had read everything in the envelope Bob Danza had so graciously given her and she did not feel one bit
enlightened. Along with the pictures of the two car accidents, there were newspaper descriptions of said accidents,
basically repeating what Danza had already told her. The article sighting `further miracles' had turned out to be some
editorial page claptrap about the return of Joseph Smith, or Brigham Young, or some promised prophet announcing
his return to save the righteous by performing miracles. Sasha skimmed and chucked, knowing better than to put
much weight on local religion.
     Not that the Mormon church could exactly be considered `local'. From what little she knew of it, she figured
it was, in the Christian community, second only to the Catholics for membership. Not that any of that mattered to
her. Religious theory didn't usually sell well with the checkstand brigade. She was going to have her work cut out for
her keeping angels a basically non-religious subject.
     The last paper she found in her Bob Danza collection was the only thing of any real help in her search for a
starting point to this article. It was a driver's license application.
     Name: Michael Starch
     No middle name, Sasha thought, how creative.
     Address: PO Box 332
     Pleasant Grove, Utah
     No zip code. Town's probably so small the post office missed it. That, or, like most men, Starch doesn't
consider it important enough to remember it.
     Telephone: None
     Figures. The possibility of an interview by phone, thus saving me from the boredom and frustration of finding
Pleasant Grove, Utah fades into the distance. My interest flags.
     Social Security Number: 529-00-6591 (Local SSN.)
     Thank you, Bob, nice of you to throw in a little extra information. You might be back on my Christmas list.
     Birthdate: 0/0/00
     Interesting computer glitch. Note to self: Check that out later.
     Height: 6'5"
     Hello! Six foot five? Okay, the story might be a bust, but I definitely want to meet this guy.
     Weight: 250
     250. I wonder if that's fat - ugh - or muscle. Oh Great Editor in the Sky, I'll spellcheck for a month if you'll let
it be muscle.
     Hair: Blonde
     Blondes are okay, good contrast. Too bad they don't ask for length. I hope it's long. And wavy. Not big waves,
just those soft curves that make you want to dig your fingers in up to your elbows.
     Eyes: Blue
     Is this the All-American boy, or what? He's probably got a dog named Rover and a broken down old pick-up
truck in his driveway. Still, he might be lonely out there in the boondocks. Too bad these apps don't ask for marital
status.
     His signature was all bold lines and smooth curves, remarkably readable for a man. The tail of the M circled
the whole signature like a protective cloud.
     I wonder what a handwriting expert would make of that? Probably anal retentive, or something equally
attractive. Mama's boy? Great. He'll probably turn out to be six-foot-five, 250 pounds of gorgeous, wavy haired
muscle that lives, happily, with a guy named Bruce!
     Sasha slipped the page back into the envelope and returned her seat to the upright position as per the pilot's
request. Out her window she could see the most barren landscape ever created, something right out of a science
fiction depiction of the earth after a nuclear holocaust. Sand, sagebrush, pitiful little treelets. Wait, was that water?
Oh, yeah, she had almost forgotten. The Great Salt Lake. Thousands of gallons of undrinkable salt water smack in
the middle of a desert. Good joke. And this was what the local's ancestors had called `The Place.' These people were
not very picky about their places.
     Salt Lake International Airport, there was a promising mouthful. Sasha found the visitor information desk
with - thankfully - little difficulty and asked the nice little old lady seated behind the counter how to find the rental
cars. She knew she was in trouble when said senior citizen had to sit aside her knitting - knitting, for Heaven's sake -
to give Sasha detailed instructions a five-year-old could have followed.
     Sasha didn't know about angels, but she wouldn't have been a bit surprised to find a dinosaur or two roaming
the Utah wilderness!
     Once ensconced in her rental car - a Geo, since she had to pay for it herself - she perused the maps of the area
that the rental company had so graciously provided and found Pleasant Grove. It didn't look too hard to find. It was
right off the freeway, about thirty miles out of Salt Lake, if she were reading the map correctly. And she had certainly
read enough of them since beginning work on the newspaper-cum-fish wrapper she now called her professional
home.
     Straight on to the freeway from the airport - that was easy - and she was off in search of angels.
     Thirty minutes later, she estimated she had gotten about ten miles closer to her destination. Looking at her
watch, she did some time conversion and realized she must have arrived in Salt Lake right in the middle of morning
rush-hour traffic. She hadn't thought Salt Lake would have much of a rush hour, just the occasional backup from an
overturned horse trailer. Wrong! This rivaled LA at its worst. The freeway was a parking lot but she didn't dare exit
for fear she'd get lost and have to ask directions from some leering gas station attendant straight out of `Deliverance'!
     Frustration, and the mere two hours sleep she had managed on the plane, caught up with her as she pulled into
the emergency lane at the side of the road, slammed the car out of gear and smacked the steering wheel.
     "Damn it! Why can't something surprise me and go right for a change? I hate this job, I hate Mr Robert
Danza, I hate angels, I hate G...What!"
     A tap on the driver's side window nearly made her jump out of her skin. One hand reaching for the pepper
spray in her purse, she cautiously glanced up to find a man in a rather spiffy tan uniform motioning for her to roll
down her window. Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, she opened the window about two inches.
     "Who are you?"
     The man smiled indulgently, then motioned to the badge on his jacket.
     "Highway Patrol, ma'am. Is there a problem?"
     Her eyes shooting to the rearview mirror, Sasha blushed as she saw the cherry bar atop the white car that had
pulled in behind her. Sheepishly, she fully opened her window.
     "I'm sorry, officer, I just got into town and I'm not familiar with the local colors."
     "No problem, ma'am. Did your car stall?"
     "No, I just..." Sasha felt like a five-year-old trying to explain to Daddy how she had broken the vase she
wasn't supposed to touch. "I just got...flustered, I guess."

     "Yes, ma'am, this traffic can get on a person's nerves. There's an off-ramp about a mile-and-a-half down the
road. Why don't you get a cup of coffee and relax?"
     "That's a good idea. Where can I get coffee around here?"
     The Highway Patrolman's smile widened and he shook his head.
     "Well, ma'am, we have special places that can't be seen from the street. If you know the correct handshake,
you can get a great cup of the Devil's Brew."
     At Sasha's widened eyes, the officer gave a soft, pleasant chuckle.
     "I'm sorry, ma'am, I really shouldn't joke at your expense. Just about any restaurant or fast-food place around
here serves coffee, just like any other state. Where are you heading?"
     "Pleasant Grove."
     "You're on the right road. It's about thirty miles south of here. Be careful re-entering traffic, ma'am, and have
a safe trip."
     With that he touched the brim of his hat and returned to his patrol car.
     "Great, now I'm joke fodder for the local yokels. I'm hungry, I've had enough sleep for a baby's afternoon nap,
and I'm on the trail of a gay giant passing himself off as an angel. I need a cup of very strong coffee."
     Following the officer's advice, Sasha pulled off the freeway and grabbed a cup of coffee from McDonalds,
along with an Egg McMuffin, some hashbrowns, pancakes and a large orange juice, all of which she consumed in her
car while she participated in one of her favorite pastimes - people watching. She was surprised to find that Utahns
were actually pretty normal people. They dressed in varying styles, not just the long dresses and stiffly-pressed suits
she had expected. The teenagers were as weird and unpredictable as they were anywhere else in the country,
black-garbed death-metal-heads jumped onto buses right alongside lettered crew-cuts. Someday she would learn not
to assume.
     Rejuvenated by her decidedly piggy repast, she felt more than ready to tackle the traffic and make her way to
Pleasant Valley, er, Grove. What the heck kind of name was that for a city, anyway? People could live in a valley, but
a grove? Groves were full of trees. Were the people who lived there related to squirrels? Did they live in elaborate
tree houses? Stifling a giggle, Sasha was glad to find she still had her sense of humor.
     Pleasant Grove was a sight to behold. If you didn't blink. The main street covered about half a New York city
block, with all the things you'd expect to find in an old town - an if-we-don't-have-it-you're-out-of-luck hardware
store, a general grocery store that carried everything from soup to fabric for a prom dress, and a bar that looked old
enough to have served General Custer.
     Not too far from town square - a nice little park with brownish grass and a sand-and-swings kids' area - was a
Motel 8. Sasha hoped the name meant it was half-again as nice as Motel 6. The bell above the door rang as she
entered and she heard movement from behind the door behind the counter. It opened slowly and a mobile mountain
masquerading as a man in overalls ambled through and gave her a sheepish smile.
     "Sorry, ma'am, I was out back workin' on the water heater."
     Her concern must have shown on her face because he laughed and reassured her.
     "Nah, that one's for the house, the hotel's got its own and it's runnin' just fine. How long you gonna be in
town?"
     If there is mercy in this universe, one, just one, very long day.
     With a smile that would have done a runway model proud, Sasha replied, "My plans are flexible at the
moment. Is that a problem?"
     Though his whole face lit with ill-concealed curiosity, Farmer John just smiled and shook his head.
     "No, ma'am, this is the slow season so we got plenty o' rooms. Cash or plastic?"
     Did anyone pay in cash anymore? Yeah, maybe out here they did.
     "Visa okay?"
     "Sure is. Give me a minute to find the credit card thingamajig and you'll be set."
     Thingamajig? Oh, boy.
     He came up from under the counter looking quite proud of himself, a credit card imprinter held in one
ham-fist. Sasha handed him her card, watched while he figured out how to use the `thingamajig', then smiled again
when he handed her the bill to sign.
     "You can just pay for the one night, then if you decide to stay longer, let me know and I'll get another chance
to use this fancy thing. Okay?"
     Signing the bill and returning it to his outstretched hand, Sasha nodded, wondering how much this town had
changed since the turn of the century.
     "I gave you unit one 'cause its got the nicest view of the mountains. Unit eight faces away from the road, so
it's a little quieter, if you'd rather."
     "No, one will be just fine, thanks. Could you by any chance tell me how to locate a Mr Michael Starch? My
information has him living somewhere in this vicinity."
     The big man's brow screwed up as though he were trying to decipher a great equation.
     "Starch, you say? No, ma'am, I don't know that name and I know pretty much everybody that lives around
here. You sure you got the right town?"
     "Is there another Pleasant Grove in Utah?"
     Farmer John smiled humoringly, shaking his shaggy, brown head. Sasha fought hard to keep from seeing a
large hound dog standing behind the counter trying to help her.
     "No, ma'am, this is the only one I know about. Do you know what he looks like? Or, maybe, what he does for
a livin'?"
     "I believe he keeps to himself, somewhat of a hermit?"
     Light dawned on the Utah prairie.
     "Oh, you mean Michael! Sure, I know him. He lives up the mountain a piece. I don't know if you ought to go
up there by yourself, though, ma'am. It's kind of hard to find. And he does live up there all by himself. He ain't a
monk, y'know? And he can be kinda funny."
     Great, Farmer John is worried about my reputation.
     "Funny, how?"
     "He likes livin' alone, doesn't want people fussin' over him, y'know?"
     Sasha nodded as if she understood. It was always easiest to get information from people who thought you
agreed with them.
     "Can you give me directions to his place? I really need to speak with him."
     The ad for big-and-tall overalls furrowed his brow in disapproval, then shrugged and pulled a calendar from
beneath the counter.
     "We had these made up for our customers, but most of `em either already had one from the feed store, or they
wanted one o' them fancy Elvis or Garth Brooks calendars, y'know?"
     Sasha nodded understandingly yet again, wondering how much longer she could keep from bursting into gales
of hysterical laughter. Or maybe tears. It depended on how long this assignment lasted.
     Her informant turned the calendar over and drew a map on the back, explaining as he drew.
     "This here's the motel. You go up Main Street to the end, turn right and go about five, six, miles till you come
to the Widow Smith's place. You can tell her place `cause last time her boys painted her house she had `em do it
bright green. Looks like a big ol' Granny Smith apple. Anyway, go just a skosh past her house and turn left. You'll be
headin' right up the mountain. You gotta drive about fifteen miles and the road's kinda rough. You sure you want to
do this by yourself, ma'am? I'd be glad to drive ya up there in my truck."
     "No, thank you, you're too kind. I'll be fine, really. After I've driven fifteen miles, how will I know I'm there?"
     After I've survived the Donner Pass with all my parts intact, will Bruce come running out the front door with
a loaded shotgun?
     "The second mail box you see on your left is his, though he don't get his mail there, just his Sunday paper.
The next turn is the road to his place. He don't have a gate or nothin', so you can go right in. But you better be sure to
leave in plenty of time to get back to town before dark. It gets black as pitch on those canyon roads. And night comes
real sudden, like God's throwin' a big black blanket over the ground. You sure...?"
     Sasha grabbed the map, trying to soften her abrupt actions with a toothy smile.
     "Thank you, you have been so much help. I'll let you know if I need to stay another day."
     So you can reserve my room at the nearest sanitarium.
     She made a hasty retreat from the office/house. As she climbed back into her bright green
matchbox-on-wheels, her advisor hung his head out the door and yelled, "Check-out's noon, but if ya can't leave till
one or two, that's okay. Be careful."
     Looking up at the man, Sasha's smile eased into reality as she saw in his eyes that he was honestly concerned
for her safety. He didn't know her from Adam, but he cared. That was something you didn't see all that much
anymore. Pulling out of the parking lot, she returned his wave and, checking her makeshift map, set out to find her
quarry.
     The farmer's directions turned out to be surprisingly accurate. Widow Smith's place was a rather flashy green
that stood out like a sore thumb amid all the browns and reds of late October. The foliage was spectacular. Sasha
didn't usually care for that sort of thing, but there really wasn't much else to see on the last half of her journey. She
almost missed Starch's mailbox, its image registering on her brain several seconds after she had driven by it. She
slammed on the brakes, her car doing a heart-stopping little shimmy in the leaves that covered the road. Craning her
neck, she looked back and saw the box nestled in a clump of bushes by the side of the road. As she scanned the
countryside to her left, she spied the road that must lead to the humble abode of Mr Michael Starch. Girding her
reporter's loins, she turned onto the narrow road - more of a path, really - and drove on.
     The little car's engine growled and sputtered as it traversed the steep trail. As her ears popped, Sasha realized
how high up in the mountains this guy must live. Angels need to be close to God, right? Right! Fearing for her
insurance - she certainly didn't want to end up buying this elf car - she finally parked by the side of the `road' and
decided to climb the rest of the way on foot. The sun was shining warmly enough, even though there was a brisk
breeze. She pulled on her black trenchcoat, made sure she had her recorder and notepad in her purse, then set off in
search of winged messengers of God, or lonely hunks, whichever came first.
     Good thing I took those aerobics classes, she thought as she climbed the steep path. At least my heart's used
to being forced into painful overload for the entertainment and enjoyment of its owner.
     Thump.
     Sasha stopped dead in her tracks, every slasher-in-the-forest movie she had ever seen running through her
mind.
     Thump.
     What was that sound? Should she head toward it, or away? If she were watching this on TV she knew what
she would suggest, loudly, to the heroine. But they never listened, and would they get there big death scene if they
had? No!
     Thump.
     Sasha took her bearings, then headed into the dense trees toward the sound. It was fairly regular, and she soon
knew she was on the right track because it was getting louder. She still had absolutely no idea what was making the
strange noise, but her curiosity would soon be appeased
     Then the sound stopped. Silence. Temporarily taken aback by the depth of that silence, Sasha took in her
surroundings. All around her majestic trees rose nearly to the clouds, flowering bushes and heavy brown underbrush
guarding there great trunks. The road was that way, wasn't it? She had been so busy concentrating on the source of
that pounding, she hadn't paid much attention to her path. Was there a possibility that she was lost?
     Panic was about to become her close associate when she thought she heard...a whistle? Someone whistling
`When The Saints Come Marching In.' A deep breath she hadn't known she was holding whooshed out of her lungs as
she nearly ran toward the welcoming sound.
     Then, suddenly, the trees thinned and she could see a cabin nestled in their midst. It sprang from the ground
in such a natural fashion, she wouldn't have been surprised to find it had been planted instead of built. She had never
been so happy to see a man-made structure in her entire life. Not wanting to spook the whistler, she slowed her
headlong plunge to a normal walk and eased her way from the cover of the trees.
     Thump.
     Mystery solved. Stacked up against the side of the house was a nearly roof high pile of firewood. And
standing in front of it - bare-chested and shining with the sweat of his wood-chopping labor - was the most
extraordinary man she had ever seen.                                        
                                 Chapter Three
                                        
     "Oh, my God."
     Sasha didn't realize she had actually whispered her astonishment like a prayer. He was gorgeous! No,
gorgeous had always carried some soft qualities to her. There was nothing - nothing! - soft about this guy. His
cheekbones came straight from a classic Roman statue, his clean-shaven jaw so square it could double for a ruler.
His jeans fit him like a second skin, clearly outlining the fact that he had been enjoying his work. She watched in awe
as the blonde giant swung an axe over his magnificent head and brought it down on a log, which obediently split into
nearly perfect halves. He tossed the two pieces onto the pile and slammed the axe into the chopping block. Bending
forward at the waist, he suddenly straightened and flipped his head back, sending his mane of silver-blonde hair
flying through the air to settle like a cape about his massive shoulders. He tilted his head to the side as if he had
heard something and was trying to pinpoint its location. Slowly turning his head, he scanned his domain.
     Then he looked at her.
     Azure, sapphire, cobalt - his eyes were so blue they defied description. They pinned Sasha where she stood
like a butterfly on a collector's board. Hypnotized like a cobra's prey, she felt as though her insides had suddenly
turned to Jell-O, all wriggly and soft. She couldn't move, not even to get a better look. When he took a step toward
her straight white teeth flashed in a broad welcoming smile and she would have sworn the sun came from behind a
cloud.
     What in Heaven's name was happening to her?! She was a hardened New York reporter. The sun did not shine
because some guy - granted an extremely good-looking guy, but just a guy - smiled at her. She obviously needed to
get a grip. Still, she stood rooted to the spot as he advanced, willing him to speak.
     If he has a deep voice, I'm pinching myself.
     "Hello. Out on a nature walk, lost, or both?"
     His voice came from somewhere in the vicinity of his toes, working its way up through all that muscle and
sinew until it burst forth with such force, her knees actually threatened to betray her and go south.
     "Okay, this is ridiculous," she mumbled to herself as her fingers closed on the back of her hand in a hard
pinch. "Ouch!"
     One flaxen eyebrow cocked as he tipped his head, his knowing smile tickling her pride.
     "I apologize for my six-legged neighbors, they believe biting is an acceptable way to welcome visitors."
     His smile really was blinding. He extended one large, capable hand toward her. She knew she should look at
his hand, his lips, anything but those mesmerizing bottomless pools of blue into which she had the strangest
sensation she was falling.
     "My name is Michael Starch."
     The reporter's brain began to force its way back to proper function.
     "Stark? S-t-a-r-k? Oh, ah, I'm Sasha, Sasha Frazier."
     As her hand slid into his palm and his warm, callused skin closed around it, the welcome in his smile
hardened the tiniest bit. He held her hand as he replied, searching her face.
     "A pleasure to meet you Sasha Frazier. Actually, it's c-h not k."
     The heat waves emanating from his hand were spreading throughout her body like wildfire. She blushed as
she realized her nipples had come to hard attention, pressing against the soft cotton of her blouse. The sensation was
enough to make her stifle a shiver. Even though he couldn't possibly see her reaction through her black reporter's
trench coat, she had a feeling that he knew. He blinked slowly, his eyes opening only half as wide, and his smile
changed to one of self-confident masculine seduction.
     "Would you like to come inside out of the bug-infested cold, Miss Frazier?"
     Like molten lava sliding over satin, his softly spoken invitation caressed every nerve ending in her body. She
felt the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck rise as heat coursed into the center of her, speeding her breathing, making
her want to get to know this man very well. Very well indeed.
     He didn't release her hand or wait for a reply. With an attitude that said he was used to being obeyed, he
turned and started walking toward the log cabin.
     Sasha had to get this situation under control. After all, she was here to interview this man, not to be seduced
out of her wits! She shouldn't be noticing how the muscles in his back rippled as he moved, how the sweat in the
hollow between his shoulder blades had dried, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. When she felt the urge to kiss warmth
back into that hard flesh - her lips actually began to pucker! - she put her foot down. Literally.
     Feeling a tug from his visitor, Michael stopped and looked over his shoulder. Sasha's rebellious expression
gave him pause. Had he misunderstood her desire? He gave a mental snort. Not likely.
     "Mr Starch, I...uh...I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot."
     Under her breath, she mumbled, "Yeah, the size eight that keeps trying to get into my mouth."
     She gave a half-hearted chuckle, trying to lighten her refusal to blindly follow him. He released her hand and
turned to face her. Boy, did she wish he'd put on his shirt! That expanse of bronze skin protected by a coat of thick
silver-blonde fur called out to her to be touched. In an effort to get her mind back on the wild-goose-chase Bob
Danza called a story that had gotten her here in the first place, she dropped her eyes to the ground, surprised to find
that the blond mountain man wasn't wearing any shoes. Wasn't he freezing?
     "Sasha?"
     The way his baritone caressed her name made her blood sing in sweet harmony.
     "Do you mind if we go inside? It's getting cold and I'd like to start a fire before we really need it. It takes a
few minutes to warm up the cabin."
     That seemed like a reasonable enough request, even to a catch-conscious New York reporter.
     "Oh, sure, I didn't mean to keep you out here freezing your gorgeous butt off."
     Oh, how she wished her brain could stay ahead of her tongue! Blushing crimson to her toes, Sasha looked up
to find him wearing a smug male smile. Suffering the heat of her blush combined with the heat that smile brought to
her blood, she wanted to crawl into a hole in the Earth and never be seen again.
     "Come on in, make yourself comfortable. I'll only be a minute."
     Trying to redeem herself, if only in her own eyes, Sasha offered her assistance.
     "What can I do to help?"
     "Do you know anything about starting a fire?"
     She shrugged.
     "How hard can it be? You put some wood in the fireplace and throw in a match."
     His smile was half humoring the little city girl, half wicked.
     "It's best to use kindling. You'd go through a lot of matches trying to set a log ablaze. And it's often necessary
to convince large wolf spiders to vacate their homes on the wood before you can put it in the fireplace. They've been
known to take the news of their displacement with a bit of hostility. When on the attack, I've seen them jump five
feet."
     "Five feet!"
     Sasha swallowed hard, surreptitiously surveying the ground around her feet for giant eight-legged creatures.
His deep lyrical laugh eased her mind somewhat.
     "Don't worry, we have an agreement. They don't often invade my home and I don't squish them when they
do."
     He stepped through the door into the cabin.
     "Please, come in."
     Feeling as though she were entering the lion's den with a raw steak hanging on a pretty silver chain around her
neck, Sasha set her jaw and followed.
     Inside the one-room cabin, the walls and floor were raw wood. Animal skins covered most of the bare dirt
floor, while pegs on the walls held what she assumed were all of Michael Starch's belongings. And they were
pitifully few. A heavy coat made of some dark fur, a red-and-black plaid flannel shirt, a heavy blue cotton work shirt
atop a white t-shirt, an extra pair of jeans. Above the roughhewn stone mantel hung a fairly new rifle and a
long-bladed hunting knife in a black tooled-leather sheath. Sitting next to the fireplace was a weird looking black
metal contraption with a pot hanging from its middle support. Remembering her westerns, Sasha figured it must be
for cooking over the fire.
     In front of the fireplace sat a large chair that looked to have been carved from a single piece of wood. It was
covered with furs, a large pile of them bunched in the seat. It looked comfortable enough, if a little on the firm side.
     In the corner of the room farthest from the door stood the bed. It was a massive thing, once again carved from
wood left raw, its mattress and box springs standing out like an anachronistic sore thumb. Dark furs were cast
haphazardly across its surface.
     This guy was really into back-to-nature.
     Sasha removed her coat and hung it on an empty peg near the door she hoped was there for that purpose. She
could hear Starch outside, presumably arguing with the spiders about ownership of the wood. Settling on the edge of
the chair, she looked at the weapons above the fireplace and wondered if this guy might be dangerous. After all, he
could bury people left and right out here and nobody would ever be the wiser.
     Shaking her head, she clamped an mental hand on her imagination. He was just a little anti-social, a hermit.
He used the weapons to kill things for their fur, to eat.
     Hearing nothing, she nearly jumped out of her skin when he stepped past her and tossed several logs into the
fireplace.
     "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you could hear me coming like a hungry bear on the trail of a
berry bush."
     Sasha laughed self-consciously.
     "I knew those slasher-in-the-woods movies would come back to haunt me sooner of later. I really should learn
to pay attention. It's a good trait to have in my profession."
     "And what exactly is your profession?"
     He went about making the fire as though her answer were of little concern to him, just making conversation.
Maybe he wouldn't mind being the focus of her article. She could hope. Remembering the firmness of that square
jaw she figured if he decided to get obstinate, she wasn't likely to pry much information out of him. He looked like
he could pull a pretty effective stubborn.
     Keeping her tone as light as possible, Sasha replied, "I'm a reporter."
     "I thought the Pleasant Grove paper had gone out of business."
     "I wouldn't know. I work for `The World Tattler'."
     One golden brow rose as he shifted his attention in her direction.
     "Isn't that one of those papers that are always getting sued by some celebrity or other for writing lies about
them?"
     Sasha squirmed under his scrutiny, the force behind her voice defending her paper.
     "We've never been sued! At least, not that I know of. I've never written anything that I knew was a lie."
     His derisive smile cut her as he turned back to his duty.
     "Meaning you didn't know it was the truth, either. Are you a lousy reporter, or a good reporter with bad luck?"
     Incensed, Sasha stood, glaring down at him where he knelt before the fireplace.
     "I'm a good reporter! I am getting so tired of defending myself against all you self-righteous hypocrites who
condemn papers like `The Tattler', then race to the checkstand to see who did what to who this week."
     A chuckle rumbled through his words as he slowly stood to face her.
     "Oh, yeah, I can barely wait."
     He raised his hands, palms toward her, and whispered, "Peace!"
     Unexpectedly, he lowered one hand to rest lightly on her shoulder. A powerful jolt raced through her blood,
firing places she really didn't want to think about at the moment. Her eyes widened and a little shiver grabbed her
before her logical mind could outrun it. He was so close, leaning over her, she could feel his breath brush across her
forehead. If only he would lean just a little more...
     He broke the spell abruptly, turning away. The sight of his back was like a splash of cold water to the face.
     "I didn't mean to insult you. My people skills are somewhat lacking. I have a habit of saying what I think
without couching my opinion in pretty words and disclaimers."
     Breathing deeply to calm her racing senses, Sasha decided it was time to get this interview started and
finished before she did something she knew deep down she would never regret. Better attempt to smooth any ruffled
feathers. An apology was in order.
     "I'm sorry I mouthed off like that. It's been kind-of a long day."
     The fire began to crackle, the warmth quickly spreading through her slightly chilled body. She sighed,
relaxing back into the unexpected comfort of the chair. The fur formed a springy cushion between her flesh and the
hard wood. So this was how Vikings had done it. Soft furs, hard wood, hard, naked flesh...
     Her mind shot in the same direction as her eyes - the bed - and she quickly reached into her backpack/purse
for her recorder and notepad. Time to get professional. Switching to her most business-like tone, she began what she
hoped would turn out to be a fruitful, but short, interview. She really needed to get out of this guy's presence before
she became very unprofessional.
     "Mr Starch..."
     "Please, call me Michael. Everyone else does. May I offer you a cup of something hot? Coffee, tea, hot
chocolate?"
     "Tea would be great. Coffee'll get me started in the morning, but tea warms the blood and awakens the soul."
     Had she actually quoted Aunt Sophie out loud?! To a perfect stranger? And, boy, was he about as close to
perfect as she was likely to find? Stop that! 
     "Michael, I came here to interview you."
     He stopped in the process of hanging a pan on the metal contraption she hadn't even noticed him set up before
making the fire. Looking over his shoulder, he spoke in a tone somewhere between surprise and suspicion.
     "Interview me? Why?"
     "You'll probably find this amusing but some people in your neighborhood think you might be an angel."
     She waited for his reaction, expecting laughter or religious indignation. An arched brow and return to
tea-making had not been on the list.
     "No comment?"
     "I'd like to know who they are so I can thank them for the complement."
     Reporter caution reared its head.
     "I can't reveal my sources."
     "Do you really have any, or is this the infamous `source close to the person slash trusted friend' who never
existed in the first place?"
     She blushed, realizing Danza hadn't given her any names. Where had he gotten his lead? Someday she was
really gonna get teed off at his high-handed ways and give him a piece of her mind. The day after she accepted a
better job offer.
     "Do you have any idea why anyone would consider you angelic? Are you a religious man?"
     His derisive snort spoke volumes.
     "Hardly. I haven't been inside a church for many years. They've become too investment oriented to interest me
much. Would you like cream?"
     He was not shaping up as her most cooperative interview. She was getting the distinct impression he didn't
want to talk about this subject. Good. That usually meant something to hide. Sasha loved a good game of hide and
seek as long as she found what she wanted in the end.
     "If you have it."
     "I'll be right back."
     "Back?"
     "The cream is in the creek, along with anything else I want to stay cold."
     Great, another stall.
     "Oh, please, don't go to all that trouble. Black is fine."
     He continued on his path out the door as if she hadn't spoken.
     "No trouble. I need to bring in a couple fish for dinner, anyway. You like trout?"
     Caught off guard, Sasha stammered, "T-trout?"
     "You're not a vegetarian, are you?"
     Cynicism sharpened his question.
     "No, nothing like that. I just haven't ever eaten trout. A lot of fish, but never trout. You sound like you don't
care for the `tree-hugger' set.
     "I don't like hypocrites of any kind."
     He stood in the open doorway, his magnificent bronze skin backlit by the golden rays of the sun. As he spoke,
his vehemence increased.
     "`Don't eat our fellow animals, don't chop down the trees, be kind to Mother Earth,' while they live in houses
of wood, litter the Earth with propaganda written on paper for which trees have given their lives and turn a blind eye
to the suffering of their fellow man in favor of saving the whale. God decides what plants and animals have lived
long enough, what man is bored with or no longer needs, not man. Do they think Him so short-sighted that He can't
figure out what they'll destroy next and plan accordingly? They insult God and attempt to deify themselves in the
same breath."
     Sasha's eyes, widened by his passionate response, slid from the white knuckles on his hand gripping the
doorframe to his face. Seeing her concern, he dropped his eyes, which had begun to take on the flames of the fire as
though from within, and exhaled a soft apology. 
     "Forgive me."
     Another chuckle.
     "I need to get out more."
     He looked at her once again, apology - and something else she couldn't quite define - shining in his crystal
blue eyes. Was it fear? Anger? Lust? She should be so lucky.
     "I guess there are certain subjects I shouldn't address in polite company. I'll be right back."
     Sasha exhaled a breath she hadn't been aware of holding. She had never before witnessed such force, such
passion in a man. JFK, Martin Luther King - they had spoken like that, like they really felt what they were saying
deep down in their souls. And he had apologized! For what? She could have listened to him speak till Hell froze
solid.
     Michael Stark was in touch with something inside himself that most people had lost. Sasha wanted to know
him, felt she had to learn his secrets. No matter how long or hard she had to dig, no matter what it might cost her, she
was going to find out what made this fascinating man tick if it were the last thing she ever did.                                        
                                  Chapter Four
                                        
     Michael strode toward the creek, shaking his head as he avoided fallen branches, rocks and other pitfalls in
his path. This woman, this Sasha Frazier... If that was her real name. She didn't feel like a liar, but those of her
profession he'd had the distinct displeasure of meeting had proven to be adept at deception. Whatever, she was
making him rather uncomfortable and he wasn't used to that feeling. He wanted her, but whenever he was around a
beautiful woman he expected to experience desire. It was this strange, almost enraged, response to her that was
confusing him now. He had no reason to be angry with her, but his pulse pounded in his veins and his loins throbbed
with the sensations of impending battle every time his eyes met hers. What was it about her that fired his blood?
     He sat beside the creek, the afternoon chill beginning to creep into his consciousness. He should get back, he
was being rude to a guest, but he wanted to understand his reactions to Sasha before confronting her again. Frowning,
he gazed at the quickly moving water, willing himself to make sense.
     A chuckle startled Michael from his musings. He looked up to find a young man standing beside him,
grinning at him in a way that made Michael's palms itch to smack him at the same time his arms ached to pull him
into his embrace. Michael returned his attention to the water.
     "Hey, Mikey, what's the problem?"
     Michael sighed as he picked up a flat rock and tossed it into the water, feeling little pleasure as it skipped
across the surface several times before sinking out of sight.
     "Who says there's a problem, Gabe? Don't you have someone else to bother?"
     The young man laughed good-naturedly and sat beside Michael. He was nearly as tall as Michael, though
Gabe leaned toward a wiry build where Michael was solid muscle. His auburn hair curled around his handsome face,
short at the nape to avoid Scarlet O'Hara ringlets. His violet eyes were ever-bright, never missing a thing that
concerned him. And, being a bit of a gossip, everything interested Gabriel.
     "If there's no problem, why are we sitting on the cold hard ground contemplating a fast-moving body of
water."
     "Creek."
     "I know. As in `up the without a paddle.' Is there a Coke in that caveman fridge of yours?"
     Michael unfolded to a crouch beside the stream and retrieved a can from the tiny cove that served as his
refrigerator. With a mischievous grin, he tossed it to Gabe, who caught it, groaning.
     "Oh, man, that was cold. You tease a thirsting brother who only wishes to give you solace in your time of
need. Cruel, Bro."
     "Did I ask for your help?"
     An expression of hurt, well-feigned, leaped into Gabriel's lively eyes even as the corners of his rebellious lips
raised in an impish grin.
     "No, but I didn't have anything else to do at the moment."
     "Why don't you go practice your music?"
     Gabe wrinkled his nose.
     "Bored, bored, bored. So, what's got you sulking?"
     Michael's icy blue glare brought a shiver to Gabe's shoulders.
     "I do not sulk."
     Gabe shrugged.
     "Whatever."
     Thawing a bit, Michael raised his eyes skyward and stood, throwing his hands into the air as he paced. His
agitation was clear in every move of his large body.
     "This woman - Sasha - came to my cabin this afternoon. She's there waiting for me now. She's a reporter. She
wants to interview me about my being an angel."
     Michael jumped as Gabe popped the tab on his Coke, the pressurized liquid releasing into the air. Gabe had
judiciously aimed the can away from them. His grin said he was perfectly aware of his timing.
     "Let me guess. Her paper doesn't get delivered to people's homes every morning."
     "Right. It's a rag."
     "Michael, nobody really believes anything they read in those things. They're just harmless - well, fairly
harmless - entertainment. You could answer all her questions honestly and it wouldn't matter."
     Michael shook his head.
     "I'm not worried about that. I can handle her questions. It's this, I don't know, weird way she makes me feel.
Like I'm in a battle. She's only been here maybe an hour and I've already gone ballistic!"
     "Ballistic?"
     Michael folded his legs and gracefully dropped to the ground beside Gabe.
     "Yeah. I insulted her job, I went on about `tree-huggers' like a storefront preacher, and I want her so bad, I
ache like a man denied for years. One hour, Gabe!"
     Gabriel whistled, then covered his mouth on a carbonated burp. Throwing one arm around Michael's
shoulders, he pulled him close.
     "You got it bad, Bro. You want my advice?"
     Michael looked at his brother, his straight white teeth flashing for one bright second.
     "If I said `no' would it get me out of hearing your wisdom on the matter?"
     Gabe shook his head, eyes flashing humor.
     "No, but I'd tell `Dad' you're being mean to me."
     Michael laughed and wrapped one arm around Gabriel's waist.
     "Okay, Brother Gabriel, what would you suggest?"
     "Give her your over-muscled body, if she's of a mind to have it. That's sure to make you able to think
straighter. Then, if she still gives you brain spasms, keep her around till you can get your head back on straight."
     Gabe stood, tilting his head as though listening to something.
     "Gotta go. I'll keep an eye on you."
     In one smooth motion, Michael rose from the ground, anger darkening his eyes.
     "Gabriel!"
     Gabe raised a hand, palm toward his brother.
     "That's okay, you don't need to thank me. See ya!"
     He was gone before Michael could get his hands on him, Gabe's usual way of getting out of trouble.
Wrapping his fingers around an imaginary throat, Michael shook his escaped prey. Smiling as he dropped his arms to
his sides, he raised his eyes to the sky.
     "If I catch him spying on me, I will be mean to him. And, if this is a test, I'd sure like to know the grading
curve."
     Michael waited a minute, not really expecting a response, then went about retrieving the cream and trout
from his watery refrigerator. He would never tell Gabe, not if tortured over hot coals, but he was considering
following his brother's advice. If he could ease the ache in his loins inside Sasha's beautiful body, maybe he would be
able to think straight again. It was worth a try.
     Relieved now that he had a plan of action, Michael returned to the cabin ready for a battle of pleasure.
     
     After Starch made his hasty retreat, Sasha thoroughly snooped his cabin, for all the good it did her. As she
had suspected, everything he owned was in plain sight. She even moved the furs on the bed, telling herself there
might be something concealed beneath them. The truth was she wanted to surmise if Mr Starch entertained in his
own home. Though there was no evidence to be found, her feminine senses informed her other women had occupied
this space before her.
     "There I go again. Like I'm going to be sharing this bed with Mr Michael Starch, angel-cum-mountain man.
Doubtful."
     But as she stood looking down at the fur-covered bed, she couldn't help imagining his gorgeous blonde body
lying there naked, beckoning her to Heaven.
     "Wouldn't you like dinner first?"
     Sasha jumped and squealed, once again having been caught unawares by his return. She really was going to
have to start paying more attention to her surroundings.
     He stood in the doorway, a string of fish in one hand, a small canteen in the other. His smile was so blatantly
male, she couldn't decide whether she wanted to kiss him or slap him! Blushing, she realized she was still holding the
fur covering of the bed in her clenched fist.
     "Oh," she dropped the fur as though it had bitten her, "I was just looking around, trying to get the feel of the
place. What kind of fur is that?"
     His eyes never releasing her, he stepped into the cabin and closed the door, a move that caused her heart to
lodge firmly in her throat. She was trapped in a small - Getting smaller by the minute! - cabin with a to-die-for man
and she was supposed to keep her mind on an interview? This was a test, The Great Editor was testing her ability to
be professional. And she was failing!
     "Wolf."
     She jumped, thinking he had read her thoughts and was verifying his species.
     "What?"
     One corner of his mouth lifting, he motioned toward the bed as he crouched before the fire and began
preparing dinner.
     "The fur. Most of the furs in my cabin are wolf. A few are bear, they're more sturdy, better as rugs. They're all
predators, them-or-me furs. How many would you like?"
     He was holding up the fish. They had been cleaned and readied for the frying pan.
     "Just one, thank you. Can I do something to help?"
     He chuckled.
     "Well, since you can't set the table with the silver from the china cupboard, how about you provide the
entertainment? Can you sing? I'll be a little busy to watch you dance."
     He had such a pleasant way of joking with her, so natural, she couldn't help laughing.
     "I could do my Marcel Marceau imitation but I'm afraid I'll forget my lines."
     A deep melodious rumble erupted into a warm peal as he tossed back his head and laughed. His eyes sparkled
as he turned toward her, warming her blood and reminding her of the closeness of the cabin.
     "One of The Man's greatest gifts is a good sense of humor. You're obviously well-gifted."
     The way his eyes perused her body told her he was talking about a lot more than just her sense of humor. His
frank appraisal of her charms made her blush deeply, like a sixteen-year-old on her first date. She dropped her eyes
to his lips, wondering how they would feel pressed against her own. How those massive arms would feel wrapped
around her so tightly she could barely breath. How that hard body would feel...Whoa! This had to stop. Obviously, it
was well past time to take this situation in hand and get on with her interview.
     Returning to her perch on the edge of the chair - Closer to him than she would have liked but there were only
two places to sit in the whole cabin and she sure as heck wasn't going to sit on the bed! - she retrieved her notepad
and recorder, pushed `record' and began.
     "Mr Starch..."
     "Michael."
     His heavy sigh as he turned back to dinner preparation told her rather eloquently what he thought of this
interview.
     "Michael. Are you an angel?"
     Great! She would have to be straightforward. This was going to be interesting.
     "I've had a few women call me an angel. Does that count?"
     Sasha plastered her reporter's smile on her lips while at the same time wondering why his mention of other
women gave her the urge to rip bleached hair from over-made-up heads.
     "Afraid not. Where do you come from, originally?"
     "Originally, out of this country."
     Finally, something she could pounce on.
     "So, you're not an American citizen?"
     "Not exactly. You won't report me to Immigration, will you?"
     Since he said it so lightly, she knew he wasn't worried. She was getting the impression that he often tried to
joke or seduce his way out of things he didn't like. Okay, she'd had difficult interviews before, she could handle that.
     "I'm a reporter. The only time we talk to the government is when we want to know something they don't want
to tell us. What's your father's name?"
     "I'd rather keep Him out of this. He's kind-of busy, and He gets really angry when people misuse His name."
     "Misuse?"
     "Yeah, you know, name drop, that sort of thing."
     "Then he's someone famous?"
     "You could say that."
     "What about your mother?"
     "I don't have one."
     "Divorced, deceased, estranged?"
     He looked over his shoulder, then quickly slid his eyes back to his task.
     "Next question."
     Ah, sensitive subject. Was he abused? Did his mother run away when he was young? Whatever, his curt
response warned her that she wasn't going to get anywhere on that subject at the moment. She'd try again later.
     "Do you have any siblings?"
     He chuckled.
     "Oh, yeah, I've got a few brothers. Some I like to claim and," he raised his voice slightly, bringing a frown of
question to her sable eyes, "some who had better mind their own business."
     "To whom are you speaking?"
     "You, of course. Do you see anyone else here?"
     Sasha could sense him laughing at her, not maliciously, perhaps, but laughing just the same. Time to take off
the kid gloves.
     "On August 24th of this year, there was an accident involving a van-load of high school choir kids and a train.
Were you there?"
     "I didn't see that accident."
     He was slipperier than a greased eel, but he'd have to do better than tricky wording to sidestep Sasha Frazier!
She could be as tenacious as a hungry terrier with a meaty bone.
     "Were you in the vicinity?"
     "What time did it happen?"
     Time? Time! She didn't have the foggiest idea what time that train made a meal of the van. Fake it, Frazier.
     "It was in the evening."
     "Evening being after 6 PM?"
     She was going to throttle him! No, no, down, girl, he's just trying to throw you off the scent. Keep on him.
     "Yes."
     He shook his head, turning the fish in the pan.
     "No, I wasn't there after 6 PM."
     Now, in for the kill!
     "I don't recall mentioning exactly where the accident happened. How do you know you weren't in the vicinity,
Mr Starch?"
     He turned and smiled over his shoulder, straight teeth flashing white in his deeply bronzed skin. Sasha
suddenly wondered who was the prey and who the predator.
     "This is a small community, Sasha, people don't have much to talk about. Something as big as an unplanned
meeting of train and car gets around quickly."
     Of course, regional evasions are the easiest as the reporter would have a heck of a time checking them out.
Skip to next question, you're not beaten, just bruised.
     "Then you know the kids made it out alive. What do you think about that?"
     He shrugged and returned his attention to their dinner.
     "I think God must have been feeling kind that day. Maybe one of those kids is important in the grand scheme
of things. Or maybe He wanted to reward them for some good deed. Who knows? God works in mysterious ways."
     Sasha glared at his back so hard she was surprised his skin didn't start to blister from the heat.
     "There was another accident, this one..."
     He held up his hand, palm toward her, then turned that beautiful smile on her once again.
     "Time out. Dinner's ready."
     He glanced pointedly at her notepad and recorder.
     "Wouldn't you like to enjoy it without weapons?"
     Calling a temporary truce didn't seem out of line, not with the wonderful aroma of dinner tickling her nose,
making her swallow quickly to keep from drooling. She returned her `weapons', as he'd called them, to her pack and
smiled a true smile.
     "Sure, I'm starving, let's eat."
     Round one to you, Michael Starch, but the fight ain't over till the fat lady sings.     
                                  Chapter Five
                                        
     Dinner was surprisingly good considering the meager supplies Michael had on hand. The trout was cooked to
flaky perfection. He threw together a salad of various vegetables, some unrecognizable to Sasha, that tasted a lot
better than it looked. He pulled a couple of apples from the bag resting near the front door of the cabin, and, smiling,
offered one to her.
     "Would you like me to peel it for you?"
     He had reclaimed his spot, cross-legged before the fire - he had insisted she take the chair - and produced a
small pocket knife from his pocket. She nodded, pleasantly content from her repast.
     "Please."
     While he bent his head over the task of peeling what she assumed to be dessert, she had a chance to study
him. His hair was that silver-blonde color that up until now she had only seen on very small children. It fell in large
silky waves to his shoulders, though it was strangely obedient about not falling in his face. His long-fingered hands
were darkly bronzed like the rest of him, nails showing a suspicious notch here and there. Teeth marks, Sasha
suspected. He maneuvered the small knife like a master jeweler cutting a million dollar diamond, the peel slipping
away from the fruit almost of its own accord.
     His shoulders were broad, the skin pulled taut over well-developed muscle that continued on down his arms,
across his chest - pretty much everywhere she could see. And, since he hadn't seen fit to don a shirt, she could see a
lot. Oh, he was no showy bodybuilder, tearing muscle tissue to attract attention. No, this was a man who had worked
for those muscles, chopping wood, cutting down trees, stalking prey one notch higher on the wildness scale than
himself. She could imagine him standing motionless as he waited for just the right moment to make his move, the
deer or rabbit or whatever was on the menu for this evening never having a chance against his superior senses.
     With a somewhat shy smile, he held up the end of the apple peel for her to see.
     "I got it off whole."
     Little-boyishness was something she hadn't expected, and it hit her like an airbag in the chest, bringing a hitch
to her breath. He looked like a five-year-old waiting for Mommy to praise him for the fine frog he had just caught.
She smiled and took the peel.
     "My aunt Sophie used to tell me that a whole apple peel will reveal the man of your dreams, the one who will
share your life."
     His blonde brows raised, his face open and happy.
     "I never knew fruit could be so intuitive. How is it supposed to do it?"
     Sasha blushed, embarrassed that she had brought up the old Gypsy superstition, but oh, how she basked in his
attention. Her blood flowed hot, bringing a warm flush to her skin. She even felt gooseflesh raise on her arms and
scalp. She felt wonderful and all he was doing was looking at her! She was in serious trouble.
     Holding the peel by one end, she closed her eyes, feeling a little foolish, and tossed it over her left shoulder.
     "It's supposed to land in the shape of the letter of the alphabet that begins his first name. It's just an old wive's
tale, I don't even know why I brought it up."
     His smile warmed his words and her heart as he stood and walked around her chair.
     "Don't knock old wives, sometimes they're pretty smart. Besides, you've never heard of an `old husband's tale',
so the old ladies outlived...whoa!"
     Sasha leaned and turned so she could see around the arm of the chair. On the floor at Michael's feet the apple
peel lay in the shape of a perfect `M'. She raised her eyes to meet his blue gaze and the fiery inferno she saw burning
there made her breath catch in her throat. Turning back to face the fire, she found she had to force the air in and out
of her lungs. An `M'. As in Michael. What kind of cosmic joke was that. She could just imagine Aunt Sophie nodding
in that all-knowing way she'd had. `Fate has spoken,' she'd say, `you must listen.' But Sasha wasn't about to build her
life around baseless superstitions.
     So why had she thrown the peel in the first place?
     Shaking her head to empty it of self-defeating questions, Sasha wondered how to continue Michael Starch's
interview, trying desperately to return this day to its planned purpose, but her traitorous mind insisted on centering
itself on what the-hunk-who's-name-starts-with-`M' was doing behind her back.
     When his hands slid ever so gently down her arms, a shiver shook her whole body, raising all the sensitive
hairs along her arms and neck. In a breath, he was kneeling before her, one warm hand on her thigh, the other barely
brushing her skin as he pushed her ebony hair back from her cheek. Her blood felt like molten lava flowing through
her veins. His heated azure gaze slid slowly from her dark eyes to her lips, his intent clear as he slowly leaned toward
her.
     Michael's whole body shook with the restraint he was exercising to keep from pulling Sasha to the floor and
covering her body with his own, plunging deep to feel her silken flesh wrap around him like a custom-made glove.
He wanted her with a desire so fierce it was almost a physical need. His lips tingled in anticipation of ravishing her
sweet mouth.
     Suddenly, her palm appeared in front of his face, sign language for `Stop!'. Michael jumped as if bitten. What
game was this? He glared down into her smoky eyes, angry question warring with inflamed lust shooting sparks from
his sapphire orbs. Her breathless response to his query did nothing to dull his reeling senses.
     "Wait...a minute...I..."
     "Why?"
     His voice of quiet steel caressed her senses, calling to some buried instinct that desired only the fiercest, most
capable mate. Her neck arched of its own accord, chin raising to bare her throat to his eyes, lips and teeth. With what
could only be described as a growl, he accepted her unspoken invitation, sliding his hand around her neck to bury it
in her soft, thick hair. Gripping with a fierceness that rode the thin edge of pain, he pulled her to him. She shivered
and sighed as his front teeth raked the tender flesh of her throat, even as she pushed against his chest.
     These mixed signals, certainly not the norm for Michael's lovers, were beginning to annoy him. As his fingers
moved to the buttons of her blouse, her whispered "no!" cut it.
     He pushed away from Sasha's nearly limp body and rose, forcing her to catch herself or fall in a spineless
heap at his feet. His angry voice, though not raised, shook her just the same.
     "What do you want, woman?! Do you even know?"
     He stood before her, all majestic righteous indignation.
     "You taunt me, tease me, invite me, then push me away as if I were trying to take you against your will. What
is your will? Tell me and I will do my best to honor it."
     At this moment, standing there so straight, Sasha would have sworn he was ten feet tall and five broad. He
filled her vision, overwhelming her senses till she wondered if she were losing her mind. She had to answer him, but
what should she say? Did she want him to make love to her? So much she thought she might melt from the heat of
her desire. But her realistic mind warned her that what he was offering had nothing to do with love. If they came
together now, they would not be making love, they would be slaking their mutual lust.
     Of course, at the moment her body didn't care about the particulars. She ached with a need to be possessed,
invaded, filled. It would be so easy to just give in and let him take her to that Heaven on Earth that shone in the
promise of his eyes.
     But tomorrow, when he looked at her with `why are you still here?' in those same beautiful eyes, how would
she feel then? Used? Heartbroken? Cheap? Worthless? All that and more. Or less.
     No matter what her mother thought, she was not a gypsy whore! She wanted love, affection, respect - or
nothing at all.
     She shook her head, sadness emanating from her dark eyes.
     "I'm sorry, Michael, I must have sent out the wrong signals. I came here for an interview. That's all I want
from you."
     "Liar!"
     His yell shook the rafters of the little cabin. Sasha's eyes flew wide, every muscle in her body tensing for
self-preserving flight. Michael glared down at her, his jaw clenched so firmly that a muscle in his cheek jumped at
the restraint.
     "Don't worry, I won't rape you."
     Contempt dripped from each word, each syllable.
     "I cannot abide those who seek a safer path than the truth. Tell me you're afraid of my rejection in the
morning, tell me you're saving yourself for marriage, tell me you're a child of the nineties and fear I might give you
some horrible disease, but don't tell me you don't want me! I'm no fool, I can practically smell your desire!"
     Fear quickly turned to anger as Sasha recovered from her initial shock at his outburst and grasped his
meaning. She rose from the chair to face him, forcing him to take a step backward or bear her weight on his feet. She
stood toe-to-toe with him, glaring as good as she got right into his handsome face.
     "Fine! You want truth, I'll give you truth. When I stepped out of those woods and saw you, I thought you were
the most gorgeous hunk of male pulchritude I had ever seen in my life. At that moment, I was almost willing to
believe in angels just so I could believe you were one. You were so perfect, I pinched myself 'cause I thought I must
be dreaming. Of course, you came on like an overconfident freight train, but I reminded myself that you were just
being a man. I tried to ignore your insufferable masculine ego and get on with my interview. Don't you dare," she
actually found the courage in her anger to poke a finger in his chest for emphasis, "blame me for this
misunderstanding."
     Ice-blue flames jumped in his eyes when she touched him, equal parts anger and lust flaring to a fever pitch.
He grabbed her hand before she could pull away, looming over her, his face so close to her own that his breath
caressed her cheek as he spoke. His deep voice lowered, washing over her like a velvet wave.
     "What has been misunderstood? I want you in my bed, I want to hear you scream my name in ecstasy. Tell me
you don't share my desire and I'll answer your questions and bid you leave me in peace."
     The way he pinned her with the intensity of his gaze made her feel as though he could see into her very soul.
Not want him? Who was she kidding? In all her twenty-five years, she had never wanted anything as badly as she
wanted to make love to this man. She was so ready for him, it was embarrassing. His touch set her skin on fire, the
flames licking through to her core, making her shiver with the very desire he was asking her to deny. But if there was
one thing she had learned about this man-woman thing it was that desire was not love, wanting not needing, a
flaming night not a warm forever or even a tepid morning.
     Michael was fascinated by the play of emotion racing across Sasha's pretty face. What was it she so feared in
his embrace? Surely she knew he would never hurt her. Though the most...fierce...of his brothers, he would never
bring harm to a lover. He was a warrior with a healthy dose of lust firing his blood, but, whether in battle or joining
with a woman, he always tempered that lust with wisdom and mercy. This beautiful woman had nothing to fear from
him. He laid his hands on her shoulders and tried to convey that message as he gently caressed her arms. Her eyes
softened, giving him hope.
     "Michael, I can't honestly say I don't want you."
     She chuckled self-consciously, the deep sound rushing over him like a warm waterfall.
     "I'd have to be three days dead not to want you. I know it may be a little old-fashioned but I really want to
have a relationship before I give myself to a man. I might even break the mold and be a virgin on my wedding night." 
     She whispered as if to herself, "Wouldn't that be a kick for a gypsy girl?"
     The hard edge he detected on the word `gypsy' made Michael tip his head, his warm eyes lighting with
understanding.
     "Are you virtuous for yourself, or to prove someone wrong?"
     Her eyes flew to his and she gasped softly, amazed at his perception. He brushed the fingertips of one hand
over her temple, down her fine, high cheekbone to the near-sharp point of her chin, where he used his thumb to hold
her still.
     "Very well. I will respect your wishes but, beware, my lady, I may still be the one to claim your virtue. Your
eyes call to something deep within me, something..." He tilted his head as if trying to find the answer to some
mystery. With a quick shake, he dismissed it. "I've never been called `husband', don't even know if it would be
allowed, but, if that is the price of possessing you, you just may be the stubborn, beautiful woman to make it
happen."
     He gently pushed her backward, his hands on her arms easing her down into the chair.
     "I think it might be best if we kept a bit of distance between us. I can't remember when I have wanted a
woman as much as I desire you. Even my control is not limitless. As a matter of fact, I think I'll go splash my face
with some very cold water."
     His wry, boyish grin cooled some of the unbearable heat that seemed to be hanging in the air between them.
     "Maybe I'll splash a few other things, too. When I come back, we can have dessert and I will answer your
questions."
     He was halfway out the door before Sasha found her voice, asking for knowledge she hadn't even known she
needed.
     "Michael?"
     He stopped and looked over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised in question.
     "Are you mad?"
     He snorted.
     "Using your choice of words - perhaps. But I am not angry with you, Sasha, I'm just...," he studied his bare
feet, "I don't know."
     With a short, self-conscious laugh he raised his eyes to the roof.
     "Who knows, maybe I'm falling in love. That'd be a new experience."
     His voice took on an awe-struck softness.
     "I didn't think I had any more of those coming."
     He returned his attention to her and she could see the concern in his blue eyes.
     "I'm not sure how to do this right, if I'm even capable. Be patient, lady, I assure you I'm worth waiting for."
     He left the cabin, quietly closing the door.
     Sasha leaned back into the chair and sighed, trying to get her thoughts, not to mention her reeling senses,
under control.
     "I don't doubt that for a minute, Mr Michael Starch. Not for one second."     
                                  Chapter Six
                                        
     Bobby Peters hadn't meant to do anything bad. When he woke up, his mommy was still sleeping. She'd been
awful tired when they'd laid down for a nap, so he'd tried not to wake her, crawling quietly out of the tent. He thought
maybe he could find Daddy, help him fish. He was sure he could think of something `useful' to do, as Daddy always
said.
     All of a sudden, a little brown bunny rabbit hopped through the middle of their camp, right past little Bobby's
feet. Bobby wanted to see where the bunny rabbit slept, if it had friends, maybe even babies he could show Mommy.
She always smiled and said "oh, aren't they cute," whenever she saw babies. He liked her smile. So, with the
unbridled curiosity of an innocent child, Bobby had followed the bunny into the woods.
     That had been two days ago.
     Amanda Peters didn't think she could take much more. Her husband, Brad, was blaming her for Bobby's
disappearance. Oh, he hadn't said anything, but the accusation was there in his eyes when he looked at her, lurking
behind the fear.
     That morning, Amanda and Bobby had been down at the reservoir watching Brad fish when she had noticed
her little boy dozing off against a boulder by the water. She had suggested that she and Bobby take a little nap before
dinner, making sure Bobby thought she was the one who was tired and just needed some company. If she had even
suggested that he needed a nap, he would have jumped to the defense of his blossoming, five-year-old manhood and
informed her that he was no longer a `baby' who needed a nap.
     She smiled as she thought about her little man. Bradley Robert Peters was such a handful. He was as bright as
sunshine, and just about as difficult to capture. He was always trying to figure out the wonders of the universe. How?
Why? What? When? Where? She had answered enough questions in the last two years to make her a genius or a very
good guesser. She just hoped she had given him answers that would help him now.
     Bobby was always concerned about people being happy. If he thought someone he loved was in a bad mood -
and Bobby's senses for that sort of thing were very acute - he would do anything that came into his little mind to
make them smile. Acrobatics, funny faces, jokes - which he was awful at remembering, substituting one punchline
for another - he'd run the gambit until his victim gave him a smile.
     Sitting in the Ranger's four-wheeler, Amanda's eyes filled with tears for the hundredth time this afternoon.
Would she ever again see her little sunshine boy smile? At least a hundred people - Forest Rangers, the local Search
and Rescue Squad, and an untold number of volunteers - had been searching the mountains for two days, starting at
the crack of dawn and not giving up till the woods were swathed in the cold folds of darkness. So far, they hadn't
even found a footprint to tell them which way to look. And now the weather bureau was predicting a fall in
temperatures tonight. They said it would dip below freezing in the rugged mountains that held her little boy. Though
no one had spoken the sentiment aloud, Amanda could tell by the looks on their faces that if they didn't find Bobby
today, they would be looking for a body tomorrow.
     "Oh, God, no, not Bobby! Not my baby!"
     Amanda dropped her face into her hands and sobbed out her pain, though she knew fresh agony was waiting
around each minute's corner. She had been trying to keep it together, to put on a brave face for all the people trying
to help. Not an easy task when she hadn't slept in about 50 hours, wasn't certain what she had eaten in that time. But
she had to keep her wits about her so she could be there for Bobby when they found him. He would be scared and
cold and hungry and only Mommy would be able to fix it.
     They had to find him!
     At the end of her rope, Amanda turned to the God her mother had always told her was merciful and just.
     "Dear Lord, please bring Bobby back to us. He's just a little boy, and he's all alone out there with the bears
and the snakes and..."
     She clenched her throat against the sob that threatened to dissolve her prayer. Taking a deep breath, she
closed her eyes and reached out to the last resource she could find.
     "Maybe I didn't appreciate him enough, maybe I should have watched him closer. If you give him back to me,
I promise I'll keep him with me day and night. I'll never let him out of my sight again. Please, God, you have enough
angels in Heaven, leave this one here with us."
     She felt an arm slide around her shoulders, pulling her against a flannel-covered chest. Looking up, she saw
Brad, tears coursing down his cheeks.
     "Don't blame yourself, honey. I've been an ass. It wasn't your fault, God knows that. And I know it, too."
     He leaned down and kissed her tenderly on the lips. Wrapping her tightly in his arms, he buried his face in her
neck and wept his fear and grief into her soft, sweet-smelling hair.
     Ranger Stanley Griffith - `Griff' to his friends - a twenty-year veteran with the US Forest Service looked on
with growing dread. His gut told him that little boy wasn't gonna be found breathing, and his gut hadn't been wrong
very many times since he'd started babysitting trees for a living. The weather was turning cold, the searchers getting
discouraged. And the kid was too young to know squat about survival. He wouldn't bet much money on the odds of
this one turning out right.
     But, damn it, these were good people. Lots of folks these days had kids they didn't give a damn about,
wouldn't notice if they disappeared for a week. Not the Peters'. They really loved that kid, they weren't just faking it
to make themselves look innocent of neglecting him. It just didn't seem right.
     Tossing the dregs of his coffee onto a bush that looked a little dry, he sighed and raised his eyes to the deep
blue afternoon sky.
     "If ever there was one to be saved, Father, this is the one. Make these old eyes just as sharp as they've ever
been, will ya?"
     With that, Ranger Griff started off in a new direction, hoping this would be the one that produced results.
     
     Bobby lay curled up against a fallen log. He had been sitting there since the sun had come up, watching all
the little forest critters playing. He was hungry, thirsty, tired and all scratched up from crawling over things trying to
find his Mommy and Daddy. They were gonna be worried about him. And mad. Mommy was probably crying. He
hated it when Mommy cried. He'd run out of tears a long time ago. Now, he just sobbed once in a while, mainly
when his stomach hurt real bad. He tried eating grass like the rabbits, but that just made it hurt worse.
     Bobby wondered if he were going to go to Heaven like Frank Johnson, the little boy next door who got in a
car accident. He hoped not. He'd miss his Mommy and Daddy like all get out.
     "Hello, Bobby. I'm Michael."
     Jumping as much as his exhausted body would allow, Bobby gazed up at the big blonde man sitting on the log
above his head. How had he gotten there?
     "Hi."
     All day yesterday, Bobby had called and called for his Mommy until his throat hurt so bad he had to stop.
Now he sounded like Kermit the Frog. The big man who said his name was Michael winced, talking real soft.
     "Don't talk, little one."
     In one graceful move, Michael turned and slid down the side of the log to rest beside Bobby. Bobby knew he
wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, but, even though Bobby couldn't remember when, he was sure he'd met this nice
man before. And now that Michael was here, Bobby wasn't scared anymore, just cold and kind-of tired.
     "You have to get up and walk, Bobby. I know you're tired, but you can do it."
     Bobby's eyes seemed so heavy, all he wanted to do was go to sleep so his tummy would stop hurting and he
wouldn't be so cold. Michael lifted him onto his lap and held him against his body, warming him to his toes. When
Michael spoke, Bobby felt his breath ruffle his hair.
     "Bobby, you're a very strong little man. You have so much left to do. Don't give up now. You have to do it,
Bobby. I can lead you to your Mommy and Daddy, but you have to get up and walk."
     It was so nice being held by Michael. Maybe Heaven would feel like this, all warm and cozy, like when he
crawled into Daddy's lap to watch a movie and fell asleep. That wouldn't be so bad.
     Suddenly, Michael grabbed Bobby's shoulders and gave him a soft shake. Bobby's eyes flew wide open and he
stared into eyes the color of the bluest crayon in the box. Michael started talking a little mean, like he was getting
mad, and Bobby wondered if he should get scared.
     "Bobby, you have to want it enough to fight for it. I can help you fight, but I can't make you want it. That's got
to come," he touched Bobby's chest, "from inside you. Do you want to find your Mommy and Daddy?"
     Still wide-eyed, and quite awake now, Bobby slowly nodded. Michael smiled and hugged Bobby fiercely,
banishing any traces of fear from the little boy's heart. Then he lifted Bobby off his lap and stood him on the ground.
Rising, he took Bobby's hand in his own large palm.
     "Okay, we'll walk together."
     Bobby smiled and sighed. Boy, he hoped this wasn't gonna be like one of his Mom's shopping walks. Those
seemed to go on for hours!
     
     Griff tasted acid for the third time in an hour. His stomach was giving him a real rough time today. Every
time he looked to the west and saw a little less light, another acidic eruption threatened.
     That little boy just had to be here somewhere! Damn it, he hadn't vanished into thin air. Somebody had to find
him before that damn freeze hit.
     Keying the radio on his belt, Griffith checked in with the other rescue squads. Nothing. He looked at his
watch. 4:30. They had maybe half an hour of good light left. He'd better tell everyone to head in. And sign Bobby
Peters' death warrant.
     Griffith leaned his hand against a tree and rested his forehead on his outstretched arm. Lord in Heaven, he
didn't want to make that call.
     "Hi!"
     Griff's eyes snapped open. What was that? It sounded like a kid. Had he imagined it? Scanning the immediate
area, he prayed that his eyes weren't deceiving him as he spied a little figure sitting on a rock about four feet south of
him. For just the breath of a second, he thought he saw a second, larger figure standing directly behind the boy. Then
it was gone, like mist on the wind.
     "Bobby?"
     The little boy opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it and nodded vigorously instead.
     Slowly, Ranger Griffith advanced on the figure he still feared might be an apparition brought forth by lack of
sleep and yearning for success. As his fingertips brushed the soft hair on top of the boy's head, a damn burst inside
the hardened Ranger. He swept Bobby into his arms and hugged him to his chest, whispering against the wriggling
child's hair as tears ran down his beard-roughened cheeks unheeded.
     "Thank you, God, oh, thank you."
     Griff rearranged Bobby in his arms till the boy was comfortable, then carefully retraced his path back to the
base camp. He had taken no more than two steps from the woods when a joyful shriek he would never forget echoed
through the camp.
     "Bobby!"
     Griff knew enough to set the little boy down before his mother reached them and bowled him over to get to
her baby. Tiredly regaining his feet one last time, Bobby raised his arms to his mother.
     "Mommy!"
     That tiny croak was the sweetest sound Amanda Peters had ever heard. In the two seconds it took for her to
cross the camp at a dead run, fall to her knees and sweep her baby into her arms, her mind filled with a silent prayer
of thanks.
     Her mother had been right after all.
     
     Michael watched from the cover of the dusky woods, his sapphire eyes shining. Smiling, he raised his face to
the sky and gave a sharp nod of respect.     
                                 Chapter Seven
                                        
     By the time her host deemed fit to show his handsome face in the cabin once again, Sasha was about ready to
leave and write the whole thing off as a figment of Bob Danza's imagination. Starch was no angel, he was just a man,
and a very impolite man, at that! She had all her reporter stuff in her purse and was reaching for her coat when the
door came open and there he stood, everything from the top of his head to the middle of his chest dripping wet. His
face lit with a warm smile of greeting.
     Sasha's hands dropped to her hips, her eyes narrowing to warn him that it took more to placate her than a
flash of teeth. Perfect, sparkling teeth, she thought with a grimace.
     "Did you have to go to Alaska for the cold water?"
     Sasha didn't care for the fishwife tone that had just fallen out of her mouth. After all, he didn't owe her
anything, let alone an explanation of his behavior. But she was a guest in his home, albeit an uninvited one, and he
could at least extend some basic hospitality. Like not deserting her without warning. Was that so much to ask?
     His brows furrowed darkly, then eased into an expression of nonchalance.
     "There was an errand I had to run. It came up rather suddenly. I guess I should have let you know I'd be a
while. I'm not used to having someone waiting for me."
     The impish grin of earlier returned.
     "Did you miss me?"
     Sasha tried for a glare, but her lips traitorously refused to turn downward. He was so engaging, even when he
was in the wrong. Even the realization that there had been no real apology issued didn't bring a frown to her face. He
had a way of getting around her annoyance, or even down-right anger, with a smile and a few words. This was a man
to be carefully watched.
     Gee, that'll be a tough job but I think I can handle it.
     Returning to her seat before the fire, Sasha retrieved her notepad and recorder from her purse and once again
assumed her most professional demeanor.
     Michael smiled and followed dutifully behind her like a penitent little boy. He wasn't the least bit penitent,
though he knew he should be, he had left her alone without warning, but his mission had been much more important
than some stupid interview. Slowly shaking his head as he stepped around her chair to settle on the floor between her
and the fire, he realized that he had better adjust his attitude about what Miss Sasha Frazier did for a living or they
were not going to get along.
     "Okay, back to my interview. Do you...?"
     "Wait a minute. I promised you dessert."
     Sasha heaved a deep sigh of frustration that could have been heard outside the little cabin.
     "I thought you were going to cooperate."
     A look of pure innocence only slightly tarnished by that impish grin met her words.
     "I am."
     He pulled a box from the space beneath the chair - she hadn't even noticed that little cubby hole when she was
searching the place for clues, she was definitely slipping where this guy was concerned - and produced a cellophane
package of sponge cakes. Tearing the package with his teeth, he opened it and offered her one. His grin of
anticipation burned through the cloud of her frustration and found the answering sun of her smile. She accepted the
little cake, watching as he bit into his with gusto.
     "I know these things are just air and sugar but I've got a real soft spot for them."
     "Why do you hide them under the chair? Would they spoil?"
     Finishing the cake in three bites, he grinned sheepishly and shook his head. He licked his fingers as he
explained and Sasha suddenly found herself wishing she were a cake crumb.
     Stop that! Pay attention!
     "I hide them from myself. If they were in sight, I'd eat the whole box in about a minute flat. Restraint is not
one of my fine points."
     Biting her tongue to keep from facetiously asking what were some of his fine points, Sasha dropped her eyes
to her notepad and pretended to be engrossed in what she had written there. She had actually doodled a small dog
face but he couldn't see that. At least, she hoped he couldn't. She settled back into the chair - farther from his range of
vision - and cleared her throat.
     "Do you know why anyone would think you might be an angel?"
     On a heavy breath, Michael leaned back against the stone at the side of the fireplace, his crossed arms resting
on one drawn up knee. He slowly dropped his head back, his sapphire eyes tracking her movements from beneath
lazy slitted lids.
     "I've done a few things for people, just stuff that needed to be done and there wasn't anyone else around to do
it."
     He shrugged, drawing her eyes to the ripple of muscles across his shoulders and the reflection of the fires
glow in his silvery hair. She blinked, mentally kicking herself for letting her mind wander again so easily.
     "What kinds of things?"
     "Whatever. Painting, lifting, fixing things. I helped Frank Davis bring in his crop when he wrenched his back
picking up his granddaughter. The Crandall's little tan mare, Sweetheart," he grinned, "that's the name of the horse.
She went into labor in the middle of a blizzard. The vet was at least an hour away and Sweetheart wasn't of a mind to
wait for his arrival. I happened to be visiting so I gave them a hand."
     His eyes lit as the memory animated his face and hands.
     "Poor little Sweetheart. She's more a pet than a farm animal. Mrs Crandall feeds her at the back porch."
     He chuckled.
     "She's been known to steal a pie or two that was cooling on the windowsill. Anyway, she was in a real bad
way. The foal was breech, and Vern Crandall just couldn't bring himself to shove his whole arm," his eyes flew to
hers, light pink staining his cheeks for the briefest of moments, "uh, anyway, I got the little guy straightened out and
everything turned out alright. He's gonna be a beautiful stallion someday. He already struts like he owns the
paddock."
     He leaned back again.
     "Things like that."
     "Do you think Sweetheart would have died if you hadn't been there?"
     A sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, Michael nodded.
     "She died a week later from infection. She never had been very strong and the birth was just too much for her.
But if they hadn't had little Sunshine, the Crandalls' broken hearts would have killed them. If they hadn't had to feed
the little colt and watch over him, they wouldn't have had the will to go on. God's will must be done, but sometimes
we can alter it just the tiniest bit and make things a whole lot better."
     He laughed softly.
     "Sunshine is ten times worse than Sweetheart ever was. They spoil that little horse so bad. Vern built a
lean-to against the house for him so he won't get lonely."
     With a far-away look in his eye, he spoke softly, as if to himself.
     "They haven't forgotten Sweetheart, she lives on in her son."
     He shrugged again, returning his attention to the present.
     "Stuff like that."
     "Why were you visiting the Crandalls in the middle of a blizzard?"
     "The blizzard started after I got there. I had gone over to check on Sweetheart `cause I knew it was about her
time, and I got caught by the weather."
     Sasha had the strangest feeling that his answer was evasive, but she couldn't quite figure out how.
     "So they might think you an angel because you help out around their farms? Doesn't that seem a little
simplistic?"
     "People around here are simple, honest working folk. Besides, I don't ask for anything in return and it would
seem that's almost a miracle nowadays."
     Okay, this isn't getting anywhere, time for a different tack. Or attack.
     "On August 24th, did you help those kids get out of that van before it got smashed?"
     He narrowed his eyes, meeting her best reporter's pinning stare.
     "How could I have done that?"
     "You tell me. Did you?"
     "If I said `no', would you believe me?"
     "If you're an angel, you can't lie."
     "Who says?"
     "The bible."
     That was a bluff. Sasha didn't have the foggiest idea what the bible said about angels, other than the common
knowledge stuff like one of the winged dudes announced Jesus' birth to the shepherds. She hoped this mountain man
didn't know his bible any better than she did.
     His grin told her she had pulled the wrong bluff.
     "The bible says angels can't lie? Please, tell me what other restrictions it puts on angels. This could be most
educational."
     He was laughing at her. Great!
     "Okay, so it's just common sense that they can't lie. I don't know exactly what the bible says about the
subject."
     "Do you want to know?"
     Sasha rolled her eyes.
     "Not particularly. Now will you answer the question!"
     "Which question?"
     "Oh, you insufferable...!"
     Sasha sat forward, her ebony hair flying as she shook it from her face in anger. She was nearly shouting,
getting very close to completely losing her temper on this backwoods hick, and she didn't care.
     "Did you get those kids out of that van?"
     "Yes."
     His softly spoken reply froze her in place, her only movement that of her mouth dropping open in surprise. He
had said it so matter-of-factly, as though people did that sort of thing every day. She thought maybe she had
misunderstood him. But one look into those fierce blue eyes and she knew deep down that her life had just changed
forever.
     Recover, Sasha! Come on, old girl, you can do it.
     With a deep breath and a sharp nod, Sasha slid back into the chair.
     "Uh-huh. Yes. You did. You...you...what? What did you...how did you do it?"
     "I surrounded them with my power and moved them to safety."
     His voice had dropped to a low, almost dangerous, pitch. It both caressed and warned.
     "Your...power?"
     A sharp nod was his only response.
     "Where does this power come from?"
     "God."
     "Are you saying you are an angel?"
     "I am."
     "But you're...so...real."
     His deep chuckle warmed her even as his words sent a chill coursing through her veins.
     "You expected a chubby little sexless creature with diaphanous wings. I think artists came up with that one to
make us seem less frightening, more beneficent." He shrugged. "Not true. We're God's army, His messengers,
soldiers, enforcers. We tend to be in pretty good shape."
     Sasha gave her head a sharp shake, sending her raven curls into complete disarray about her face and
shoulders. She held her hands in front of her as if to ward off something unpleasant.
     "Whoa, wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You really believe you're an angel. Sent from Heaven and the
whole bit?"
     With a wry smile and another shrug, he nodded.
     "Damn! Built to make a woman actually want to be a sex slave and certifiably loony tunes. Just my luck."
     As she spoke, she shut off her recorder, closed her notepad and shoved them both into her purse. When she
stood, she came face-to-neck with Starch. She quickly raised her eyes to meet his, not totally comfortable with the
heat she found in his gaze.
     "What are you doing?"
     Stepping sideways, she turned and headed for the door, hoping none of her growing distress would come
through in her voice.
     "I'm leaving. Thank you for dinner, it really was delicious. Don't worry about me, I can find my way to the
road, no problem."
     His warm hands settling softly on her shoulders made her jump and turn to face him. His hands hung in space
for a moment before he dropped them to his sides.
     "Why are you running away? You asked for the truth and I gave it to you."
     Sasha's breath was coming a bit too fast, too shallow. Lord in Heaven, he was big! If he wanted
to...anything...he could and she wouldn't have a chance of stopping him. Fear started a slow climb up her spine, its
icy tentacles spreading through her blood.
     "Yes, you did."
     Get the frantic out of your voice! Humor him till you can get out of this place!
     "And I appreciate it. But I have to go now."
     He opened his mouth to argue, but she interrupted with one of her best reporter tactics.
     "It's getting late and I have another appointment."
     His deep blue eyes flared nearly black at her lie.
     "No, you don't. You think I'm crazy. You're afraid I'm going to...what...cut you up in little pieces and make
stew? I don't particularly like stew."
     She knew his smile was supposed to comfort her but it wasn't working. He was too close, there was nowhere
to run, she was lost and no one even knew to come looking for her! Panic gripped her as she turned and ran for the
door.
     Arms of steel wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms at her sides. She screamed and writhed in his
embrace, certain now that he meant to bring her to some horrible end.
     "Sasha!"
     His warm breath caressed her ear as he softly called to her.
     "Sasha, listen to me. I would never hurt you."
     He held her as easily as he might a small child, waiting till her screams dwindled to whimpers, her struggles
to weak twitches. Then he whispered into her ear.
     "Listen to me, lady. Let logic speak to you if you will hear nothing else. If I am an angel - or even if I only
believe myself to be one in my psychosis - I could not lie and I have told you that I will not harm you. If you run from
here, you will become hopelessly lost in the woods. The temperature drops below freezing at night. Out there, alone,
with no survival skills and just that raincoat, you would die before morning. If you will promise not to run from me, I
will take you to your car. Do I have your promise?"
     Willing to say or do just about anything to make him let her go, Sasha nodded. Slowly, his arms relaxed their
vise grip on her, finally falling away completely. She cautiously turned to face him, fear and desperation spurring her
on. As he opened his mouth to speak, she raised her hand and pressed the plunger on her pepper spray.
     Michael had known a great deal of pain in his long life, after all, he was a warrior, but that pain had always
come at times when he had been expecting it, prepared for it. The sudden burst of white hot searing agony that
assailed his eyes was so unexpected it nearly unmanned him. His hands flew to protect his eyes from further harm as
a shout of surprised pain issued forth from his throat. Tears poured like a river from his wounded eyes. He took a
step forward, stumbled and crashed to the floor on his knees. The pain and tears made it difficult to breath. He heard
the door open, heard the quick repeated snaps of Sasha's feet hitting the dirt in front of his cabin as she ran from him,
but he could do nothing to stop her.
     He sat back on his heels, fighting the urge to rub his eyes, and screamed after her.
     "Sasha! Sasha, no! Please, listen to me! Sasha...ah!"
     Knowing he needed water to stop the pain, Michael turned and began crawling toward the fireplace. He tried
to open his eyes but, even though he stubbornly forced them open against the pain, he couldn't keep them that way,
couldn't see anyway.
     Suddenly, he was bathed in a cool mist.
     "Open your eyes."
     Gritting his teeth against the pain, Michael forced his eyelids to do his bidding once again. Cool water ran
slowly across his burning eyes, the heat and pain slowly diminishing. After several minutes, the pain became
manageable and he blinked his eyes into focus.
     Gabriel stood before him in all his opalescent glory. Wings, halo, the whole angelic nine yards.
     "You working?"
     Michael's voice was a little hoarse, equal parts abuse and anger.
     Gabe grinned.
     "Well, I did come to your rescue."
     Michael growled and, grabbing the arm of the chair, pulled himself to his feet. He stood a couple inches taller
than Gabriel, a fact he never let his brother forget. His visage was not friendly.
     "Okay, okay," Gabe raised his hands before him, "I just thought you might get a kick out of it. From your
expression I see it's more likely to be me who gets that kick."
     In a shimmer, Gabe became a normal young man dressed in tattered jeans and a Garfield t-shirt.
     "Better?"
     "Much."
     "So what happened to you?"
     Michael growled again, this time in the general direction of the door. He pulled on his heavy flannel shirt,
grabbed his coat. Then, as an afterthought, pulled the rifle from above the fireplace.
     "Sasha Frazier happened to me. The little fool thinks I'm some sort of maniac trying to add her to my
collection of mutilated bodies. She downed me with pepper spray, then ran off into the woods."
     "You planning to shoot her?"
     Michael glared at his brother, but it didn't put a dent in the younger man's grin.
     "It'll be dark in about fifteen minutes. I'd love to stay and chat, Gabe, but I've got to find her before she gets
herself killed."
     A bright light dawned behind Gabe's effervescent violet eyes.
     "You told her, didn't you? You actually took my advice."
     Heading out of the cabin, Michael frowned at his brother.
     "Thanks for the water. Be gone when I get back."
     Michael closed the door on Gabriel's laughter.                                             
Chapter Eight
                                                     
     Sasha had no idea where she was heading, she just ran as fast as her little feet would carry her away from the
maniacal giant on her trail. She heard Starch yelling, calling to her, trying to lure her back to his den, but she wasn't
falling for it. She'd take her chances with the forest critters and the frost.
     After dashing out the door of the cabin, she ran toward the forest, seeking the cover of trees as soon as
possible to make it harder for him to follow her. She jumped over fallen logs, splashed through a small creek, all the
while trying to keep branches away from her face. After she bruised her forehead running headlong into a tree
because she had been watching her feet, she slowed her pace. Keeping track of ground foot-biters and face-level
terrors at the same time was a lot more difficult than she had ever imagined. She should have given those horror
movie heroines more credit.
     And just like most of those heroines, an inevitable fall awaited her.
     As she ran, she thought she heard a sound behind her, turned to look. She was never certain exactly which
bush or stick or bad-tempered snake reached up and grabbed her foot, but suddenly she was falling. Her purse flew
from her shoulder as she flung out her hands in an attempt to break her fall. She hit the ground - hard! - the breath
leaving her lungs in a whoosh. All of her muscles, even those she hadn't known she possessed, protested the abusive
treatment. Unfortunately, she had been running downhill at the time of her fall and her momentum sent her rolling
several yards before she could catch hold of something to stop the E-ticket forest ride.
     Lying flat on her back staring at the darkening afternoon sky, Sasha took stock of her current predicament.
She was lost in the Utah forest just before nightfall, when, according to the gorgeous nutcase mountain man who
might pounce on her at any minute, the temperature would drop below freezing. She had no food or water. And it
was possible - probable, if pain were any indication - that every bone in her body was broken.
     "What would Lois Lane do?" she wondered aloud, using her own voice to break the strange silence of the
woods and comfort her fears. She'd always heard that the forest would fall silent if a predator were near.
     It was awfully quiet.
     Laughing nervously, she answered her own rhetorical question.
     "She'd call Superman, that's what she'd do. Okay, first logical step, move."
     Looking down her body at her feet, she moved them from side-to-side.
     "Movement, mild pain, back's not broken. Sit up."
     With a soft groan, she raised herself to a sitting position, trying to ignore the scream of every muscle in her
body. She wished those that had all of a sudden found their voice after a lifetime of silence would shut up! Sitting
still for a moment, she tried to get her bearings but quickly realized that was a waste of time. Other than being on the
forest floor, she had no idea of her location.
     "That way lies madness. I'm sitting up with no desire to retch, therefore, no concussion. This is a good thing."
     She glanced down at her legs. Though there were a few spots of blood, they seemed to come from minor
scratches.
     "No scars, another plus."
     Through the silent forest came a sound she could have gone her whole life without hearing in person. It was a
strange growl, like a hoarse baby cry, that brought the hairs on the back of her neck to instant attention. She'd heard
that sound enough times in old westerns and nature flicks to know it was not a good thing. It was a cougar. And it
sounded close enough to cause her some real concern.
     Forgetting all about her injuries - which must have been negligible since she gained her feet without
screaming in pain - Sasha stood and took off at a slow trot in the direction she had been heading before she'd had her
brush with falling death. At least, she thought she was going in that direction. She couldn't really see the sun to get
her bearings. Besides, she wasn't exactly the female Paul Bunyan. She knew the sun set in the west. Unfortunately,
she had no idea in what direction lie the road and her trusty green matchbox car.
     Again, the eerie wail rent the air, bringing Sasha to an abrupt halt. From which direction had it come? Was it
in front of her? Behind her? Chasing her? Leaning against a tree and fighting back a frightened sob, Sasha admitted
to herself what she'd known for quite a while but had refused to accept - she was in serious trouble.
     A bird taking flight above her startled Sasha into looking up at the sky. She quickly wished she hadn't. Like
her old friend Farmer John had said, God had just thrown a blanket over the forest. In little more than the blink of an
eye, the trees before her turned to dark, unrecognizable shapes and the forest floor beneath her feet became a carpet
of ink.
     "If I click my heels together three times, do I get to go home?"
     The panic that was seeping through her veins shook her voice so that the sound gave her little comfort. She
decided the best course of action was to slowly and carefully keep moving in the same direction. Taking a deep
breath to force down the lump of fear trying to lodge itself in her throat, she gingerly stepped forward. Placing each
foot carefully before the other, holding her arms in front of her chest, she made her way through the dark forest.
     When her hand brushed something sticky, she instinctively pulled back, wondering what obnoxious forest
substance she had encountered. Thinking to use her trusty Bic to shine some light on her situation, she realized she
had lost her purse when she fell.
     The same purse that held her car keys.
     "Damn it! Okay, this is not an insurmountable problem. Once I find the road, I'll hitch a ride back to
town...yeah, right, on a road that probably sees one car per millennium. And that one driven by Leatherface or
whatever's the Utah equivalent! Crazed missionaries willing to remove body parts, one at a time, till you agree to
convert. Fine, I'll just have to walk back to town. I can call the rental agency, looking like the dumb broad I've proven
to be today, and tell them I lost the keys and they'll have to come out here and rescue their little car. They'll probably
never rent to me again. I'll be car-rental blacklisted all over America."
     Stepping sideways, she moved forward, pleased not to encounter the sticky stuff again. Determined - though,
if she were to admit it, scared out of her wits - she forged on, once again keeping herself company with a soliloquy.
     "The director of this horror movie obviously doesn't know you're supposed to have a full moon when the
heroine is being chased through the woods at night. A little moonshine would be appreciated right about now."
     Realizing what she'd said, Sasha giggled softly.
     "Yeah, getting drunk might not be such a bad idea."
     The forest seemed to be alive now with little crackling noises echoing all around her, none of which she
could identify.
     "I liked it better when everything was quiet, even if that did mean an overgrown kitten thought I was the can
opener. You know, Great Editor, this would be the perfect time for little green men to come along with their bright
light and lift me into their spaceship to conduct horribly painful tests on my helpless body, then dump me, naked, on
the road to be found by the Highway Patrol. Boy, I really am desperate to get to that road, aren't I?"
     Fatigue silenced her self-conversation, forcing her to use all her strength just to keep putting one foot in front
of the other. Finally, she had to rest. Her breath was coming in gulps, the elevation to which she was unaccustomed
working its black magic on her body, the ever-increasing cold reminding her that, in her haste to leave Michael
Starch's cabin, she had forgotten to grab her coat. She was quickly becoming exertion- and cold-induced sleepy, a
condition even she had enough survival sense to know was not desirable.
     Slumping against a tree, Sasha slid down its trunk till she rested at its base. Her head tilted forward of its own
volition, her neck refusing to support it, till her chin rested on her chest. It would be so nice to take a little nap, just a
few winks to get her second wind. She shivered, knowing from the experience of the last few...minutes?...hours?...
that wrapping her arms around herself would do nothing to alleviate the bite of the frigid air. Surrendering, feeling
the last of her strength being sucked into the icy ground beneath her, Sasha slept.
     
     Michael was getting just a little frantic. He was an excellent tracker, had little difficulty following the trail
that Sasha was leaving. But it was growing dark and cold. The forest was quickly becoming a hostile environment for
one little girl without a coat, or the knowledge to keep herself safe. The far-off call of the puma didn't concern him.
He knew that cat didn't hunt anywhere near here, though its cry could be heard for miles. He wondered what Sasha
would think. With her quick-to-panic imagination, she'd have herself caught in the cat's jaws in no time, being
dragged home for dinner, no doubt. The thought turned up the corners of Michael's mouth in a slight smile.
     Finding the place where Sasha had fallen and rolled down a small ravine, he had to catch himself before he
ran headlong after her and shared her fate. He called her name, temporarily forgetting that his voice was not
something in which she would take comfort.
     The little fool! Was she trying to get herself killed?! Why hadn't she turned back when she heard the cat? Did
she truly think Michael more dangerous than a predator?
     No, she thought he was a predator.
     A sudden foreboding gripped Michael as surely as a fist at his throat. Something was wrong! Sasha was in
dire trouble. Dropping to his knees, Michael bowed his head, his clenched fists held tightly at his side.
     "I could use some help here."
     Wincing at his disrespectful tone, Michael sighed deeply, lowering his head till it almost touched the ground
before him.
     "Forgive me, Father. This girl's in trouble because of me. Please help me find her."
     He held his position of supplication a moment longer, knowing he had severely overstepped by using such a
tone. Raising his head, he saw a bright star shining just above the treetops.
     "Thank you. For your forgiveness, for your help and," he dropped his eyes, then raised them again to the dark
sky, "for your patience."
     Rising, Michael used the light of the star to avoid the pitfalls of the forest floor, following it to his
destination.
     
     A bright light forced itself into Sasha's unwilling consciousness, her curiosity making her open her eyes, even
though it seemed as though they were super-glued shut. She tried to shield her eyes with her arm, looking at that limb
in surprise when it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Everything about her seemed to have gone into slow
motion.
     The glowing star lit the black night like a spotlight, its rays so bright they were almost separately
distinguishable to the naked eye. The center shone silver-white, the rays shimmering from red to yellow to gold as
though the star's light flowed through a prism. It was the single most beautiful sight she had ever beheld.
     And what was that hanging just in front of her face, illuminated by the star? It was moving. It looked like...
     "Spider! Big spider!"
     Legs that just seconds ago had felt as though they would never move again now seemed to sprout wings and
take flight as Sasha realized the biggest spider she had ever seen was dangling, suspended by a silken thread of its
own making, just inches from her face. Flinging her body sideways, she jumped to her feet and backed away until her
foot hit something. Turning, she found she had almost walked into an intricately woven spider web that stretched
between two trees. It extended from a foot above the ground to about a foot above her head. And in the center,
unmoving, its long legs ending in a sharp point, was the proud designer of this arachniphobic's nightmare.
     She had stumbled into spider central!
     A too-quick step backward tangled her feet and she fell to the ground, twisting midair to land on her hands
and knees. Too tired to scream, too scared to move, her control snapped. Great heaving sobs burst forth from her
throat as she leaned back on her heels and yelled at the bright star illuminating the night sky.
     "God, get me out of this! Please, help me! Where did you go? I need you."
     She pounded her fists on the ground, years of angry guilt and heartbreak pouring down her cheeks.
     "I'm...not...bad! Where did you go? Why did you leave me?"
     Her words were swallowed by sobs. She had nowhere to go, would probably die here in this woman-hating
jungle, she might as well lose her mind in the process. Her chest ached as her long-pent-up emotions forced their way
past her pride. Her mother had wronged her because of her own shame in their blood, her father hadn't stood up for
her, her priest had proven his extreme humanity, and she, a little girl trying to make sense of the adult world she
would soon inherit, had paid the price for all their weaknesses.
     How she had needed God then. If angels were real, why hadn't He sent one to help her? Instead, she had lost
him, he had slipped away from her, she had...she had turned her back on Him. Had He really responded in kind? Or
had she, in her childish anger and humiliation, closed her soul to him?
     Sasha rolled onto her side, then over to her back and stared up at the beauteous star that hovered over the
forest clearing. Why was it there? Was this the bright light people who had near-death experiences often spoke of?
Was she dead? Dying?
     Overdramatizing a situation that had a perfectly reasonable explanation?
     Knowing herself as she did, Sasha opted for the last. A comet unusually close to Earth, a normal star that
shone more brightly in the clear mountain air, the exhaust from an alien craft. Oh, yeah, that was reasonable.
     Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the star was gone, snuffed out like a heavenly match. With its light went
all the warmth and safety Sasha had felt in its presence. Moaning with self-pity, she sat up and pulled her knees to
her chest, holding them there with her arms as she rocked back and forth.
     "Sasha?"
     Nearly jumping out of her skin, Sasha's eyes flew to the nearby trees, a wasted effort for she could barely see
her hand in front of her face in the inky blackness of the night forest. She knew that voice well. Michael Starch, the
loon she had gotten into this mess trying to escape.
     "Sasha, please don't be afraid. I made a mistake back at the cabin. I said some things I shouldn't have said. I
told you what I thought you wanted to hear. You can understand a man saying things to impress a woman, can't you?
How would you feel about me if I told you I live out in the boondocks because I have a few social problems, don't
always get along well with people? That wouldn't be nearly as impressive as my being an angel, right?"
     Listening carefully, Sasha thought she had pinpointed his location. He was quite close to her, she could
almost feel him behind the nearest tree. Should she run? Where?! Shaking her head, exhaustion and cold once again
taking their toll, she decided he might be making sense. She had known he wanted her. Guys made up stuff all the
time to impress women they wanted to lure into bed. Why had she thought him any different?
     Because she had thought, had actually hoped, that he was an angel?
     You can't have it both ways, old girl, either they exist, or they're `World Tattler' fodder.
     It was getting difficult to think straight. She shivered, the cold seeping into her bones and making them ache.
A soft moan slipped past her lips.
     "Sasha, please let me get you warm before you freeze to death."
     She gave a little giggle, speaking mainly to herself.
     "Yeah, and I'll just bet I can guess what activity you would suggest to warm me up."
     His answering chuckle warmed her blood against her will. What was it about this guy? Why did he have such
an unsettling effect on all her senses?
     "Maybe later, if you're up to it. For now," she jumped as his leg brushed against her arm, and warm cloth
engulfed her, "I think we should start with your coat."
     He knelt in front of her then, just as drop-dead gorgeous as she remembered. His smile was warmer than the
coat and she found herself wanting to immerse herself in him, to drown in his embrace. If she'd had an ounce of extra
strength, she might have flared at the familiar way he rubbed her arms under the coat, starting a stinging warmth
flowing from his fingertips into her blood. She raised her eyes and, even in the dark of the forest, she could see the
concern lighting his blue eyes. He was so close she could feel his breath on her upturned face.
     The darkening of his intense eyes told her he was about to press his lips to hers. She licked her dry lips in
anticipation, knowing she should resist, not having the slightest desire to do so. Then he seemed to think better of it,
instead placing a chaste kiss on her forehead.
     "Stay here and get warm while I gather some wood to make a fire. It's too dark, and you're too tired, for us to
make it back to the cabin tonight. A fire will keep us nice and toasty and keep the locals from dropping in uninvited.
It should also give me enough light to get a good look at your body."
     He rose, off on his quest for firewood, she supposed. Her squeak of protest brought him to a crouch before
her.
     "What?!"
     He chuckled, gently brushing a stray curl from her face.
     "I want to make sure you aren't harboring any unfriendly local wildlife and that you have no serious cuts or
bruises that need immediate attention."
     His grin was pure male.
     "Don't worry, I won't hurt you."
     "Is that anything like a doctor saying `this won't hurt a bit' just before he sticks a needle the size of a small
pencil into your nether region?"
     Michael laughed, a deep, mesmerizing rumble that soothed Sasha's frazzled nerves. She reached out to catch
his coat collar, effectively pinning him in place. His brows arched in question.
     "Did you mean what you said about trying to impress me? I mean, you're really not loony tunes enough to
think yourself an angel, are you?"
     Dropping his eyes to the ground for a fraction of a second, Michael gave a forced chuckle.
     "I'd have to be certifiable to think that, wouldn't I? No, Sasha, I don't think I'm an angel. I occasionally have
problems dealing with people. My diplomacy skills are a little lacking. So I live out here where the squirrels won't
get too angry with me if I accidentally insult them."
     His tone deepened, running fingers of arousal over the tender skin at the nape of her neck.
     "The last thing I meant to do was chase you off."
     Without warning, he stood.
     "Now, I've got to get that fire going before you turn into a popsicle."
     He pointed, a motion she could barely make out in the dark.
     "Stay."
     As he turned and set off to find firewood, Sasha hugged herself and mumbled into her coat, "Woof! Okay, I
believe him. A five-year-old has better people skills than he does."
     Remembering his big, nearly naked body laboring over the chopping block, she wondered if the fire was the
only way he planned to warm her this night. After all, he had said `maybe later'. A shiver that had nothing to do with
cold flowed over her body. Not totally understanding her own response, Sasha none-the-less found she was looking
forward to the remainder of this night with great anticipation.                                        
                                  Chapter Nine
                                        
     Having absolutely no desire to move until she could see exactly where she was going, and what hungry forest
monsters might lurk in her path, Sasha did as she was told, `staying' seated on the ground, her knees pulled up to her
chest, her coat wrapped around her body as tightly as possible to keep out the cold that was quickly turning bitter. In
a surprisingly short time, Michael had a nice little fire blazing in the middle of the clearing, away from any trees that
might not appreciate a stray spark. Satisfied that it would continue crackling merrily for some time, he turned his
attention back to Sasha, running his Caribbean-blue eyes over her with a combination of concern and warming
interest.
     He once again crouched by her side, a soft smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
     "I need your coat."
     Sasha snorted, one eyebrow leaping to attention, as she clutched the coat more tightly against her body.
     "What army did you plan to have help you pry it from my cold dead fingers?"
     He chuckled, bringing a warmth to her that no fire could ever hope to match.
     "I plan to use it as our mattress, with my coat as cover. You have to take off all your clothes."
     If possible, her ebony eyebrow climbed even higher. He raised his hands, palms toward her.
     "Believe me, you'll be much warmer that way. We both will."
     "I don't doubt it. Just the thought is making me sweat."
     With gentle hands, he pulled the coat from her shoulders. She thought about fighting him, but it seemed a
rather ludicrous thing to do. After all, with his muscles, if he wanted to rape her, which he had emphatically denied,
he could probably do it without breaking a sweat. He was Goliath to her unarmed David. She might as well
cooperate.
     Besides, judging from his quick, efficient handling of the fire, he did know what he was doing in the forest
survival department.
     She realized how much her coat had been protecting her when the cold hit her like a physical force, making
her suck in a quick breath that all but froze her lungs. She pressed her lips together to keep her teeth from chattering.
     "Burr! Has anyone ever told you that you have very inhospitable weather out here in the Utah boondocks? A
body could freeze like that guy's wife in Sodom and Gomorrah."
     With a wry grin, Michael shook his head and sighed as he spread her coat on the ground as close to the fire as
he felt prudent.
     "Lot's wife didn't freeze, Sasha, God transformed her into a pillar of salt for her disobedience."
     Sasha was willing to latch onto any subject that might help her forget about the cold tightening her muscles
into knots.
     "The bible expert speaks. Isn't that just like a man? He gets teed off 'cause a woman doesn't follow His orders
to the letter so He puts her into one giant time-out. Why didn't He turn Lot into something for not keeping her
entertained? Nooo! As usual, the woman takes all the blame. Like Eve. Have you ever really thought about that
whole Eden debacle?"
     Sasha was warming to her subject, letting it turn her mind from her freezing surroundings.
     "What did she do, force Adam to eat that stupid apple? Did she slip it into a fruit salad without telling him? I
don't think so. Adam chowed down on that Granny Smith knowing full well that it was gonna make The Big Guy
mad, then he whines that it was all the wife's idea when the you-know-what hits the fan."
     "Women are a difficult force to control. Their curiosity and willfulness often causes them, and their men,
great pain. They must be carefully watched and sternly reprimanded for their indiscretions."
     Sasha's mouth dropped open in disbelief as she stared at the back of Michael's head.
     "Are you from this century? Watched? Reprimanded? That sort of thing went out with The Inquisition. You're
not only undiplomatic, you could teach classes at Chauvinist U!"
     He turned and smiled at her, an imp in full residence in his shining eyes.
     "Thank you. Now take off your clothes and stand near the fire so I can get a good look at you."
     Both eyebrows flew nearly to her hairline, then quickly dropped to assist her narrow-eyed glare.
     "With an invitation like that, what girl could refuse?"
     Using bluster to cover her embarrassment, Sasha mumbled to herself about chauvinists and Neanderthals as
she began to remove her clothes with quick, jerky movements. First, she did a crane imitation, hopping on one foot
while removing the shoe and sock from the other. As she repeated the operation for the other foot, she noticed that
Michael still wasn't wearing shoes. Considering the fact that her bared foot felt as though it were quickly forming ice
crystals between the toes, she couldn't help wondering how he ignored the cold. And why.
     "Don't your feet get cold? And bloody?"
     Michael followed her gaze to his bare feet. His toes curled of their own volition, unused to so much attention.
A sheepish grin curving his lips, he raised his eyes to meet hers.
     "Shoes are one modern convenience I find unnecessary. I want to feel the earth beneath my feet, to trust my
own natural traction, not something made of rubber in Taiwan. My feet toughened long...uh...when I was younger.
Though I'd rather not step on broken glass or rusty nails, most things don't bother me."
     He motioned toward her blouse.
     "Keep going. And could you speed it up, I'm getting a little cold here."
     Feeling an unreasonable elation at his acknowledgment of the chill that was about to rattle the fillings from
her teeth, Sasha started unbuttoning her blouse.
     "I'm undressing as fast as I can. I'm not used to this kind of thing, you know. I'm not exactly a stripper."
     With an exasperated sigh, Michael moved forward. He spoke in an impatient tone as he yanked her blouse
from what was left of its tucked-in state and pulled it over her head.
     "Perhaps if you'd stop thinking of this as a sexual disrobing and see it for what it is - medicinal - we'd get
under cover before we both join the ranks of the frozen dead."
     When he wrapped his strong arms around her chest, she thought maybe she had misheard him. Medicinal?
His warm chest pressed so intimately against her aching breasts was anything but medicinal. She was about to
respond in kind, had actually begun sliding her hands over his hips, when she felt her bra release. She stood stunned
as he backed away, letting the torture device fall from her arms to the ground at her feet. Shock, and growing anger
at his casual attitude, kept her from bothering to modestly cover herself with her arms.
     "Can you get your own pants, or do I need to help you with those, too?"
     Anger flared hot and ready in Sasha's near-black eyes. Was he made of stone? Did he even notice that she was
half-naked, the bitter cold only partially responsible for the aching tautness of her nipples?
     Okay, she could play his this-is-no-big-deal game.
     The frigidity of the weather was no match for the iciness of her tone.
     "No, thank you, I can manage."
     As quickly, and calmly, as possible Sasha peeled her jeans down her long legs, thankful she had shaved
yesterday before going to work. Had that been only one day in the past? How time flies when you're having fun! Her
natural embarrassment combined with her anger to make her furious and it showed in every movement of her lithe
body. She flung her jeans onto the small pile of clothes that had collected at her feet, then glared defiance into his
blue gaze.
     "If there are ticks, lice, snakes or whatever else this Godforsaken place..."
     A volcano suddenly awakened from its dormant state, erupting blue lava into his narrowed eyes. His lips
pulled back from his teeth in an expression that too closely resembled a snarl for her liking, his words issuing forth in
a low growl to match his frightening countenance.
     "God has forsaken nothing in this world, woman! Nothing!"
     Sasha took a step back, raising her chin and flaring her nostrils.
     "Well, excuse me! As I was saying - If anything is residing in my underwear, it will just have to sign a lease
and pay rent because I am not taking them off! And let me warn you, Mr Women-Need-Controlling, if you try to take
them, I'll...I'll...I don't know what I'll do and that's when I'm the most dangerous!"
     He glanced at her underwear as if seeing them for the first time. The anger that glittered behind his eyes
slowly melted into a different kind of heat, a slow burning that made her breath catch in her throat. The deep rumble
that had become his voice sent a tingle up her spine.
     "Step closer to the fire."
     She did so, turning her back to him, her arms crossing over her chest in an unconscious, if a bit belated,
gesture of modesty Michael found endearing. Though she was trying to hide behind a tough facade, the movement
illustrated her discomfort, inflaming his protective instincts. Which was in direct conflict to his body's desire. He was
trying hard to ignore the throbbing in his loins, the pain so intense he thought he might die of it. How long could he
be near this beautiful, defiant woman, her pale unmarred skin bare to his gaze - and touch - without making her his?
Testing his control to the limit - Would he know in time that he had pushed himself too far? - he ran his eyes over
every exposed inch of her lovely back. Spotting a suspicious shadow near her neck, he lightly ran his fingertips over
the area, satisfied when the shadow dropped to the ground, nothing more dangerous than a piece of dirt.
     Her shiver at his touch hit him like a broadside to the libido. He clenched his fists at his sides, reminding
himself that he was doing this to protect her from the unfriendly inhabitants of the forest. Her tiny bikini panties left
little to the imagination. He doubted anything dangerous to her was lurking beneath the bit of silk.
     Dangerous to him, now that was another subject entirely!
     Inhaling deeply, he forced husky words through the clenched teeth of his restraint.
     "Turn around."
     That shiver, and the flood of moisture in her panties when Michael's hand touched her skin, told Sasha that
she was quickly losing control of her impetuous body. And he wanted her to turn around! Slowly, trying desperately
to hang on to the last threads of her composure, she turned to face him.
     One look into the furnace that raged behind his eyes and she knew he was definitely not made of stone. Of
their own volition, her eyes dropped to the front of his pants, finding the evidence of his arousal starkly outlined in
the glow of the flames. With a quick indrawn breath, she met his eyes once again. Her shivering, no longer caused by
the cold but by the intensity of feeling coursing through her, was threatening to compromise her knees. They wanted
to buckle, giving in to her desire to lie on the ground at his feet and let the fiery promise of his eyes consume her.
She could feel his eyes sliding over her body, the heat of his gaze burning her everywhere it touched. When he
reached out and closed his hands around her wrists, pulling apart her last bit of modesty, tiny black spots appeared at
the edges of her vision and she realized she had been holding her breath through his visual inspection of her body.
Before she could catch herself, lightheadedness overtook her, swallowing her into the welcome darkness of oblivion.
     Warm bands of steel wrapped and lifted, securing her against an expanse of hard fur-covered muscle. For a
space of time that could have been a minute, an hour, or an eternity, she hovered in a semi-conscious limbo, her
senses alive, her muscles refusing to obey her simplest commands. She was completely at the mercy of this man she
hardly knew, and even that thought brought with it more desire instead of the fear it should have engendered.
     You've totally lost it, old girl.
     Michael pulled Sasha's limp form into his arms, gently cradling her against his chest. Knowing she would be
alright as soon as he got her body temperature raised, he was strangely glad that she had lost consciousness at that
moment. If she hadn't, he didn't think he would have been able to resist the urge to test the weight of her small, firm
breasts in his palms. To ravage her lips till they parted and allowed him entrance. To slide his hand over her soft
belly, down into that sanctuary of silk, and caress the downy hair he knew he would find hidden there. To hear her
moan with pleasure as he...
     Shaking his head as though it were he whose consciousness were being threatened, he carefully laid Sasha on
her coat. Knowing it would be best for her, he slid her panties down over her hips and long, beautiful legs until he
held the tiny bit of silk in one fist. He gave himself one last moment to drink in her naked beauty as he brushed the
silk against his beard-roughened cheek. The scent of her heat hung in the air, tightening his loins to the breaking
point. 
     A heavy sigh that sounded suspiciously like a moan escaped his lips. He tossed the panties onto the pile of her
clothes, then quickly covered her with his coat. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around her feet for extra heat.
     Confused by his feelings for this woman who was little more than a stranger, annoyed by his own disastrous
handling of the situation and suffering the pain of a desire the likes of which he had never before felt, Michael
needed guidance. He sought the cover of nearby trees, dropped to his knees on the forest floor and bowed his head,
the cold forgotten as he sought the comfort of his beloved Father.
     "Father, I have a problem. I've never felt like this about a woman. I want to tell her the truth about myself and
make her accept it. I want to watch her eyes come alive as I show her all the beauty in this world. I want to hold her,
protect her, love her. And yet, I also want to chastise her for her words and actions. To spank her till she opens her
eyes. I feel confused and I don't care for it."
     Warmth engulfed Michael, flowing around and through him till his breath caught in his throat. As he bowed
his head lower still, the all-encompassing breeze increased, caressing him as a mother strokes the forehead of a sick
child. The tension that had become second nature to him since his pepper-spray baptism, seeped out of his muscles
on the breeze, leaving behind the strength that was always his to command.
     He was a powerful, proficient warrior who had weathered many battles and always emerged victorious!
Surely he could handle one little woman. He would listen to his heart, let it's dictates be his guide. It had never
steered him wrong and he knew it wasn't about to start now.
     "Thank you, Father. Sometimes your silent treatment is very effective."
     He raised his head, sitting back on his heals, and gazed through the treetops into the starry night sky. His
smile was broad, white teeth gleaming in the dark.
     "Do you think you could teach Gabe how to be silent?"
     A bright star streaked across the sky, appearing to fall to the earth. Michael laughed.
     "I didn't think so. You're the greatest, Father."
     He once again bowed his head in respect, then, regaining his feet in one smooth upward motion, returned to
camp.
     To find a rather livid Sasha glaring at him from beneath her makeshift bed coverings.
     "Not only do you leave me alone after I've..."
     She seemed at a loss for the correct word so Michael supplied one he thought might suffice.
     "Swooned?"
     The flare in her dark eyes told him he'd chosen incorrectly.
     "Swooned? Swooned?! Modern women do not swoon, you neanderthal! I merely had an episode of
consciousness impairment. And what do you do?"
     "Sasha..."
     She continued her tirade without a breath, ignoring his interruption.
     "You leave me alone on the ground where who-knows-what could have eaten me while you were off
communing with nature."
     "Sasha, I..."
     Again, she ignored him, fully engulfed in her tirade. A muscle jumped in his jaw, his fists clenched at his
side, but he held his temper, trying to be understanding about her concerns.
     "And where are my underwear?! You cretin, I told you that I was absolutely, positively not giving them up.
Did you listen? Nooo. Did you have fun while I was at your mercy? I..."
     "Shut up!"
     So much for his sensitive man routine.
     Sasha blinked, the fire in her eyes banking slightly with surprise at his outburst. For about two seconds. Then
firecrackers were added to the flames.
     "`Shut up'?! Look, buddy, just who the heck do you think you are? You don't just go around telling people to
shut up. They tend to get a little perturbed."
     He reached her side in two strides, dropping to his knees and leaning over her prone body so his face was
within inches of hers, his breath hot on her cheek, his voice molten steel.
     "I couldn't care less how perturbed you get, little girl. I don't have to think who I am, I know. I am Michael St
Arch, and I'm the only thing standing between you and freezing your pretty little butt to death. I'm the man who is
going to keep you warm tonight. Maybe, if you're real lucky, I'll even get you hot! Now I'm going to stand up and take
off my pants, then I'm going to crawl in next to you and press together every inch of our skin I can manage. Any
questions?"
     Her eyes had grown wider with each word till he thought they might pop right out of their sockets. When he
finished, she gave him a black glare for a full second before laying back onto the ground, making a show of
nonchalantly brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his coat. Her tone was unconcerned.
     "No, no questions. I just thought I'd let my displeasure be known."
     "So noted."
     Her nostrils flared like an angry filly as she flopped onto her side away from him.
     "Fine! You are the most obnoxious, inconsiderate man I have ever had the displeasure to meet! I...Oh!"
     Her breath left her in a rush as she felt warm skin press against her back, a nicely muscled arm settling itself
into the crook of her hip, the hand resting possessively on the tender flesh of her belly. He did, indeed, press every
inch of his flesh to hers. And a few inches of his flesh were as hard as a rock against her thigh! As a shiver raked
across her hypersensitive flesh, Sasha knew this was going to be the longest night of her life.     
                                  Chapter Ten
                                        
     They all arrived by the designated hour.
     Dennis, as usual, was a little early, always anxious to get things under way. Sean came next, nervous fingers
finding it difficult to turn the doorknob. Then Aidan and his baby brother Fergus, who Dennis and Sean had
originally thought a little young to take part, him being only ten. But Aidan had countered that this bloody Holy War
affected everyone, especially the children. If it were going to ruin their lives, he'd argued, they should be allowed to
take part in their own defense. That had made sense to the others, so they had let Fergie become part of their guerrilla
team.
     And a great deal of help he had been. People didn't pay as much attention to a lad as they would to a fully
grown man. Fergie had been able to go places, see things, commit acts that the others would have had a devil of a
time doing without possibly encountering questions to which the true answers would have landed them in prison for
a long time.
     "`Bout time ya go' your sorry arses here," Dennis blustered, his brogue increasing. Trying to cover his fear and
nervousness with bravado, he snapped, "Another coupl'a minutes an' we woulda gone without ya."
     Aidan sneered, easily the most ruthless of the bunch, and cuffed Fergie across the back of the head.
     "Baby bro here slept in. Guess he doesn't think this is very important."
     Fergus, as always, rose to his revered big brother's bait. Slapping at Aidan's hand, he defended himself to the
others.
     "My clock's on the fritz. I know how important today is. You'll see, I'll do ya all proud."
     "It ain't us you're doin' proud, boy," Aidan growled, "it's the cause. We're gonna show them English bastards
once an' for all they don't rule Ireland. An' they sure as hell ain't gonna be tellin' us how ta worship. Imagine 'em
expectin' us to accept a king who set aside the lovin' wife he took before God ta live with his whore! Not me, I'll tell
ya. Me an' mine are gonna live in a God-fearin' country. And if it takes the deaths of a few more of those worthless
heretics, so be it!"
     "Hear, hear!"
     The rest joined in a chorus of support, agreeing with Aidan, and having no desire to anger the quick-tempered
man. His answering smile was beatific.
     "Right. So let's get this show on the road. Sean, you got the car?"
     Sean, an eighteen-year-old lanky carrot-top who's constitution was not made for this kind of intrigue, jumped,
not caring to be the center of anyone's attention, let alone Aidan's. His voice, still occasionally known to take an
unplanned roller coaster ride right in the middle of a sentence, squeaked as he answered, his pale skin quickly
darkening till it nearly matched his hair.
     "Yeah. Snagged it from ma sister's husband's friend."
     Aidan's dark grey eyes narrowed causing Sean's gut to clench painfully.
     "Ain't he the one who works for the library?"
     Swallowing convulsively, Sean nodded, wondering what he might have done wrong. He flinched as Aidan
slapped him on the back.
     "Good work. The bastard deserves to pay for helping feed that English propaganda to our kids."
     Sean breathed a sigh of relief as Aidan turned to Dennis. Aidan's excitement was becoming palpable as the
scheduled time for departure neared.
     "Is it ready?"
     Next to Aidan, with his black hair and slate-gray eyes, Dennis looked washed out, his brown hair and eyes
unremarkable. And he liked it that way, figuring if anyone ever saw any of them, it would be Aidan they would
remember. Aidan was not his favorite person as Dennis had borne the brunt of Aidan's quick, fierce temper once too
often.
     "Of course it's ready. This whole party wouldn't have much kick if I hadn't brought the party favors, now
would it?"
     Aidan snarled, fighting the desire to slam his fist into Dennis' mouth for his smart-assed attitude. Instead, he
turned to his favorite punching bag, Fergie, and playfully slapped at the boy's face. Fergie, alert to Aidan's moods
since before he had learned to walk, saw it coming and ducked, earning his brother's smile of approval.
     "So, boy, ya ready?"
     Fergie had Aidan's coloring, but without his brother's intensity, it lost some of it's dramatic impact. Still, he
was a pretty lad and, even at his ripe old age, he took great pride in the fact that the girls were already beginning to
notice him. Taking part in the revolution was gonna get him laid soon, he was sure of it. And wouldn't Aidan be
proud of him then.
     Eyes glowing with hero-worship, Fergie nodded up at Aidan.
     "There's a good lad. Let's go teach those English bastards the word of God!"
     The whole room lit with a blinding white light, so bright they all covered their eyes, Sean letting out a
frightened scream. Aidan was the first to drop his arm from in front of his eyes, quickly pulling the gun he always
carried from the waistband at the back of his pants. He looked around, desperate for something to fight so he could
reclaim his manhood from the fear that was clenching its fist around his gut.
     Before him, leaning against the workbench where Dennis' creation had been formed and now rested, was a
blonde giant. He wore nothing but a black leather loincloth, a sword - a sword, for God's sake! - dangling from a loop
of metal at his left hip. His arms - the finely muscled arms of a seasoned fighter - were crossed over his powerful
chest. He glared down at them with eyes bluer than the sky, eyes full of contempt.
     Having recovered from his fright now that he had someone to fight, Aidan stepped forward, waving the gun
menacingly in front of his chest.
     "Who the hell are you?"
     Michael raised one haughty eyebrow as he stared pointedly at the gun, then dismissed it and raised his eyes to
meet Aidan's angry glare. He spoke with a voice that seemed to come from all around them, its intensity enough to
make them all, except Aidan, take a step back.
     "I am Michael."
     Aidan's arrogant sneer was firmly back in place. Why did these fools back away, showing their enemy fear,
when he, Aidan, had the gun? He'd just have to knock this big guy down a peg or two, maybe even kill him, to make
them see Aidan was still the boss.
     "Am I supposed to know you?"
     "We've never met."
     "I didn't think so. I'd remember a fancy boy as pretty as you."
     Aidan snickered, gaining confidence as he heard the dutiful answering snickers of his comrades.
     "Why don't you hand me that fancy pigsticker? It looks like it might be worth a quid or two."
     Michael stiffened, his nostrils flaring as he dropped his arms to his sides and stood to his full impressive
height. His right hand made a slow graceful arc across his midsection, coming to rest on the hilt of the shining sword.
He began slowly withdrawing the silver blade, feeling all eyes riveted to his movements. Though vengeance sang its
sweet song in his veins, Michael shook his head and let the sword fall back to his hip.
     "I am here with a message, the form of which you shall choose."
     "Cut the riddles, pretty boy!"
     The gun in Aidan's hand suddenly felt like a poker straight from the fire, searing his skin wherever it touched
the metal. He yelped and dropped the offending weapon, staring in awed wonder at his blistering skin. With a soft
touch to his shoulder, Fergie showed his concern.
     "Aidan, you okay?"
     The stupid kid was drawing attention to his weakness. With a fist clenched tightly around his pride, Aidan
backhanded his little brother to the ground.
     "Hit him again and you will die where you stand!"
     The shout shook the very walls of the little farmhouse, all eyes returning to Michael.
     Tears threatening to spill from his eyes, Fergie stared up at his big brother, wondering what he'd done wrong
this time. Michael stepped forward, passing Aidan with a look that said he sincerely hoped the man would be stupid
enough to try to stop him. Not sure of this situation, or how to get the best of the big blonde, Aidan decided to bide
his time. The interloper's soft spot for the kid might prove useful.
     Michael extended his hand to Fergie, the look in his eyes commanding the boy to accept his assistance. Fergie
complied, amazed at the big man's strength as he effortlessly raised him to his feet. Michael stared down into Fergie's
eyes for a moment, making him feel as though he were being x-rayed from top to toe. Fergie stared back, the
fragments of his youthful innocence slowly working their way to the front of his mind and joining there to fight the
poison of his brother's `cause'.
     Michael spoke softly to the boy.
     "Go home, Fergus. This is not the way to peace for your country. Remember your brother's way, the blood and
innocence wasted, then search for your own way, a better way. When you find it, spread the word to all who will
listen. Make the people hear you, make them understand. Now go and do not look back. There is nothing for you
here."
     Michael pointed to the door, giving Fergie a push toward it.
     "Fight with a sword by which you can bear to live."
     "But I love my brother."
     A look of such infinite sadness passed across Michael's eyes it was nearly palpable in the air around him.
     "I had a charismatic brother like yours, a brother I loved very much, who chose the wrong path. Turning away
from him was the hardest thing I ever did. You must make your own choice, Fergus."
     Tears running down his cheeks, Fergie headed toward the door.
     "Where the hell do ya think you're goin', boy?!"
     Though he stumbled at Aidan's yell, Fergie continued on his path away from his brother. Somehow he knew
Aidan was wrong, had always been wrong, and was going to be punished. Though he felt sorry for his brother, Fergie
knew he had chosen his own path. And now he, Fergus, was going to make a better choice.
     Ignoring his brother's increasingly loud and vulgar attempts to get his attention, Fergie softly closed the door
behind him and never looked back.
     Michael watched as the boy left, keeping an eye on Aidan in case he decided to try to force his will on his
little brother. Though he cursed the lad soundly, Aidan never made a move.
     Drawing a deep, girding breath, Michael stepped to the forefront of the one room cottage, the last of his
business here at hand. He examined each man in turn as though he were some fascinating science experiment. Not
one of them - not even Aidan, who made a great show of inspecting his wounded hands - could hold that soul-baring
gaze for more than a few seconds.
     Finally, Aidan had had enough.
     "Look, man, I don't know who ya think ya are, but we got business to attend to an' you're keepin' us from it."
     Eyes of blue fire sought Aidan's dark grey glare, a voice of strength and menace questioning him.
     "And what business might that be? The business that killed fifteen people on a London bus three weeks ago,
two of them your own countrymen in London on business of their own? Or the business that put a lethal bullet into
the back of a security guard at an explosives manufacturing plant last week?"
     All three of the men's eyes flew wide, Sean looking as though he might be ill any minute. Dennis glanced
toward the door, gauging the possibility of reaching it and getting the hell out of there before the big man could stop
him. But Aidan had shown all the fear he intended to allow for one day. His bravado returning full force, he took a
belligerent step toward Michael.
     "Ya' got no proof or the whole place'd be crawlin' wi' bobbies, haulin' us off to gaol. So what's your game?"
     Michael clenched his fists at his side, his desire to destroy this little man nearly overcoming his mission.
Nearly. But he would do as his Father had requested if he had to sit on his own hands! He forced his words to come
out softly, though the steel at their base could not be mistaken.
     "What you have been doing is wrong. Though your cause is just, your methods are..."
     "And just who the hell are you ta be tellin' us what's right an' wrong?" Aidan jeered, "You one o' them super
heroes from the comics?"
     The interruption cost Michael dearly. His body shook with restraint, his palm itching to feel the hilt of his
sword within it. Aidan continued, oblivious to Michael's inner conflict.
     "You're damn right our cause is just! We're gonna wreak vengeance on those who think they can..."
     "Vengeance is not yours to wreak!"
     The shout came from somewhere deep within Michael, issuing forth from something far more substantial
than his larynx. The walls of the small farmhouse reverberated with the thunder of his words. Sean covered his ears
with his hands, tears of fear misting his eyes; Dennis' muscles bunched in readiness for flight; and Aidan slouched
into a defensive fighting position, ready to take on this blonde menace once and for all.
     But Michael was done with the niceties. His big hand closed around the hilt of his sword and the air in the
cottage fairly crackled with the intensity of his wrath. He drew the sword, a million points of light flashing off the
shining silver blade as he raised it before him.
     "Vengeance belongs to God!"
     With the flick of his wrist, Michael touched the blade to Dennis' throat, freezing him in place with eyes so
wide they threatened to bulge from their sockets. Michael's voice was deadly soft.
     "Do not attempt to leave without my permission, Dennis. That would not be wise."
     Dennis, his eyes never leaving the razor sharp blade threatening his life's blood, raised his hands, palms
toward Michael, and whispered, "No problem."
     Michael scanned the frightened faces before him. Yes, they were scared enough to hear him, but would they
heed his words after he had left their sight and they were no longer afraid for their lives? Holding the sword in both
hands, he lowered it till the tip touched the ground before him. His tone changed to that of a father giving his
children a stern lecture.
     "Dennis, do you wish to harm anyone ever again?"
     Shaking his head so fast he looked like one of those little spring-necked dogs in the back window of a car,
Dennis stammered, "N-no, I don't."
     His eyes slid to Aidan, finding the look of pure disgust he had expected.
     "I'm sorry, man, but I've had enough. I've been thinkin' about joining the bomb squad for a while now and I
think I'm gonna do it. I got the skills an' the experience."
     Dennis shrugged.
     "We aren't doin' any good, Aidan. I been thinkin' about it and this..." his eyes slid sideways toward Michael,
"...this clinches it. I'm done."
     Michael nodded and turned his attention to Sean, who staggered under the weight of his regard as though it
were a physical blow.
     "Sean..."
     Before Michael could even ask the question, Sean was blurting his answer, tears of fear and remorse running
unheeded down his cheeks.
     "I never wanted to hurt anyone, I just wanted to be one of the guys and Aidan scared me so much I didn't dare
quit `cause I thought he might kill me. It never seemed real, it was just like firecrackers and stuff. But, on that bus,
there was a baby. The news showed a picture of her. A little girl in her nappie. The nightmares..." Sobs of torment
and hope of redemption made his words almost unrecognizable. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
     Again, Michael nodded his guarded approval. With a slight movement of the mighty blade in his hand, he
motioned toward the door.
     "Leave this place."
     As Dennis and Sean started toward the door, Michael's deep warning shook them both to the core.
     "Here me well. Father has seen fit to be merciful this day. Betray His love and I shall return, with no thoughts
of mercy to still my blade."
     The two young men nearly fought to be the first out the door. Michael could only hope that they would
remember this morning, and abide by their pledges till their time on Earth was done.
     The door slammed shut, leaving Michael and Aidan to face each other across a chasm of emotion. 
     Azure fire met slate gray ice.
     "Now I suppose you'll be askin' me to turn traitor."
     Aidan shook his head in disgust.
     "Don't bother. You an' your Halloween costume may o' scared the wits outta my friends, but I'm made o'
sterner stuff. There are lots more where they came from, others who know the way o' things an' want it made right. I
can convince 'em. I'm good at that."
     Sadness returned to Michael's eyes for a breath, to be quickly replaced by cold determination.
     "I don't doubt it."
     Aidan took a step toward the homemade bomb that rested atop the workbench Michael had leaned on earlier.
     "Aidan."
     The soft voice, so hard and cold a moment before, brought the young Irishman up short. Turning, he saw
sadness in the deep blue eyes, heard it in Michael's words.
     "I don't usually waste my time but...,"
     His eyes seemed to plead with Aidan.
     "For your brother, and our Father, put aside your hatred and anger. Channel it into fierce words of love. Use
your powers of persuasion to help your fellow man, to make them see that violence is rarely the means to a desirable
end. The choice is yours, Aidan."
     Something soft and warm glowed behind Aidan's eyes. He thought about Fergie, his home, Connie, the girl
he'd been seein' lately. But with each thought came the sneering face, the hated voice of an Englishman. With a blink,
all softness disappeared, his face hardening to a mask of hatred, eyes frosting over with malice.
     "You oughta be a preacher."
     Michael's throat worked convulsively as he fought the bitter disappointment of defeat. He raised his eyes to
the ceiling, his soft words lament and apology intertwined.
     "I tried."
     Straightening, he raised the sword and pointed it toward the workbench. His voice rang with the inner
strength of his creation.
     "I am the Archangel Michael. I bring God's judgement, the form of which you have chosen this day."
     A beam of light of such intensity it rivaled the sun shot from the tip of the blade to touch the bomb. Michael's
eyes pinned Aidan.
     "`They that take the sword shall perish with the sword.'"
     The explosion scattered debris over half a mile of Irish soil, its resonant boom bringing tears to the eyes of
three redeemed souls who would forever remember a bright flash of Heavenly light in a small farmhouse.     
                                 Chapter Eleven
                                        
     Sasha slipped back to the consciousness she hadn't even realized she'd lost as a hard, warm body slid over the
length of her back. Had she actually fallen asleep with that big, strange man behind her? Boy, she must have been
tired! To top it all off, she'd slept right through him leaving their makeshift `bed', waking only when he returned. At
this rate, she'd sleep right through her own rape and mutilation!
     Well, she was awake now. She might as well talk to him, see if she could get any more information for the
article Danza was still going to want. The rabid editor wouldn't give a darn about her travails in the woods. In his
mind, her only reason for living was to bring him an article about angels. If she were to fall victim to some mountain
maniac, Danza'd probably go through her belongings at the morgue, on the pretense of identifying her body, trying to
locate his damn article. And dock her last paycheck if he didn't find it!
     She started to turn over to face Michael but his arm resting in the soft dip of her waist tensed and held her
firm. When he spoke, his warm breath tickled the tiny hairs inside her ears, sending a shiver through her body. And
bringing certain parts of that body into nearly painful knowledge of their existence.
     "If you turn over, you'll freeze us both."
     "If I stay on my right side much longer it's going to disown me. Besides, you got up and I didn't freeze."
     She knew he had made something sexual out of her statement when he chuckled, the rippling of his chest and
stomach muscles against her back exquisite torture. She fought the urge to press more firmly against his warmth,
pretty sure she could predict where that move would lead them. And she definitely did not intend for this night to end
in carnal bliss.
     Did she?
     Shaking her head to rid it of that rebellious thought, Sasha once again began to turn.
     "Okay, okay," he said, still holding her in place with that arm of steel, "wait a minute. Let me hold up my
coat, then follow my lead."
     "What does that mean?"
     "Trust me."
     "Yeah, right," Sasha mumbled as she felt the coat lifted from her shoulders. The chill air touching nearly
every inch of her body immediately made her question the intelligence of this move. She quickly rolled onto her
back, planning to continue onto her left side. But Michael had other ideas. Before she knew what was happening, he
had rolled onto his back, pulling most of her body atop his. Her breasts were crushed against his softly-furred chest,
her nipples tightening instantly at the intimate contact; the sensitive skin of her abdomen felt like silk on steel as it
caressed the hard muscle of his stomach; and her thigh...Realizing what part of him was pressed against her thigh,
Sasha sucked in a deep enough breath to fill her toes with oxygen. His rigid flesh felt like solid granite covered by
taut satin. Her face flamed crimson and she started struggling against him in an attempt to free herself.
     Michael groaned deep in his throat, his arms - bands of unyielding steel - tightening around Sasha until she
held still. Raising her head to glare daggers into his deep blue eyes, she tried not to notice the dilation of his pupils
caused by his extreme state of arousal.
     She managed to snap a question, though she would have sworn she didn't have enough air passing through her
lungs to keep a ladybug alive.
     "Do you mind?!"
     He grinned and shrugged, the playful little boy mirrored on his face at direct odds with the manliness that
pressed against her thigh.
     "I thought you might like to try a different position for a few minutes, to keep you from getting..." his grin
widened "stiff. I didn't realize the action would cause me to do the same."
     "Now that you know, let's correct the situation, shall we?"
     Once again, she started to shift and once again his arms closed around her, pinning her in place. His eyes on
fire, he stared deeply into her near-black glare. His deep voice flowed over her senses like molten lava.
     "If you move right now, you'll take every last ounce of control left to me. I feel such a need to be inside you,
Sasha, it is as though a sword is piercing my guts every time I breath in your scent. Please, lady, be merciful. Allow
me a moment to regain my composure, then I will assist your move to a more acceptable position."
     Seeing the truth of his words in his searing gaze, and feeling the pulse and throb of his arousal against the
sensitive skin of her thigh, Sasha felt it prudent to nod her acquiescence. Slowly, carefully, she relaxed atop him. He,
in turn, relaxed beneath her, except for the part of him over which he had very little control. That remained rigid and
unyielding.
     Come on, ace reporter, words are your life. Get his mind off...it!
     "Maybe if we talked you'd...ah...relax."
     "Perhaps."
     She started to raise her head to glare at him for his lack of enthusiasm but his groan stopped her, reminding
her why she was remaining in this position in the first place - and what might happen if she didn't. She laid her cheek
against his warm chest, strangely reassured by his strong heartbeat thudding regularly in her ear.
     "Okay, so it's up to me to start the conversation."
     He chuckled.
     "You seem quite good at talking. You remind me of my brother, Gabe. He likes to talk. If you want something
announced, you better let him do it. If you don't, he'll play some instrument till you want to wrap it around his neck."
     Sasha laughed, not realizing to what exquisite torture she was subjecting Michael. He inhaled deeply, letting
her scent intoxicate him like the strongest narcotic. He imagined she would taste better than the finest wine, her cries
of pleasure taking him to heights he had never imagined. Flattening his hands on her back, he drank in the feel of her
silken flesh against the calloused surface of his palms. Her thigh was so satiny soft against his burgeoning flesh, the
pressure such sweet torment he wondered how long his control would last.
     But the testing, after all, was half the fun.
     He realized that, while he had been enjoying his lascivious thoughts and half-pain, she had asked him a
question.
     "...brothers?"
     He took a chance, hoping he could predict her enough to get the question, or, in this case, the answer, correct.
Women tended to get very angry if they thought you were ignoring their words. Especially in bed.
     "Yes, I have quite a few brothers. I come from a very large family."
     Sasha grimaced. She wondered at the tone of his response - half desperate, half mocking. But Michael Starch
could be such a strange bird, she decided to let it go.
     "How many?"
     "I've never counted."
     Her grimace deepening, Sasha pinched a flat male nipple that happened to be within her reach.
     "Ah! Woman," he growled deep in his throat, "you try me sorely!"
     "Now you know how I feel, with your...uh..."
     "Sword? Manhood?" He dropped his voice to a dramatic rumble. "Rod of steel?"
     "You wish. Anyway, do you know how frustrating it is to a reporter not to get straight answers to her
questions?"
     Gritting his teeth against the desire racing through his veins like wild horses, Michael ran his fingertips down
her back, barely touching her skin as he roamed over the fine curve of her buttocks. He was rewarded with a delicate
shiver and soft moan that increased the ache in his loins till he thought he might die of the exquisite pain.
     "Okay," her words were little more than air forced through gritted teeth, "no more physical illustrations."
Clearing her throat, Sasha forced strength into her voice. "Um, where were we? We're supposed to be getting you
calm here, Michael. You might want to stop...," she exhaled a sigh as his finger traced her spine, sending
goosebumps over every inch of her sensitive skin, "umm...doing that. Okay."
     She had to get her mind back on the conversation or she was going to end up doing the bunny routine right
here in the Utah woods!
     Question, Sasha, ask him a mundane, everyday type question to get his mind on mundane things.
     "Have all your siblings moved away from home?"
     The reporter in her instantly knew she had hit on something touchy. Michael stiffened, his hands flattening on
her back. Her question even had the desired effect on that hard rod pressing against her thigh, causing it to lose most
of its turgidity.
     He answered in a guarded tone.
     "No. A few are no longer welcome there."
     "Family feud?"
     "You could say that."
     She sighed in frustration.
     "I did say that! Do you think you could surprise me once in awhile and actually answer a question instead of
working your way around it?"
     "It's...difficult to talk about it."
     His words were soft, pain-filled, making her almost wish he had stuck to the silent treatment.
     "It hurts to remember."
     He inhaled deeply, blowing the air out through clenched teeth as he shook his head. 
     "But you're a little terrier, so I might as well tell you before you chew all the skin off my ankles."
     His chuckle was not quite right, not quite real. Sasha thought it best to keep quiet and let him speak. Maybe
he needed to talk about this thing, a little conversational therapy to get past it. Family crises could be so traumatic.
She felt like an unwilling expert on that fact.
     "My brother, Luke, was everything one could have wanted in a brother. He was good-looking, smart, caring.
He was so charming even Gabe would shut up just to listen to Luke talk about something that mattered to him. He
could find something funny in almost any situation, though he leaned toward satirical humor. He was a loving and
protective brother.
     But he didn't like rules. He always wanted to do things his way, or not at all. Every time Father told him to do
something, there was a fight. Though Father always won, every fight brought Luke closer to the breaking point.
Finally, Luke decided he should take our Father's place, that he should be the one to make the rules. Several of my
brothers agreed with him. I, and most of our household, sided with Father."
     He swallowed hard and Sasha wondered at the emotion she felt tightening his muscular body as he quietly
continued.
     "There was a fight, brother against brother, Father against son. I was...instrumental...in banishing Luke and
his followers from our home. The day I fought him, though I was victorious, was the saddest day of my life. I
remember the fire of hatred burning in his eyes, the same eyes that days before had been alight with laughter when
we had sparred and he had knocked me to the ground. He was always happy as long as he was on top. But if someone
disagreed with him..."
     As his strong voice dropped to a whisper, Sasha held her breath to better hear him.
     "I miss his laughter, his strength, his counsel. I miss him."
     Feeling unexpected tears fill her eyes, Sasha tried hiding behind professionalism to fight the emotion
threatening to overpower her.
     "Was your father married more than once?"
     "Father never exactly married."
     Feeling her body tense with, he suspected, righteous indignation, Michael commanded his attention to the
present. A soft chuckle rumbled through the massive chest pressed against Sasha's breasts, tickling her nipples.
     "Father's marital status is a little complicated. Anyway, after Luke...left...I was needed more away from home.
I had a lot more contact with people, which caused a few arguments with Father, let me tell you."
     "Why?"
     "Because I'm a warrior, I prefer to settle things with solid interference. I don't tend to be much of a talker
when it comes to getting things done."
     "No! Really?"
     He smiled at her sarcasm.
     "I will talk when I think it will help. But Father wants me to talk even when I'm sure it won't help. He says I
should always give people a choice - and a second and third chance to make the right one, if necessary. I say, if they
get it wrong the first time, they're even more likely to get it wrong again, probably more spectacularly."
     "You're a hardass."
     "Thank you."
     "It wasn't meant as a compliment, you troglodyte."
     "I can tell I'm in the presence of a woman who makes her living with words. Troglodyte? Isn't that a baby
frog?"
     "Don't play dumb with me, Mr Starch. A troglodyte is an old-fashioned, primitive-thinking hardass."
     "Oh."
     His broad smile was full of mischief.
     "In that case, thank you again!"
     "Oh!"
     Forgetting their agreement that she hold still, Sasha raised her upper body and smacked her palm against his
bare chest. The motion slid her thigh along his most sensitive flesh, bringing it to immediate attention. With a
frustrated, "That's it!", she stood, baring all of herself, and him, to the frigid early morning air.
     His surprised roar was almost rewarding enough to make up for her freezing skin.
     "What are you doing?!"
     Speaking through gritted teeth to keep her fillings from chattering right out of her mouth, Sasha turned and
headed toward the trees. She held her chin high to maintain what was left of her dignity, trying not to think about her
totally unclothed state.
     "I'm tending to a little business, if it's any of yours."
     She didn't hear a thing, her first clue that he had risen his warm palms on her frost-bitten shoulders.
     "I'll come with you if you'll wait a second while I get the rifle."
     She turned surprise-widened eyes to him.
     "Rifle?"
     "There might be one or two hostile life forms out there looking for dinner. And you," his eyes roamed slowly
over her body, causing a warm flush - probably the last bit of warmth she had left in her body! - to flow over her face
and neck, "you look good enough to eat."
     His smile brought a little flutter to her stomach that was making its way lower by the second. What the heck
was the matter with her?! He was just a man. A gorgeous...intelligent...naked...man!
     "Oh, I really need to get out of this Paul Bunyan fantasy. Wait a minute, you don't think you're coming with
me, do you?"
     Michael had stepped nearer the fire to retrieve the rifle he had left within easy reach of their bed. As he
leaned over, she had such a view of his back side, legs spread, thigh and butt muscles tensed and working, she
thought she might actually faint.
     He stood and pivoted on the ball of one foot, a somewhat balletic move that surprisingly didn't look at all out
of place. Did warriors move like dancers? His legs still spread, the firelight outlined his blatant masculinity, dancing
along his flexed skin, caressing the nest of dark blond fur.
     Swallowing loud enough she figured they heard it back in Pleasant Grove, Sasha turned back toward the edge
of the forest, not believing the thoughts that had raced through her mind as she watched this Earth-bound Adonis
perform the most mundane task. In her mind's eye, she saw him walking toward her as he was now, only holding a
sword that dripped with the blood of a hundred men, vanquished because they had dared to threaten her. His eyes
glowed with possession and promise, and she lay back on a silk covered bed and held out her arms, begging for his
physical possession. He tossed aside the sword, his armor quickly following, then fell atop her, his hard lips kissing a
trail up her body until his sword-like flesh found its mark, sliding deep...
     A shiver that had nothing to do with the frigid temperature brought Sasha back to the present. She rubbed her
hands over her face.
     "Good grief! Maybe there's some kind of high altitude madness nobody warned me about."
     "I beg your pardon."
     Sasha stiffened as his deep baritone sounded right over her shoulder.
     "Please don't beg, Michael, I don't think I can handle that. Oh, good choice of words."
     "What...?"
     She waved her hand in his general direction.
     "Don't break your brain trying to figure me out right now, I'm sure that would take a whole squad of
professionals several weeks. As I said, you aren't actually coming with me. You're gonna stand here and listen for me
to yell if there's trouble, right?"
     Michael stepped to her side, shaking his head.
     "I'm going to check out a spot I used earlier, make sure it's still hospitable. If it's okay, I'll turn my back, give
you as much privacy as I feel prudent. Follow me."
     "Ow!"
     A sharp twig had made a valiant attempt to embed itself in Sasha's foot before snapping beneath her weight.
She raised her foot, rubbing it with her hand.
     "On second thought, you wait here."
     His finger pointing at her face silenced her.
     "No arguments. Stay right there. I'll be back."
     Sasha's breath left in a huff of anger and frustration. She impudently mouthed his parting wards at his
receding back. He was easily the most exasperating man she had ever met. He gave her orders as though she were a
badly trained dog, treated her like his personal property in bed, and occasionally became so sweet she thought her
heart might break.
     He slipped silently from the cover of the trees and stood before her.
     "Take this."
     He pushed the rifle into her arms. Before she could ask him why he didn't carry his stupid rifle, he bent and
lifted her against his chest, effortlessly carrying her into the woods. By a large tree, he carefully placed her on her
feet on the forest floor.
     "I cleared the ground here of anything that might hurt your feet. Don't roam around, I only cleared as large a
space as I thought you'd need."
     He took the rifle from her nearly numb fingers.
     "Hurry. Away from the fire, it gets cold fast."
     He turned, took three steps away from her and, keeping his back to her, planted his feet apart, the rifle resting
on his crossed arms.
     "You've got to be kidding. I can't do this with you standing there. Go away!"
     He spoke without turning.
     "If you have to go bad enough, you will. I won't get any farther from you so don't waste your breath. Think of
me as the bathroom attendant."
     "They're always women."
     "How very un-PC of you, Ms Frazier."
     "Yuck, don't call me Ms. It sounds like a bumble bee with a lisp!"
     She glared at his back for a minute, but he held firm.
     "Fine! I'd love to be stubborn about this but I don't think my bladder would cooperate. Would you mind not
listening?"
     "My warrior's senses are all attuned to the dangers of the forest around us, I assure you. Much more talking,
woman, and you will lose this opportunity. I will not see us frozen to appease your modesty."
     "Okay, okay. Did you say your people skills were somewhat lacking? Hah! You don't have any people skills.
Got that? None, zip, nada. You wouldn't know a people skill if it bit you on that cute butt of yours. I'd question your
species if I didn't have such a bird's eye view of the proof. This is one of those disgusting drip-dry situations, isn't it?
New job or no new job, I'm killing Bob Danza as soon as I get back to civilization!"
     Michael had told a half-truth for Sasha's piece of mind and protection. Half his senses were attuned to the
forest around them, the other half to her every move, every sound, every breath. When she finished and stood, he
turned and lifted her into his arms, practically shoving the rifle into her grasp as he did so. As quickly as he deemed
prudent without endangering them, he returned her to the warmth of the campfire. He didn't like the slight blue tint to
her lips, the shivering that overtook her sporadically even though she tried to fight it. She was strong and he admired
that strength, but the elements were stronger than the best warrior. He kicked two more logs onto the fire, told her to
drop the rifle by the bed, then pushed her down on her coat and covered her, first with his body, then with his coat.
     Sasha knew she should protest - after all, they hardly knew each other - but his warm hard body felt like
Heaven on Earth as it covered hers, forcing his warmth into her aching muscles. Through chattering teeth, she sought
comfort in humor.
     "We've really got to stop meeting like this."
     She looked up into Michael's eyes to see if he had appreciated her humor. Suddenly she was drowning in
those sapphire pools, never wanting to find dry land again. His palms pressed against the sides of her face, holding
her still.
     "You are the most beautiful of Father's creations. Sasha, open to me. Now!"
     His lips claimed hers with all the ferocity of a conquering warrior. His kiss was everything she had ever
thought a kiss should be - commanding, possessing, taking, giving. Against his potent onslaught she didn't have a
chance. When his tongue commanded it, her lips parted, allowing him to slowly explore all the sensitive flesh inside
her mouth. Places that had never drawn the attention of another human being were now touched, teased, caressed.
When he began forcing his tongue between her lips in a rhythm as old as good and evil, Sasha arched against him,
the cold, her resolve - her name! - forgotten in the desire of the moment.
     Michael felt his lovely Sasha arch beneath him, her soft thighs parting, glorious lower lips opening to his
conquest. Her moan caressed his tongue, her aroused shiver begging his possession. His steely flesh probed, finding
her moist and ready for him. She was his! His pained manhood yearned to bury itself in her welcoming body, cried
out for the release she offered.
     So why was he backing away?
     "Um, Michael?"
     Shaking his head violently, his silver-blonde mane flying about his shoulders, he pulled away, throwing his
coat over her desire-heated body. From the small place in her mind that still functioned normally, Sasha noticed he
was shaking, his fists clenched at his side.
     "No, not this way."
     He dropped to one knee beside her, pulling her hand from beneath his coat to hold it against his chest. She
could feel his heart beating a hard rhythm of physical denial.
     "Sasha, I won't take you like this, a one-time quick release, like a fleeting dream, unremembered in the
morning light. I want you for eternity, my lady. I want to feel you beneath me more times than there are numbers to
name, surrendering to me, melting in my arms. Will you be my wife?"     
                                 Chapter Twelve
                                        
     Sasha thought maybe her state of arousal was affecting her hearing. Had Michael, this wonderfully attractive
man she had practically just met, asked her to marry him?
     "What did you just say?"
     His smile was understanding, his azure eyes drinking in her softly tousled hair and still-dilated eyes like a
thirsting man sighting water in the desert. She could still feel his heart pounding beneath her hand where he held it
secure against his chest like a wounded bird in need of protection.
     "I realize we haven't known each other very long, but I know what I feel when I'm near you. It's unlike
anything I've ever felt before. I feel as though I'm incomplete unless you are touching me, within my sight. It doesn't
make sense to fight it, it has happened for a reason. And I know when I look into your eyes that you feel the same. I
make you feel things that have been unknown to you in the past, things that make you question, that give you
answers. Can you deny it?"
     Sasha remembered talking to God right there in that clearing earlier, something she hadn't done since the day
she thought He had deserted her. And she must have thought `what is it that's so different about this guy?' about a
hundred times since meeting Michael Starch. But, marry him? Wasn't that just a little extreme?
     "B-but Michael," she stammered, trying to form coherent thoughts while ignoring that little voice in the back
of her mind that said this was it, this was the way it was supposed to be. Her little voice must have gone as crazy as
the rest of the world around her!
     He dropped one hand from its position surrounding hers and laid it softly on her chest over her heart. His
intense azure eyes bored into her, renewing the tingling of desire in her blood.
     "I see it in your beautiful eyes. You feel the truth. We were meant to be. I have no idea why, where this will
lead, but I know what I feel - in my heart, in my gut, in my very soul. You are mine, Sasha, even as I belong to you. I
cannot, will not, lie with you until we have Father's blessing on our union."
     "Michael, I can't. I mean, I feel something...I thought I was just, you know, excited, but...it's different...oh, I
don't know what I feel anymore. The last twenty-four hours have been a little stressful for me. I need time to think
about this, to..."
     His eyes flared, his voice straining under the control he was exercising to keep from yelling at his lady.
     "Why?! Why can't you just accept what you feel, and rejoice in it? You examine everything."
     He dropped his angry eyes to the ground, shaking his head. When he once again raised his eyes to meet hers,
she didn't much care for the resolve she found shining there.
     "I know what is meant to be. If you choose to deny the truth you see clearly before you, I will force it upon
you, which has been my way since the dawn of time. Why change now? Come on."
     He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard against his unyielding chest, and stood, bringing her with
him. The coat fell from between their bodies, but the blast of cold air she expected never came. She put that down to
their still being close enough to the fire for it to ward off the chill.
     Pushing against him, a futile effort if ever there were one, Sasha tried to keep her voice level, a difficult task
since she wanted to yell at him to stop being such a neanderthal!
     "Michael, this isn't the way it's done. You can't force me to marry you. No court in the land would..."
     He sat her on her feet so unexpectedly, she would have fallen if he hadn't kept an arm around her back until
she got her bearings. When she looked up into his eyes, they were blazing, with anger or lust, she was uncomfortably
uncertain. Hands that felt strong enough to bend steel with little effort shifted their grip to her shoulders.
     "This land's court means little to me. And if you research the history of man, you'll find that forced marriage
has been the rule much more often than the exception. If you are too stubborn or stupid to listen to your own heart,
then force will be necessary, for my patience, and control, is at an end. I will have you this night, and it will be as my
wife."
     "Tonight?! Are you crazy? No, don't answer that, your actions are shouting through an amplifier. Are you
really planning to drag me to some Justice of the Peace in the middle of the night? The freezing night, I might add."
     He shook his head, so close that his flying silver hair brushed her face. With a jerk on her hand, he pulled her
to her knees on the hard ground, quickly joining her there before she could start to rise. He laced his fingers of his
right hand through those of her left, holding her beside him.
     "Michael...?"
     "Be quiet. I will ask The Creator to bless our union."
     She looked at him, eyebrows climbing and mouth dropping open in surprise as she realized he meant to marry
them in some ceremony right out of Bambi.
     "Michael, we are civilized human beings, not forest critters. We have laws..."
     He turned toward her, clearly exasperated.
     "The only laws by which I live are God's laws. Are your senses truly so dulled, so long shut behind your walls
of science and reasonable explanation, that you have lost contact with your own soul? Close your eyes, Sasha. Feel.
Believe."
     He was so sincere, so full of flaming life she could feel the heat emanating from his body. What could it hurt
to humor him just a little?
     Sasha tentatively closed her eyes, wondering how many other acts of insanity this man would talk her into
before she did the intelligent thing and got the heck away from him.
     "Bow before Him, Sasha, show respect for our Father."
     She opened her eyes and watched Michael slowly lean forward till his forehead nearly touched the ground.
Oh, well, if she were going to humor his psychosis, she might as well go all the way.
     And yet, deep in her heart, Sasha knew she wasn't doing this for Michael. This was for her, for the little girl
she had been, for the jaded woman she had become. She wanted to re-experience the warm glow she had felt at her
first communion, when her young, innocent heart had filled with the certain knowledge that she was communing
with God. That feeling of belonging, of everything being right with the world - she had been trying to recapture that
feeling ever since. So far, she had failed. The closest she had come was here in this clearing when she had felt
deserted and had reached beyond this world for comfort.
     Closing her eyes, she leaned forward till her head rested on the ground, her fingers tightly interwoven with
Michael's. She realized he had been waiting for her. When she relaxed into the position of supplication, he spoke in a
voice filled with love and respect.
     "Father, we ask for your blessing on our union. Before you, we give our vows of faith and love, one to the
other."
     He rose to his knees, bringing Sasha with him. Turning to face her, he took both of her hands in his, gazing
down into her eyes with such love, Sasha's eyes filled with tears.
     "I, Michael, take you, Sasha, as my wife. Before the Almighty Father, I pledge my heart to you for all time."
     He tipped his head slightly, eyebrows rising, and Sasha realized it was her turn.
     Everything was happening so fast. What should she do?
     "Listen to your heart, love. He won't let me take your choice from you. You must accept my vow. Listen to
your heart."
     Tears were flowing in earnest now. Her heart? She hadn't heard from that quarter in so long, she thought it
had become permanently mute. But as she closed her eyes and listened, really listened, Sasha felt as though
everything became crystal clear. She had known the first time she saw Michael Starch that he was going to change
her life, she just hadn't known how.
     Opening her eyes, she let herself drift into the sapphire pools before her, for the first time in her adult life
listening, truly listening, to her heart.
     "I, Sasha, take you, Michael, as my husband. Before...God."
     The breath was crushed from her lungs as Michael pulled her into his embrace, his hard lips claiming hers in
a kiss of fire. After kissing her so thoroughly, she wondered if she had any lips left, he slowly pulled away from her.
The uncertain look in his eyes frightened her more than she cared to admit. Uncertainty was not something that sat
well on his face. He raised his eyes to the sky and pulled her against his chest.
     "Father? Please?"
     A warm breeze that had no business in the Utah woods in late October covered them as they knelt there on
the forest floor. A gentle wind caressed them, blowing so hard in one direction that they swayed, then changing
directions to keep them from falling, blowing equally hard in the opposite direction. Sasha felt as though she were
being rocked in her father's arms.
     Michael raised one fist to the sky and yelled, "Yes!!" He wrapped his arms tightly around Sasha, resting his
chin on the top of her head. In a slightly more sedate tone, he spoke against her hair.
     "Thank you, Father."
     With the remnants of that wonderful breeze still ruffling their hair, Michael once again rose and lifted her
into his arms. He looked down and the blue flames she saw dancing in his eyes warmed her like no fire ever could.
     "Now I will claim you as my one and only wife, a claiming you shall never forget."
     Sasha buried her face in his chest, unexpected embarrassment staining her cheeks. And, if she were honest, a
little fear. After all, she was a virgin. Wasn't this supposed to hurt?
     Michael seemed to sense her fear as he laid her gently on her coat beside the fire.
     "Don't be afraid, my heart, any pain I cause you I will bear with you. That which must be, shall be, but I will
do my best to prepare you for my claiming. As it has always been, blood must be shed for a man to claim that which
is truly worth having."
     "How come it's always us women who have to do the hurting?" she mumbled against his chest, the deep
rumble of his chuckle tickling her nose.
     "Because of that fruit salad, I guess."
     She dropped her head against the ground and glared up at him, taking the bait as he had hoped she would. He
loved the fire in her near-ebony eyes.
     "That's not fair! Eve was just curious."
     "God had given His children all the knowledge He felt they needed. If, in time, He had felt they needed more,
He would have supplied it. Eve was not willing to wait. Her curiosity and impatience overpowered her love of God,
and Eden was the price she, and Adam, paid."
     "Here we go again. Poor, picked-on Adam. Fine, by your troglodyte way of thinking, it's still Adam's fault
because he didn't control his woman. Right?"
     Covering her body with his own, Michael playfully nipped her ear lobe, glorying in the shudder that wracked
her body.
     "You have a point."
     As she smiled triumphantly, he licked his fingertips and rolled a nipple between them, eliciting a groan from
deep within her.
     "As a matter of fact, you have two very nice points."
     "You're impossible to argue with."
     There was so much air in her voice, she could barely have called those words. His lips descending on hers
silenced any further attempts she might have made to avoid the inevitable.
     Sasha had been kissed before. She was a virgin, but that didn't mean she hadn't given it some very serious
thought once or twice. She'd been on dates, done her share of battle in the back seat of a car. But those minor
meetings of the lips had not prepared her for the onslaught of Michael's kisses. Not even close. He didn't just lock
lips with her, he joined their bodies at the lips. He licked, nipped, sucked her lips, then pressed his own firmly
against them, sealing the two of them together in a dance of love. He slid his tongue between her lips, over her teeth,
along the roof of her mouth, sending delicious little shivers throughout her body. He raised his head to run gentle
kisses over her cheeks, nose, eyes, forehead, then returned to her lips to fiercely claim his due.
     She had never met such an intense, passionate man. It was all she could do to keep up with him, trying to
meet him kiss for kiss, caress for caress. Her breath was coming in deep gulps, punctuated by sharp gasps as he found
some new, and very sensitive, part of her to make his own. Shouldn't she do more, instigate things? Use the
knowledge of the male body she had gleaned from all those years of reading Cosmopolitan?
     Michael seemed to sense her insecurity as he once again lifted his glorious silver head to drown her in his
sapphire gaze.
     "This night is for you, sweet Sasha, my wife, my heart. Lie back and let me love you."
     His eyes promised Heaven, his words sucking the strength from her limbs. She relaxed beneath him,
surrendering. His face lit with the triumph of the victorious warrior as he raised himself to his knees, straddling her
thighs, and gazed upon her body. He ran his fingertips over her throat, blazing a trail of fire over her breasts, slowing
at the rosy peaks, then moving on over the taut flesh of her belly. When he slowly pushed his little finger into her
belly button, an action she never would have thought sensual, her body proved her wrong. Recognizing the symbolic
penetration somewhere in her subconscious, she arched upward to give him better access. He smiled his approval,
moving the finger in and out just enough to shake her already tenuous hold on sanity. She moaned and writhed, as his
other hand continued its downward path. Across the delicate skin at the juncture of her thighs it slid, down over the
mound of coal-black hair that protected the center of her femininity.
     He spread his legs and brought the hard flesh at his center into contact with her slightly parted lower lips.
Groaning with the pain of self-denial, he slowly rubbed himself against her, letting the motion part her even further,
until he came into contact with the blossoming nub that begged for his attention. He moaned deep in his throat, his
restraint costing him dearly, beads of sweat glistening on his skin, running down his chest in rivulets of silvery
moonlight. When she whispered his name on a sigh, arching to give him better access to her need, he felt something
inside him threatening to break.
     Dropping to his hands, he held his weight above her, and brought his legs between hers, parting, gaining
entry. The trust he saw in her eyes swelled his heart to near bursting. He leaned down and placed a searing kiss on
her parted lips, blowing gently to cool her brow as he pulled away.
     "Raise your legs and wrap them around my hips, Sasha. Yes, ah, yes, like that. You are so perfect, so soft, so
beautiful. I can resist your charms no longer, enchantress. Receive your master and claim my heart."
     His hard flesh found its mark unerringly. He slowly eased into her untried sheath, gritting his teeth against his
nearly overpowering need to thrust to the hilt, burying himself in her glorious warmth. He could feel her flesh
straining to accommodate him, and he wondered if he were causing her much pain. Then he felt the one thing he had
hoped not to find. A tiny veil of flesh barred his further entrance, and he knew he must truly claim her.
     Her sharp gasp and the fear that entered her eyes told him that she had come to the same realization.
     "This is ridiculous. No woman over the age of thirteen is a real virgin nowadays. I rode bikes, climbed trees,
even had those disgusting exams. The doctor said I'd still be a virgin. That had to be the one time a doctor didn't lie.
I..."
     Michael's feather soft kiss silenced her.
     "Don't be afraid, my love. Know that I love you, that your pain is mine."
     With those words, he used his powerful leg muscles to thrust his body into hers, feeling the tearing of her
flesh as surely as though a sword had cut into his body. Her scream echoed in his brain like the battle sound of steel
on steel and he felt his manhood begin to soften. Dropping to his elbows, he ran his fingers through her soft ebony
locks, feathered kisses over her face and neck, murmured words of love. He pressed his lower body hard against her,
letting her tight sheath coax him back to steel. Finally, he looked into her eyes, hoping to see lust, anger - anything
but hatred and pain.
     Her eyes glowed with the flames of love.
     "Sorry. That scream kinda caught me unawares. It's not that I'm a baby or anything. I'm usually pretty good
about pain. I think it was just because I was really...you know...sensitive. I...oh, Michael, that feels so good."
     As he slowly withdrew, then returned to fill her sheath, Michael shivered, the pleasure coursing through his
veins firing his blood like none had ever done before Sasha.
     "I'm not hurting you?"
     "If you are, I can't feel it. All I can feel is...Oh! I don't have the words for what I'm feeling, Michael."
     He accented each word with a thrust of his powerful body.
     "Words...don't...matter...now."
     Sasha was glad of that because for once in her life, words failed her. Her body was on fire, but she wanted to
burn even hotter till the raging inferno building in the center of her body engulfed them both and left behind nothing
but ashes. The edges of sensation became a tingle, then a soft shiver. Suddenly, a tight core of tension exploded,
sending her to the stars and beyond as she yelled his name.
     Michael tensed as Sasha's body - arms, legs, burning sheath, tightened around him and she found her release.
He didn't allow himself to move an inch, knowing he would explode himself and he didn't want that yet. He wanted
to feel every last spasm that wracked her glorious body, hear every moan and sigh that escaped her lips. Though he
shook with need for his own release, he savored hers. As her sighs faded, her spasms easing, he thrust deeply into her
body, giving himself to the sensations that overpowered him. Throwing back his head, his glorious silver mane
flying, he shouted his triumph.
     As Sasha slowly came back to Earth, she felt the hard thrust of Michael's body into her own, his hot seed
flowing from him to fill her with his heat. At his shout, she opened her eyes, wanting to see her love at his most
vulnerable. Blinking, wondering if she truly had slipped a cog, Sasha beheld the man that was her husband, the man
currently joined with her body.
     A soft luminescence emanated from the center of his chest, covering his skin with its glow, his silver mane
taking on the appearance of white flame. Sasha stared for several seconds until the light became too bright, too
intense for her eyes to tolerate. With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes, hoping she would remember this wonderful
dream when she woke up.     
                                Chapter Thirteen
                                        
     Michael smiled as he lay on his back looking up at the night sky beyond the treetops. Thousands of tiny
points of light danced across the dark canvas, leaving trails of silvery luminescence. A Heavenly choir, accompanied
by a rather wild trumpet solo, sang jubilant songs of celebration, congratulating him, wishing him well. And
presiding over it all, far off in the Heavens, hovered the bright star that had illuminated this very clearing earlier this
evening.
     "Michael?"
     Sasha's sleepy voice caressed his senses from where she lay atop his chest. He gently laid one hand over the
side of her face, shielding her from the super bright display.
     "Yes, sweet?"
     "Umm," she snuggled deeper beneath the cover of his heavy fur coat, "is it morning?"
     "No, the heavens are just unusually bright tonight."
     "I wish someone would tell that creep with the radio that people are trying to sleep here. Or at least ask him
to change the station. I don't like jazz, it sounds like the horn is playing another song. And that tabernacle choir stuff
is so old. Give me a guitar and a soft love song any day."
     Immediately, as if someone had indeed changed the station on their radio, a soft guitar guided a deep male
voice through a song of eternal love. Sasha sighed, snuggling.
     "That's better."
     When she relaxed against him, Michael knew Sasha had fallen back to sleep. His smile softened, his hand
caressing her back.
     "Thanks, Gabe."
     The guitar rose to a crescendo, the song temporarily forgotten. Michael laughed softly, careful not to wake his
lady. He drifted off to sleep to the beautiful lullaby of his brother's guitar.
     
     I'm never gonna get to that damn meeting!
     Alistair McQueen thoughts, and his stomach, churned as he turned onto the off-ramp. He'd been on that
stupid parking lot city officials laughingly called a freeway for the past hour, had gone barely a few miles in that
time. If he were going to have an ice cube's chance in Hell of meeting Hugh Leon by eight, he'd have to take his
chances on city streets.
     Alistair - Al, to those few he allowed to treat him as a friend - could have been the poster boy for the
overworked businessman. His time was budgeted like an old lady's social security check. He spent twelve to sixteen
hours a day at the office, a couple more at meetings, lunches, whatever was necessary to close the deal. Then he went
home to his wife of fifteen years - good old Marge - gulped down the dinner he figured she'd worked on for hours,
gave her and the kids a kiss goodnight and fell into bed. He was neither happy nor unhappy. He lived from one
appointment, one business opportunity, to the next.
     Someday, when he had made his fortune, bought that mansion on the east side with the pool and the Jacuzzi
out back, he and Marge were gonna take the kids on a long vacation, maybe Disneyland. They'd all like that.
     Frowning, Al wondered if Becky, his oldest at...was it thirteen? fourteen?... was getting too old to enjoy
Mouseland. Nah, she'd be a kid for a few more years still.
     Hugh Leon. Al had seen him coming from a mile away. Hugh wanted a nice little company in which to invest
his retirement income, which was a substantial amount. Al knew the mom-and-pop framing company he'd suggested
was going under, would be pushing up daisies in less than a year. But by then, Al would have his finder's fee tucked
away in the bank - hell, who was he kidding, he'd have it spent twice over - and be on to the next deal.
     Out of nowhere, memories of his college days when he and Marge had met flowered in his mind. He
remembered her in that cute little black-and-white number she used to wear while waiting tables to put herself
through nursing school. She had been a real looker. Al had found himself spending all his free time, what little he'd
had, in that caf, drinking bad coffee and telling a certain waitress his plans for the future. Back then, they had both
planned to make the world a better place. Al was going to get his MBA and sell his talents to little companies to
show them how they could improve their products and services, turning a bigger profit and securing their futures.
Marge wanted to work with children, making the world a better place for the next generation.
     Whatever happened to that starry-eyed couple?
     Al shook his head to clear it of those uncomfortable shadows from the past.
     "They got a dose of reality and a kid to take care of," he growled to himself, suddenly angry, and not quite
sure why.
     His memories were not willing to let him rest this morning. He remembered the day Becky was born. He'd
been in a meeting when Marge called, terrified because she'd waited so long to call him that her water had broken. It
had been a crucial point in the meeting, the deal about to close. He'd told her to take a cab, that he'd meet her at the
hospital. Three hours later, he'd rushed into a stark white hospital room to find his wife holding a tiny person, one
impossibly little hand pressed against her neck. Marge had looked up at him with such pain in her eyes, he had felt it
hit his chest like a physical blow. Then she had smiled and turned the baby so he could see the small face beneath the
blanket.
     "The meeting went longer than I thought it would, baby," he'd muttered as he'd stood admiring the little
person they had brought into the world. Marge had sighed tiredly.
     "I know, Al. It's okay. Isn't she beautiful?"
     Al had looked into the eyes of his loving wife and seen ten years added to their hazel depths. At the time he'd
put it down to the strain of giving birth, but now... Had all his late meetings, forgotten birthdays, anniversaries, dance
recitals, added years - and tears - to Marge's lovely eyes?
     Al swiped at a drop of moisture that was easing its way out of the corner of his eye.
     Must be shedding eyelashes, he thought, fiercely denying all the pent-up emotions that were trying
desperately to speak to him on this long, lonely drive.
     "What the hell's the matter with you, McQueen," he snapped at himself, "All this mopin' is for the birds."
     "Stop the car!"
     Al jumped and twisted in his seat, trying to find the source of the commanding voice that had seemed to come
from all around him. Seeing nothing, he once again shook his head.
     "I'm really losin' it."
     "Turn this car around! Your lady needs you."
     Thinking one of the kids might be playing a prank on his old dad, Al pulled to the curb. Getting out of the car,
he searched the back seat, under the front seat, even in the glove compartment for some sort of receiving device.
Peter was really into computers and, even though he was only ten, Al thought one of the boy's computer nerd buddies
might have helped him come up with a talking car joke.
     Finding nothing, Al leaned against the side of the car, staring at the keys in his hand, trying to make sense of
the churning in his gut.
     "Al."
     Al looked up into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. A tall, blonde man was leaning against Al's car next to
him. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt. Though his size should have made him threatening, Al didn't feel frightened
of this man. But he was afraid. He was so afraid, he could taste the acid bite of it in his mouth. The problem was, he
had no idea from where the fear came.
     "Who are you? How do you know my name?"
     "I'm Michael and knowledge is part of my job. You need to get home, Al, Marge needs you."
     "Marge...? Look, I've got a meeting, an important meeting."
     "Why?"
     Al was taken aback by the simple question. Though he didn't know this man, he still felt compelled to speak
to him, to hear what he had to say.
     "Why what?"
     "Why is it important?"
     "There's a lot of money riding on this deal."
     "Do you know why Hugh Leon wants to invest that money?"
     "No."
     Al had always made a point of knowing everything about his business associates financially, and next to
nothing personally. He didn't want that sort of thing getting in the way of business.
     "Hugh has a grandson with Down's Syndrome. He wants to do everything he can to secure the boy's future."
     Though guilt, an emotion Al hadn't felt for longer than he cared to admit, reared its ugly head inside his mind,
Al scoffed.
     "Yeah, well, he likes this deal."
     Michael glared into his eyes and Al felt his blood run cold.
     "He trusts you and you have lied to him."
     "So what? I get my piece of the pie. The old man's got social security and the kid can get welfare."
     Michael raised clenched fists to the sky and, turning away from McQueen, spoke to the air.
     "I don't want to talk to this man. He's lost."
     Michael placed his palms on top of Al's car, closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths. He had
almost regained his composure when McQueen did a very stupid thing. He grabbed Michael's shoulder and pushed.
     "Like I said, I've got an important...Hey!"
     In a sudden flurry of movement, Michael pressed McQueen against the car, his arm across the smaller man's
throat. His face was scant inches from McQueen.
     "You have no idea what is important, Alistair McQueen. You have three children who have spent most of
their lives wondering when they'll next see their daddy, being disappointed time after time by your choice of
`important', making excuses for you because they love you. Becky, your beautiful little girl, was raped last year by
her math teacher. Do you know why she didn't tell anyone?"
     Staggered by Michael's revelation, Al struggled and blustered.
     "You lying son-of-a..."
     Michael's arm pressed harder, temporarily cutting off the passage of air beneath it. When McQueen stopped
struggling, Michael relaxed enough for him to draw a breath.
     "She didn't tell anyone because her attacker reminded her that there would be an investigation. He told her
that you would be embarrassed, it might even hurt your business. So, to protect you, she kept her mouth shut and
bore her pain alone. Your ten-year-old son is accessing areas on the Internet that are much too old for him, but he
thinks if he becomes a man you will be more interested in him. You might even talk to him once in a while. And
your wife. I don't know why she still loves you, McQueen, but she does. She's sitting home right now waiting for a
phone call from the doctor to give her the results of some medical tests. She didn't tell you about the tests because
she didn't want to add to your burden."
     He vehemently spit the word in Al's face. Al was frozen in place, listening, like a bird caught in a cobra's
gaze.
     "When she gets those results, McQueen, she's going to think about how much pain, and all-important money,
she could save you by blowing her brains out with that little gun you bought her for her birthday so she could protect
herself when you weren't there. Which is pretty much all the time."
     Michael leaned forward till his nose was mere inches from McQueen's.
     "That lump won't kill her, but your idea of what's `important' just might."
     Staring into Michael's blazing eyes, Al knew in the depths of his soul that he was hearing the truth. Deep in
his chest, he felt a tearing sensation that sucked the breath from his lungs. Marge? Why hadn't she told him? He
remembered her eyes as she had kissed him goodby this morning. Hadn't they been haunted, unusually moist? And
hadn't he ignored it because he was running late for his important appointment?
     A sob contracted his chest painfully, forcing its way through clenched teeth.
     "Oh, God," Al moaned, "please, not Marge, not my Margie."
     He grasped handfuls of Michael's t-shirt, his eyes pleading.
     "Please, you can't take her. I need her."
     Michael's voice softened as he realized that this man was not lost, he just needed a shove in the right
direction.
     "When was the last time you told her that? When was the last time you let the people that matter to you know
that you needed them more than you needed money?"
     Michael shook his head, gently untangling McQueen's fingers from his shirt and pushing him away.
     "It isn't my choice, it's yours. Its always been yours. Go home."
     Paying no further attention to the blonde giant who had just changed his life forever, Al threw himself into
the car, burning rubber as he pulled away from the curb. He had to get to Marge, had to let her know he'd been an
idiot for so long, so very long.
     Speeding all the way home, thankful for the inattention of the Highway Patrol, Al threw open the front door
of his house and ran inside, calling for his wife. Growing frantic when she didn't answer, he ran to the bedroom
where he knew she kept the gun in a locked drawer. He found her sitting on the bed, gun in hand, tears coursing
down her cheeks. Her long hair - Al had always called it cherry brown - was pulled back in a braid. She looked up at
him and he had never seen such desolation in a pair of human eyes. Her tone was dull, as though she were speaking
from beyond the grave.
     "Al, you're not supposed to be here. You have an important meeting."
     Slowly, Al pulled the gun from her numb fingers and placed it on the dresser. Then he sat beside her on the
bed and pulled her into his arms.
     "For the first time in years, I'm where I'm supposed to be, honey. It's going to be okay, Margie. We can beat
this. I'll be there with you all the way, baby, I swear. I love you, Marge. I need you, baby."
     Tears overflowed, running down his cheeks, but he didn't care anymore. His pride and his greed had almost
cost him the most important things in his life. But somehow, through a quick-tempered man named Michael, he had
been handed a second chance to get it right. And he wasn't going to waste it.
     In the months to come, the McQueen family would be forced to handle some pretty tough blows: a painful,
but successful, operation; an investigation that would result in a scandal and a teacher's termination; even the nearly
painful separation of a boy and his Internet. But, in the end, they would hold fast to each other, leaning on their love.
And they would all learn what was truly important.     
                                Chapter Fourteen
                                        
     Sasha woke feeling like Scarlet O'Hara after Rhett Butler carried her up that magnificent staircase and did
what everybody in the audience knew he did but nobody got to see because the movie was made in the thirties. She
rolled onto her back and stretched, enjoying the cool mountain morning air on the exposed skin of her torso. Her
nipples tingled and she blushed as she remembered Michael ministering to them last night, making her whole body
ache for more. She giggled at the memory of his reaction to her pinching his nipple. Until then, she hadn't known
men's nipples were that sensitive. That was one bit of information that was secured in her sexual data bank for future
reference.
     About then, Sasha realized she was alone in the bed, but not alone in the clearing. That wouldn't have
bothered her so much if she had known the man sitting on the ground several feet from her, leaning on a tree and
quietly strumming a guitar. He wore jeans, jogging shoes - Nike's, she thought - and a long-sleeved tie-dyed t-shirt.
His hair was the color of dark fall leaves, and shone so brightly it nearly glowed. His deep violet eyes watched her
now, a look of guilty concern mixing with the natural sparkle she had a feeling he never lost.
     "Hi! I'm Gabe. Michael's brother?"
     Blushing to her toes, Sasha pulled Michael's coat over her nakedness. She would have liked to die of
embarrassment, but this was too good an opportunity to discover more about Michael. She could expire from
mortification later.
     "Hi! I'm Sasha. Nice to meet you. Forgive me if I don't come over there to shake your hand."
     Gabriel laughed, a deep rich sound that reminded her of Michael's laugh without his ferocity.
     "Michael had to go...uh...do something and I volunteered to stay with you so you'd be safe from all the
beasties. Mikey says I can just play my guitar and sing to scare them off."
     It was Sasha's turn to laugh.
     "That sounds like a big brother. Do you live around here?"
     A look of panic flitted across Gabe's expressive eyes, to be quickly replaced by that mischievous sparkle. He
looked around the clearing, his perusal taking in everything from the rocks to the sky, then caught her eye and
winked.
     "I move around a lot, I'm not as stable as Michael."
     "Did you actually call him `Mikey'?"
     Gabe smiled sheepishly.
     "Yeah, but let's keep that between us, okay? He can be so touchy about little things like that, ya know?"
     "Okay." 
     Sasha returned his smile, feeling as though they were joined in some great conspiracy. She wondered at how
much she had grown to like this guy in so little time. He was so comfortable, so naturally happy, she couldn't help
herself.
     "Were you just in the neighborhood?"
     "Kind-of. I like to keep an eye on Michael, just in case he needs me for something. He's one of my favorite
brothers."
     That gave Sasha the opening she wanted to discuss a subject that greatly interested her.
     "Like Luke?"
     A sad cloud passed over Gabe's face, dulling the sparkle in his eyes for nearly thirty seconds. Then his teeth
flashed in a wide smile and his bright mood returned.
     "Michael told you about Luke, huh?"
     "Yes. He was very sad. I got the feeling he and Luke were very close. Were they about the same age?"
     "Pretty much. Michael's a little older. Luke was really great when he wasn't mad about something. He and
Michael used to discuss things forever, discuss spelled a-r-g-u-e. Neither of them was ever willing to give an inch.
Sometimes Father would intervene, but usually they would just agree to disagree and go smack their swords together
till they both dropped from exhaustion."
     "Swords?"
     Gabe looked three years old with his fingers full of illicit cookies.
     "Uh, yeah, they liked to spar. Uh, like martial arts training, you know?"
     "Oh. That figures. Michael is built like a man who has worked his body hard all his life."
     Gabe couldn't miss the love and admiration glowing in the beautiful woman's eyes and warming her words.
He was so happy for Michael, he could have sung love songs for hours and hours. But, as much as he loved to talk,
Gave wasn't comfortable discussing his banished brother, so he decided to change the subject.
     "What about you? Where do you live?"
     Sasha was slightly taken aback by Gabriel's question. She wasn't used to being the recipient of the
interrogation, though it was hard to imagine this sweet young man grilling anyone. He was more like a curious kitten,
trying to explore his whole universe in one hour.
     "I have a small apartment, very small - okay, a closet with a bathroom - in New York City. Rent there is
ridiculous. You could buy a farm in Ohio for a year's rent in New York. But it's the hub of activity for the big
publishers, and probably the most prestigious paper in the country, The New York Times."
     "You're a reporter, right?"
     Sasha nodded, crossing her legs and sitting up so she felt on more even footing with Gabe. She carefully
arranged Michael's coat so nothing she didn't want exposed was hanging out in the wind.
     "How come you write stuff that isn't true?"
     He was so guileless, not trying to criticize or anger her, just asking a question. A question that was beginning
to plague her more and more. She sighed and shook her head.
     "When I figure that out, I'll let you know. I tell myself it's because this is a good steady job and I need the
money. That I'm getting valuable experience that will help me get a better job. Hah, I wouldn't even put The Tattler
on my resume to a mainstream job. What is it about you guys that makes me ask myself all the questions that have
been rolling around in my head, being pointedly ignored because I didn't want to face the truth?"
     She smiled as she remembered Michael's words of the night before. Things that make you question, that give
you answers.
     "I guess we just know the right thing to say to get you to open your eyes."
     Gabe shrugged, grinning.
     "It's a gift."
     He tilted his head to the side like a dog hearing a familiar, and much loved, sound.
     "Michael's back."
     Showing no strain, Gabriel rose to his feet and Sasha had a second to wonder where his guitar had gone. Just
a second. Then she was bowled over by the sight of her lover emerging from the forest. He was absolutely glorious in
a white t-shirt and worn bluejeans that molded to his body like a second skin. He rolled his shoulders as he
acknowledged them with a nod accompanied by a smile for Sasha, and a scowl for Gabe.
     "I see you've met my brother Gabriel who I believe I mentioned should stay under the cover of the trees to
avoid lengthy explanations."
     Gabe shrugged, not looking the least bit intimidated by his brother's glaring countenance. He raised his hands,
indicating the forest around them.
     "By the strictest interpretation, I am under the trees. And Sasha understands that I like to watch over my big
brother. No problem."
     Michael tried valiantly to hold the scowl, but Gabe's sparkling violet eyes took his will. He reached out and
pulled Gabe into his embrace, hugging him hard enough to break ribs in a lesser being. Gabe exhaled loudly and
dramatically, speaking in a strained whisper.
     "Air, Mikey, air!"
     Michael laughed and pushed Gabe away from him.
     "You have a million things to do, don't you, Gabe? You're sorry you have to run, but we'll forgive you."
     Michael cast a quick - burning - glance in Sasha's direction, then fried Gabe with a more direct version.
     "Oh, yeah, I gotta go. Before you hurt my feelings and make Dad mad."
     Gabe gave an offhanded wave in Sasha's direction as he turned toward the forest. Michael was about to turn
his full attention to her when Gabe's voice came to him, narrowing his eyes.
     "Wait a minute. Your less-than-grateful ways almost made me forget your wedding present."
     Sasha was surprised to see Gabe emerge from the trees with a large box across his outstretched arms. If
possible, his eyes twinkled even more brilliantly than usual.
     "This is actually for your lady, Michael, but I thought it would serve as a present for you both. You can open
it here, Sasha, then I'll see that it gets back to your cabin."
     Casting Michael a measuring look, he handed the box to Sasha, then stood back, watching her expectantly.
     Michael spoke softly to Sasha, the caress of his deep voice raising the hair on the back of her neck.
     "Open it, sweetheart, it's the only way to get rid of him."
     She laid the box across her crossed legs and, tucking Michael's coat under her arms to preserve what was left
of her modesty, pulled off the lid. Never would she have expected what she found.
     Inside the pure white satin box lay the most exquisite shimmering white nightgown she had ever seen. She
was almost afraid to touch it, it was so fine. Carefully lifting it from the box, she ran her free hand over the gossamer
material, sighing at the unbelievably soft feel of it. She imagined how it would feel against her naked flesh, Michael's
hands sliding over it, heating the thin material.
     A deep blush warmed her skin as she raised her eyes to find Michael looking at her with such fiery intensity
she wouldn't have been surprised if she had burst into flame at that very moment. In his eyes, she saw the same
thought, the same blood-boiling imagined sensations.
     Gabriel cleared his throat, drawing her attention.
     "Thank you, Gabe, it's the most beautiful gown I've ever seen."
     It was Gabe's turn to blush, his smile turning shy. He crouched down in front of her and eased the gown back
into the box. When he looked at her, his eyes were slightly moist. For her ears only he whispered, "Take good care of
him," then, closing the box, he took it from her and stood.
     "I'll leave it at your cabin. See ya."
     He turned and skipped into the forest, quickly disappearing from view.
     Sasha laughed softly.
     "He's a character."
     Sarcasm tinged by love dripped from Michael's tongue as he looked after Gabriel.
     "Isn't he just?"
     His molten blue gaze returned to her with a vengeance.
     "You'd better get dressed if you want to get back to the cabin before nightfall."
     "But, Michael, the cabin can't be more than a couple of hours away."
     "If you don't cover that beautiful naked skin of yours, we'll be right here for the rest of the day, further
exploring all the things we discovered last night. And perhaps discovering a few more."
     Looking up into that deep azure fire, Sasha figured she had about two seconds to start getting dressed.
     "Okay, but my clothes are over there. Would you mind handing them to me?"
     Michael grinned, more of a leer really, and stepped to the pile of clothes she had discarded the night before.
He picked up her shirt and shook it, making sure nothing had sought haven in its folds. As he walked toward her, he
slowly slipped the buttons through the material, completely opening the front of the shirt.
     "You know, I could have put it on over my head the same way you took it off of me last night."
     "I know, but the view wouldn't have been nearly as appealing."
     Sasha wondered if she could pull on the shirt while protecting her modesty with the coat, but decided if he
wanted to play this game, she'd use her own rules to make him suffer. Taking the shirt from his outstretched hand,
she dropped the coat, glorying in his loudly in-drawn breath, and slid her arms into the sleeves. Starting at the
bottom, where the coat still concealed her, she slowly buttoned the shirt, feeling his fierce gaze watching her every
move. Smiling as innocently as she could manage, she raised her hand for the next piece of clothing. Once again, he
shook her panties to make sure nothing uninvited was home, then handed them to her. As she started to throw aside
the coat, he turned and walked toward the remains of the fire. He flung words over his shoulder, his voice husky, full
of air.
     "I'd better see to the fire while you finish getting dressed. Be sure to shake your clothes before putting them
on."
     In her sweetest voice, she twisted the knife of lust threatening his control.
     "But, Michael, aren't you going to help me?"
     Without turning - he knew if he looked at her he wouldn't be able to resist covering her body with his own,
plunging into the warmth only she could offer - he growled.
     "Don't tempt me, vixen, or you will find your screams of pleasure frightening the birds from the trees till time
to start this fire again."
     Her soft chuckle was his only answer.
     As soon as Sasha finished dressing, and Michael made certain the fire was completely out, they began their
track through the woods to his cabin. They had been walking in companionable silence for about ten minutes,
probably the longest space of time Sasha had ever been in the presence of another human being without asking a
question, when she couldn't stand it any longer.
     "Do you have anything to eat? I'm starving!"
     He looked at her with the most exasperated male expression, she couldn't help laughing and defending
herself.
     "Well I am! Come on, Mister-Boy-Scout-Cum-Mountain-Man, don't you have a survival bar in your pocket
for such emergencies?"
     He glanced over his shoulder with one eyebrow arched in question.
     "Survival bar?"
     "Yeah, you know, those granola-and-unidentified-substance bars that nature lovers swear is food, but most
people use as a hammer?"
     "No, sorry, I don't have any of those. I didn't exactly plan for an overnighter when you took your leave of my
cabin. I didn't bring anything to eat. You'll have to wait till we get to the cabin."
     She sighed heavily, walking quietly for a few more minutes before whining, "Are we there yet?"
     He glared at her, then, seeing the laughter in her eyes, smiled.
     "No, little girl, we are not. And if you ask me again, I will pull down those tight-enough-to-make-a-man-ache
jeans of yours and paddle your sweet little butt!"
     "Ooh, that might be fun."

     Michael playfully lunged toward her.
     "No!"
     She threw up her hands, laughing.
     "Okay, I'll be good!"
     He turned back to the trail but Sasha wasn't ready to relinquish his attention just yet.
     "By the way, where were you?"
     "When?"
     They both recognized that as a stall as soon as it was out of his mouth.
     "Oh, I don't know, how 'bout this morning when you left me to the tender ministrations of your brother?"
     "You mean Loud-mouth Lime? I figured the two of you would get along since you're both reporters of a sort."
     "Is Gabe a...? Oh, no you don't. I'm not gonna let you change the subject right out from under me. We'll get
back to your charming brother. For now, I would like an answer to my question."
     "Which question, you have so many."
     "Michael, stop stalling, you'll have me thinking you were partaking in a Satanic ritual in the...What?!"
     He had whipped around to look at her as she spoke, near-silver hair flying about his shoulders, eyes ablaze
with unreadable fire. His nostrils flared, his jaw worked as he ground his teeth and clenched his fists against his
thighs. He started quietly, but ended on a shout.
     "I would not...!"
     He stopped mid-sentence to draw a deep breath and she watched in wonder as his eyes lost their fire, his face
softening to sorrow on a sigh.
     "I'm sorry. Satan is not one of my favorite subjects."
     Unable to resist the exploration of such a fierce pet peeve, Sasha asked softly, "Why?"
     He dropped his gaze to the soft earth at his feet, shaking his head, his voice nearly a whisper.
     "There is so much pain there."
     Hunching his shoulders as if to shrug off the pain of which he spoke, he raised his eyes to meet her dark
chocolate question.
     "I had unavoidable business elsewhere. I didn't want to leave you alone while you were sleeping."
     It took Sasha a minute to realize their conversation had once again shifted gears back to her original question.
She was going to have to take mental speeding lessons to keep up with this guy!
     "What kind of business?"
     "Something Father wished of me."
     "Is your whole family somewhere in this forest?"
     She asked her question with laughing incredulity. His lips eased into a soft smile as he surveyed the majestic
grandeur of the forest around them.
     "You could say that."
     "You are a very strange man, Michael Starch."
     His smile was sunshine and stars all rolled into one, bright as day, warm as a summer night. She felt her
insides getting all soft and mushy, waited for the self-condemnation that never came.
     Mush without guilt could only mean one thing - she must be in love!
     "Since you have chosen to be my wife, that makes you a strange woman, Mrs St Arch."
     "`Chosen' could be debated. And that's the second time you've pronounced your name that way. How come?"
     He turned and moved on toward their destination, arrogantly expecting her to follow. Considering her
experience last evening, she surely didn't want to wait around to see what might fall out of the trees to greet her, so
she dutifully tagged along on his heels.
     "St Arch is the correct pronunciation. I used `Starch' when I applied for a driver's license because I thought it
sounded more American and was easier to write. Only one capital letter."
     "You really aren't a citizen?"
     She hadn't meant to sound quite so alarmed, but this was a tricky situation. If Michael were an illegal alien,
could he stay in the country? Would her legally marrying him make him a citizen? She wasn't sure if she wanted to
really marry him. Did she? Was she ready to be a wife? A mother?
     A mother! Nearly swallowing her tongue as she suddenly realized what they had done, Sasha leaned against a
tree.
     Michael came to her side, concern furrowing his brow and bringing reassuring steel to his voice.
     "It's not that serious, sweet."
     Sasha waved him away, unexpected anger darkening her features. Michael wondered at the cause as he
straightened and took a step backward. Sasha forced words through her tight throat.
     "You didn't wear anything, did you?"
     Silver brows arched in question, Michael's broad shoulders raised in a slight shrug to show his confusion.
     "Last night when we...when we made love. You didn't...wear anything."
     She emphasized the word, hoping his denseness would evaporate before she blew her top and got very
descriptive. No such luck.
     His voice became husky, his smile seductive.
     "I wanted to feel your skin against mine as I claimed you for my own. That angers you?"
     "Oh, don't go getting all sexy on me. I'm really teed off here, Michael. I am not, I repeat, not, ready to become
a mommy. Not to mention any unpleasant reminders of past affairs you might be carrying around with you."
     Her meaning struck home like a bolt of lightning. Michael's features darkened with an anger to match her
own, his voice booming through the forest, sending several birds to safer perches.
     "Reminders?! You actually think I might be carrying some foul disease?! Woman, you try my patience
beyond Eve. Rest assured, though I have partaken of the offered charms of a few seductresses in my time, I carry no
reminders."
     Still angry, and frightened by the possible consequences of her folly, Sasha met him yell for yell.
     "And I suppose you just know that, without benefit of a physician's assistance, because you're such a bright
guy. Or is it because you're an angel?" She sneered, uncaring of the storm clouds roiling in his deep blue eyes. "Don't
angels get diseases?"
     He stepped toward her, shouting into her face, "No, we do not!"
     "Great, just great! You hide in your own personal psychosis whenever it suits you. Perfect!"
     Looking deeply into Sasha's eyes, Michael saw past the anger to the fear in their near-black depths.
Immediately responding to the needs of his lady, he pulled her resisting body into his embrace, tightening his arms
against her struggles.
     "Let me go, you big bully."
     His voice was soft, soothing, her undoing.
     "It's alright, my love, you have nothing to fear. I will be with you, always."
     His strength seeped into her through her very pores, reassuring her, breaking down the protective walls
around her emotions. Sobs started deep in her throat and, though she gave a valiant effort to stop them, they forced
their way out. Her eyes overflowed and she knew it was only a matter of time before her nose became a disgusting
thing she would not wish to claim.
     "Oh, Michael, this whole thing happened so fast, I just can't seem to wrap my mind around it. Yesterday, I
was a reporter on a story I didn't particularly want. No offense, but angels just aren't my thing. Now, I'm in love so
bad it hurts with a guy I'm not even sure has all his ducks in a row. And to top it all off, I might be pregnant. I am not
having a good week!"
     Michael held her secure in his arms, encouraging her to let the pain and fear in her soul wash away in her
tears. He smiled at her duck comment, loving the quirky way she had of putting things. When her sobs had quieted to
soft hiccups, he took her face in his hands and gazed deeply into her eyes.
     "What shall be, shall be. I don't know if my seed can take root within you, but if our child is what our future
holds, I will rejoice."
     "But, Michael, I'm not ready."
     He smiled wryly.
     "Don't whine, love, it's unbecoming."
     She frowned and slapped his shoulder, making no further attempts to escape his embrace. Instead, she
snuggled against him, pressing her cheek against the bare skin of his chest exposed by the low neckline of his t-shirt.
His voice was so forceful, resonating with self-confidence, she could listen to it rumble through him forever.
     "You will be ready when the time comes. Women have been since the beginning of Man. Do you think Mary,
a virgin and barely more than a child herself, felt ready when Ga...uh...when the angel announced the impending
birth of Jesus? She was frightened, but she bowed to the will of God and He gave her the strength she needed when
she needed it. He will do the same for you."
     "Do you really think so?"
     Her voice was so small, he longed to lift her into his arms and show her his ability to protect her. But, for
that, she was not ready. He settled for kissing her till her breath quickened and her body melted against his own.
     "I know it. Now, we had better get to the cabin. I feel a need for a long nap coming upon me."
     Sasha blushed happily, her fears temporarily allayed. Michael had such a way about him. He was so certain of
everything, she couldn't help believing him, sharing his convictions, whatever they might be. As he set her back on
her feet, steadying her until her treacherous body decided to stand on its own, and turned back toward the cabin, she
gave the subject one last pursuit.
     "Let me guess. You don't intend to wear anything, don't even have any if you wanted to."
     He spoke as he cleared a trail for her to follow.
     "I don't want to, and wouldn't wear one even if you had them. Such things are God's choice, not ours."
     "Michael, this is the twentieth century. God doesn't have as much power as He once had."
     He chuckled, turning eyes that sparkled with secret knowledge to her for a quick second, then returning his
attention back to the forest.
     "It's a good thing His temper has mellowed since the time of Noah or you'd be neck deep in rainwater about
now. You have a lot to learn, my lady, and I thank Him that I am to be the one to teach you."
     "Teach me! You arrogant, thick-skulled..."
     Michael continued to chuckle as he listened to her tirade, which lasted - in bits and pieces - until he swept her
into his arms to carry her over the threshold of his cabin and silenced her with a kiss that was just the beginning.     
                                Chapter Fifteen
                                        
     The most blissful two weeks of Sasha's life, her honeymoon, seemed to flash by like so many minutes. She
and Michael spent hours wrapped in each other's arms, making love, learning each other's special sensitive spots -
and exploiting them to the limit of their endurance - just being with each other and glorying in the love that filled the
little cabin to overflowing.
     As Gabe had promised, the beautiful nightgown was waiting for them when they had reached the cabin,
though it had been the next day before Sasha had gotten a chance to try it on. It fit as though it had been made just
for her, an observation that when she had voiced it to Michael had brought on that secret smile he often got when
speaking of his family. The one that made her want to tear out his hair, strand by strand, until he explained.
     The one thing they hadn't done to Sasha's satisfaction was talk about anything important, like their past or
their future. Whenever she brought up a serious subject, Michael would divert her attention to more intense physical
demands on her time. With just a touch and a kiss, he could lift Sasha to heights of arousal that rivaled the Empire
State Building. Time seemed to stand still for the newlywed lovers.
     Then came the first snowfall.
     Sasha awoke to find Michael coming through the door, shaking flakes of white stuff from his silvery mane.
She stretched and purred like a satisfied kitten.
     "Interesting dandruff."
     A sunny smile met her words, warming her heart, and other parts of her body that were still a tiny bit tender
from last night's pleasure. Moaning softly, she sat up in the bed, totally unaware of the seductive picture she painted
with her natural assets as she let the fur cover drop. Ebony waves fell in disarray about her shoulders and breasts. Her
eyelids rose and fell slowly as she eased into wakefulness, her lips still full from Michael's tender - and not-so-tender
- ministrations of the previous night. Michael's smile tightened along with his loins, his eyes narrowing slightly.
     Sasha knew that look, knew she had about two seconds to do or say something to get his mind off his nether
regions or they would be having a very late breakfast. She quickly snatched the fur back up to cover herself, throwing
him a warning look.
     "Don't you dare! I'm starving, I'm cold and I'm sore."
     His eyes reflected his concern, but his voice was lightly seductive.
     "Sore? Perhaps I could kiss it better."
     "That would be sadistic on your part, and masochistic on mine because I would let you."
     Noting his reaction in the tightening of his pants, Sasha decided it was time to attack from a mundane angle.
That usually worked to get a man's mind off sex.
     "Why is it so cold in here? I'm beginning to feel like a member of the popsicle family."
     Michael chuckled.
     "Perhaps if you kept your beautiful body under the covers, you wouldn't feel the chill quite so intensely. I
have to get some more wood, but I'll use these four logs to get a fire started first. I wouldn't want you freezing."
     He cast her a searing look as he knelt before the hearth.
     "If the fire doesn't warm you, I'm sure I can think of some other way to heat your blood."
     "I don't doubt it," she mumbled as she sank back under the warm fur. "Is there anything I can do to help with
breakfast? I think we forgot dinner."
     Another chuckle, this one coming from a place deep in his chest. Remembering the last time she had heard
that particular chuckle - he'd been under the covers driving her nearly insane with illicit pleasure - Sasha shivered. 
     "I believe I was heading for the creek when you decided to sample my thumb for dinner. Funny, I don't
remember being very hungry after that, at least, not for food."
     Sasha blushed, remembering the fire that had leaped into his eyes when she had run her tongue around the tip
of his thumb, how his muscles had tensed to near-granite as she had pulled it into her mouth and sucked softly,
easing the thumb in and out of her lips. He had stood as if carved from stone, watching her, for several minutes.
Then, with a growl that had echoed through the little cabin, he had grabbed the back of her head with his free hand
and pulled her mouth to his, pushing her back on the bed and proceeding to instruct her in the proper use of lover's
mouths. That had been one lesson Sasha wouldn't mind repeating a few million times.
     Like writing `I will have the most intense orgasm of my life' on the blackboard of lust.
     She giggled, snuggling, and let herself drift off, content with her memories and listening to the sounds of her
man being domestic.
     "But I have responsibilities here!"
     Michael's yell brought Sasha instantly alert. What directional hearing she possessed told her the sound had
come from outside the cabin, somewhere close to the door. Wrapping the fur around her, she stepped to the door and
eased it open, her reporter's eavesdropping talent rearing its ugly head.
     Michael was standing just beyond the door, gloriously naked, surrounded by a bright light like the one that
had come from the star in the clearing the night of their `wedding'. He was glaring up into the light, a light so intense
Sasha could hardly bare to look at it. As she watched, he spoke toward the light.
     "Can't Raphael do it?"
     Sasha thought she heard something, a crackle, like the sound of low flames, and the murmur of a soft breeze,
though none ruffled Michael's hair.
     "What about Gabe?"
     That same sound echoed around her, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She swallowed hard, wondering
what exactly she was witnessing. Michael tossed his silver mane, a gesture of defiant anger, and raised his voice once
again.
     "Do I have to do everything?!"
     Silence. The light that had glowed so brightly just seconds before, dulled to near-darkness.
     Michael inhaled deeply as he lowered his gaze to the ground. He slowly dropped to his knees in the six-inch
deep snow. Resting his hands on his thighs, he lowered his head till it rested scant inches above the snow. Sasha held
her breath to better hear his soft words.
     "She has so little time, Father. I long to share every minute of it with her. I must have lost my mind, falling in
love with a mortal soul. Will I have to let her go someday? Have I filled this place in my heart I didn't even know
existed just to have it emptied in far too little time? I've always left that kind of question to softer beings than myself,
Father."
     He straightened, remaining on his knees, and held his arms out to his sides.
     "There is no excuse for my disrespect, Father. You have forgiven too much and I have not properly
appreciated your patience. Perhaps I would better appreciate your discipline, for I seem to have lost my own."
     The light suddenly regained its former brightness, then, for the time it takes to blink, it flared nuclear bright.
Michael's chest arched forward, his head dropping back as he yelled with obvious pain, then fell prostrate on the
snow-covered ground. Between panting breaths, he spoke.
     "Thanks, Father...I guess...I needed that. At least...I know...you still...love me."
     He uttered a breathy chuckle as he rose once again to his knees.
     "Your punishment is much easier to take than your turning away. I will do as you ask, for now and forever."
     Again, that crackling breeze tickled Sasha's ears. Michael turned his deep blue eyes her way and smiled, then
returned his attention to the sky above the cabin.
     "Yeah, she's a reporter. If we'd had them in the old days, we wouldn't have needed Gabe. Gabriel, editor of
The Heavenly Times."
     He chuckled again as he bowed his head.
     "Thy will be done, Father."
     The light was gone, snuffed out like a candle in the wind.
     Sasha, unable or unwilling to understand one second of what she had just witnessed, ran back to the bed,
wishing she could just bury herself beneath the warm furs there and never come out. Never have to face the truth that
was closing the door and coming to sit beside her on the bed.
     "Sasha."
     She threw the covers off, startling Michael with her vehemence.
     "I don't want to hear it, Michael! I do not want to hear that you think you're an angel and that you just talked
to God, okay? I really like you a lot," one silver eyebrow peaked, "okay, I love you, but that doesn't mean that I want
to share in your psychosis. I think couples should have some things that they keep to themselves, little things like
hobbies and insanity. I don't know what I just saw but I'm certain that, with enough time to calmly think it through, I
will come up with a rational explanation."
     Michael smiled and shook his head.
     "Sasha."
     She would have continued her diatribe right over his words if he hadn't taken her shoulders in his strong
hands and pulled her against him.
     "Sasha, I will not force explanations upon you. You're right, my love, when you are ready, you will find the
truth. All I wish to say to you now is that I must leave you for a little while. The fire is made, all you need do is keep
adding wood. You will have to make do with cake and tea for breakfast. The water is heating and the tea and cream
and sugar are on the hearth. I will return as soon as I am able."
     Sasha raised her dark eyes to meet his.
     "Leaving? But, where are you going? No, wait," she raised her palm in front of his face, "don't tell me, I don't
want to know. I am in denial. I plan to go back to sleep and wake up from this really weird dream to find you frying
fish, which I am getting heartily sick of, over the fire. I can tell you I'm sick of fish without worrying about hurting
your feelings because this is a bad dream so you'll never know it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I hear Mel Gibson
calling, I have to go to another dream."
     She smacked her body down against the mattress, pulling the fur over her head. Michael laughed softly as he
pulled the cover from her face and placed a kiss on her brow. He whispered, "I love you," then dropped the fur back
over her head. She heard the cabin door open and close, waited several minutes before peeking out from under the
covers.
     "If you were an angel, you wouldn't need doors, you'd just beam wherever you needed to go. And you'd have
wings. You might be able to hide them from everyday acquaintances, but I'd sure as heck have seen them. And you
wouldn't make love. Would you? Can angels do that? No. Their pure of heart, they don't...Oh, crap, I don't know what
angels do! I don't even believe in angels! I must be losing my mind!"
     Her bluster lasted for a few seconds more as she fluffed her pillow and settled into the furs. Then the tears
began to form, the sobs to choke.
     "Oh, Michael, I'm so scared. Are you crazy? Am I? I love you so much, I'm thinking baby names and white
ranch houses with rose gardens. Will we have to install a sunroof so you can fly off to save the world? Crap!"
     Sasha cried for a while, then her strength of character, and her hunger, drove her from the bed to seek
comfort in tea and Twinkies. Michael would return soon. Then she would have this thing out with him once and for
all.
     
     Clarence `Clary' Ripyard had reached the end of his rope. Literally. He pulled on the hangman's noose he had
tied in the sheet-rope that hung over the beam of his cell, thanking the powers-that-be that this was an old jail that
still had exposed ceiling beams. So far, the PC, don't-hurt-the-caged-monkeys do-gooders hadn't come along and
pointed out how prisoners could end their torment by hanging themselves off those beams. Clary had always figured
people who committed suicide were wimps, cowards. Now he knew they were just desperate, with no other way out.
     He couldn't take it any more. When he'd stolen that car, he hadn't thought about getting caught. Hell, he'd
been so stoned, he hadn't thought about much of anything. It was a wonder he hadn't wrecked that prime piece of
Mustang before the police had pulled him over for driving on the wrong side of the road. Now his black butt was
gonna rot in this jail for five long years.
     At first, he'd thought he could handle it. Do his time, maybe get out early for good behavior. Walk like you
know where you're goin', don't look nobody in the face, don't be too friendly to the guards. He could do that.
     Then today at breakfast, Teddy Whitman, affectionately named `The Bear' by those inmates he'd chosen to
`hug', had pointed at him across the table and slipped his finger into his mouth in a very eloquent gesture. Clary knew
what that meant. The Bear had chosen him, wanted to get to know him better. Much better. Soon.
     Shaking his head, beads of sweat burning his eyes, Clary spoke to himself.
     "No way, I can't take that. Uh-uh, I ain't no man's man. If I'm gonna die, it's gonna be quick, not layin' in some
bed in the infirmary, wishin' I was dead long 'fore I croak. Uh-uh. 'Sides, I ain't got nothin' ta live for, anyway. Might
as well get it over with."
     Mew.
     Clary stopped his climb onto his bunk, his foot hanging in midair.
     "What was that?"
     Mew.
     There it was again, a sound like Pinknose - Clary's cat when he was a kid - used to make when she was
hungry. Putting both feet back on the ground, Clary looked around, the darkness of `light's out' making it difficult to
see much in his small cell. He stepped to the bars that formed the front of the cell and, using a small mirror taped on
a stick held through the bars, surveyed the row. Nothing. Scratching his head, Clary sat on the bunk.
     "Must be hearin' things."
     Something soft smacked against his arm. He jumped and turned to find a small black-and-white cat rubbing
the top of its head against his arm. As he stared in disbelief, the small feline sat on its haunches next to him, giving a
an unobstructed view of itself.
     Most of the cat's body was the deepest midnight black. Only from the front could you see that it was a tuxedo
cat. Its face was bisected by a white stripe that flowed down its neck to spread out and become a half-collar. In the
middle of its chest, the white line narrowed once again to only an inch or so wide. It bisected the cat's stomach all the
way to its tail. Four white feet, white whiskers and a very pink nose completed the cat's evening ensemble.
     "Well, I'm be damned. Where'd you come from?"
     Mew!
     The cat jumped into Clary's lap, circled once, then plopped down on its side. Eyes of the deepest gold
regarded him with contentment warming their depths, a rumbling purr echoing through the cell.
     "You look just like Pinknose. I ain't thought about her for a long time."
     Leaning back against the cold grey wall of the cell that had been his haven and his hell for two long months,
Clary stroked the cat's soft fur and remembered. 
     Clary had grown up in the deepest darkest hole on Earth. At least, that was how he'd always thought of
Harlem. No one and nothing was ever truly safe. He'd deliberately eked his way through school, knowing if his
grades were too good, the tough kids would beat him up for being smarter than them. Each time he'd brought home a
report card, his mama had looked at him with that disappointed sadness in her eyes, the same look she had given him
in the courtroom the day he was sentenced. He had never been able to make her understand that actin' dumb was a
matter of survival. If he didn't fit in, he'd be different.
     And, in Harlem, a different nigger was a dead nigger.
     Pinknose was the only different thing Clary had ever dared to do.
     He had been ten years old that Fall, not quite a man, but in one heck of a hurry to get there in the hopes that
manhood held less fear than childhood. He had just discovered books, they had been his only escape from the misery
of his life. They could take him to distant cities, far-off lands, leading him through mysteries and adventures he could
never hope of having on his own. Books had offered him the hopes and dreams that were missing in his world, and
Clary had eagerly consumed all he could get his hands on.
     But he couldn't afford to get caught reading any more than he dared to get good grades so he'd sought out
hidden places to indulge his newfound passion. One of those places had been on the fire escape of his apartment
building, overlooking a dark, dirty alley.
     He'd been sitting there, minding his own business, lost in Shangri-La, when he'd heard the most ear-piercing
howl from below. Looking down, he'd seen four tough boys he'd seen around school havin' some fun with a kitten.
They had the little black-and-white furball cornered against a dumpster and one of them was pulling a can of lighter
fluid from his pocket. Clary had been about to head back to his apartment - after all, it wasn't his cat - when he had
given one last look in the kitten's direction. The dark gold eyes had caught his, pleading with him to, just this once,
get involved.
     Even now, Clary had to shake his head at the memory of that moment. What the hell had he been thinkin',
jumpin' into the middle of that child abuse training session to rescue a little ball of fur? The kids must of thought he
was crazy, `cause they had scattered like scared rats, leaving a terrified kitten to hunch her tiny back and hiss like the
very devil when Clary stepped toward her.
     "It's okay, kitty, I ain't like them."
     He'd spoken in a soft voice, like his mama used when he wasn't feelin' well. The kitten had tipped its head to
the side, listening, finally letting Clary get close enough to reach out a hand and touch its back. Then it had hissed,
hunched and scratched, leaving behind a tiny line of blood on the back of Clary's hand. Being a stubborn boy with a
high pain tolerance, Clary had decided then and there to win over the little menace. He'd slowly pulled off his t-shirt,
thrown it over the kitten, then grabbed her before she could get out from under it. Into his room she had gone, where
he had kept her in the closet, hiding the little ball of fangs and fur from his mom for three days while he fed her
scraps, petted her - he had the scars to prove it - and slowly won her over.
     In those three days, three important things had happened to Clarence Ripyard and that little fluffball. The first
- he'd given the kitten a name, something he had never done before. He'd never named a stuffed animal, or a dump
truck or any other thing in his child's world. Nothing had ever been important enough to him for him to give it an
identity. But that kitten. She had demanded a name from the first moment he'd seen her. He had named her Pinknose
for obvious reasons, she had the brightest pink nose he'd ever seen. It stood out as the only bit of color on her
otherwise black-and-white face and body. She'd seemed to take to the name quickly, looking at him with
ever-mellowing golden eyes every time he'd called her.
     The second thing was that that wild kitten, already abused by man, had come to trust him, meowing at the
closet door as soon as she heard him arrive home from school. She would run out of the closet and climb his leg,
wanting her dinner and her evening pet session. Clary would lie on his stomach on the bed and read with Pinknose
purring her approval over his shoulder.
     And the third important thing, the thing that had taken Clary the longest to admit, was he had gotten to love
that kitten. With her trust and devotion, she had made him start to question what he might become. After all, she had
almost been a barbecue for some punks' amusement, but she had grown into a sleek cat who ate twice a day and
watched the alley of her birth from her perch above it. Could he hope to rise above his humble beginnings, to
someday look down upon the horror of Harlem, safe from its touch?
     Pinknose had stayed with him for two years, most of the time content in her one room home. He had to put
her in the closet once in a while, when she'd started howlin' and rollin' on the floor. But that didn't last long, then
she'd be so loving and starved for attention for a week, he'd have to carry her with him to the bathroom or she'd
scratch his door. His mama, who worked two jobs so she wasn't home much, must have known about his little friend,
but she never said anything, just smiled when she tucked him in at night and the closet made a noise.
     Then one day he came home and found Pinky lying on the front room floor, not moving. His bedroom door
hadn't caught that morning and he could just imagine her little paw pulling and pulling until she'd gotten it wide
enough to fit her little body through. He knew without looking that she had found the rat poison his mama put in the
kitchen. And he knew Pinknose wasn't gonna get up ever again. His twelve-year-old heart breaking and sealing itself
behind a wall of protective granite, he had scooped her small lifeless body into his arms and taken her down to the
alley. He wasn't gonna have his Pinknose eaten by the rats she had never chosen to hunt. In an ironic action he was
too heartbroken to notice, he had poured lighter fluid over her and, with the tears he vowed would be the last he'd
ever cry running down his cheeks, he'd said, "Goodbye, furball," and given her the only burial he could afford.
     As he had walked away from that fire, Clary had felt the last remnants of the child he had once been joining
Pinknose, floating away in the smoke of misery. He had finally become the adult he had been born to be. A tough,
uncaring street hood. Harlem had killed his Pinknose and he wasn't gonna give a damn about anything or anybody
ever again `cause Harlem would just take them away.
     That had been four years ago. Clary had made good on his promise to himself. He had pretty much stopped
going to school, except to stand just beyond the grounds, enticing the kids to sample what he had to sell, getting them
hooked, giving them something constructive to do with their lunch money. He'd started drinking, getting stoned,
whatever might dull the pain. Eventually, he'd stolen a car to get the money to buy more anesthetic for his brain. The
rest was history.
     The memories fresh in his brain, Clary was surprised to find his cheeks wet with tears. He quickly wiped his
hand across his face in disgust. Cryin' was for babies. A soft "meow!" followed by a nudge against his hand reminded
him of the furry wonder nestled on his lap. Where could this cat have come from?
     "Why don't you read anymore, Clary?"
     Street honed reflexes brought the wiry black man to his feet, one hand clutching the cat to his side while the
other clenched into a fist in front of his chest. The cat yowled in distress, not the least bit amused by the rough
treatment, but its struggles were in vain as Clary had a firm grip on its midsection.
     "Who the hell are you?"
     Clary tried to keep his voice from shaking as he queried the tall, blonde man before him. He warily eased
himself and his furry little treasure away from the stranger until his back hit the wall. His visitor calmly sat on the
bunk that was attached to the wall and looked up at him.
     "Hell has nothing to do with me, Clary. My name is Michael. I'm a friend. I'd like an explanation of your
intention to throw away your life."
     "Say what?"
     With the wave of his large, strong hand Michael indicated the noose hanging above him. For a second, Clary
looked surprised, as though he had never seen the instrument of his impending death. Defiance in his eyes, he
answered.
     "This ain't none o' your business, whitebread!"
     "You're upsetting your little friend."
     Pulling the cat into his arms, cradle-style, Clary cast Michael a menacing glare that matched his tone.
     "You leave her out of this!"
     "You loved once, Clary, wouldn't you like to live to love again? You like books. You could use your time of
punishment to complete high school, begin college."
     "College?! What I want with college?"
     "You're so full of bad knowledge, why not try to counter it with a little of the good kind? You've got the
potential, don't waste it."
     "Who the hell are you to be tellin' me what I got?"
     To counter the animosity growing in the young man - and to get his attention - Michael stood, towering over
Clary, and pointed to the noose, his voice taking on a commanding tone.
     "That is not the way. Ever! God didn't give you life to have it ungratefully thrown back in His face."
     Seeing the taint of fear slowly coloring Clary's face, Michael knew he was losing him. He took a deep breath,
then raised pleading eyes to the young man and softened his tone.
     "Clary, listen to me. I can tell you who I am, but you won't believe. Not yet. Just think of me as someone who
cares deeply for you. You asked what good college would be for you. Remember Pinknose, how you first saw her?
She needed your protection and you gave it. If you go to college, get a degree in law, you can make a difference in
the lives of all of God's creatures. You can push for legislature to protect, as you did with your presence. You can...,"
his voice filled with emotion, sharing the young man's pain, "You can look down from the fire escape, Clary. But
first, you must climb every single step. Pinknose showed you."
     Tears once again coursed down Clary's cheeks, the need to believe what this strange man was saying a
physical pain in his chest.
     "She had help, even if it was just a dumb kid. I can't do it, man."
     Michael pulled the unresisting man into his arms, closing them tightly around him, giving him the safety he
had craved all his life. The young man's sobs tore at him, making him long to wrap him in the protection of his love.
The best he could do right now was let him know that he was, and would always be, loved.
     "Our Father will always be with you, Clary. Always. Believe, in Him, and in His wonderful creation called
Clarence Ripyard."
     Michael stepped away, the cat having somehow made its way into his arms, where he stroked its dark fur.
The corners of his lips rose as a purr began deep in the creature's throat.
     "This kitten must go with me. But you will find others in need of your care. Believe, Clary, and you shall
climb to the top of the world."
     Clary blinked as a bright flash blinded him. Michael was gone. Looking around the cell, he saw the noose
hanging as he had tied it. With a shout of anger, he ripped down the offending cloth, throwing it to the floor.
     "No, damn it! I'm not gonna let it kill me like it did Pinknose. You got it, Michael, my man. I'm gonna climb.
I'm gonna by damn look down on that alley if it takes me the rest of my life to do it. And when I get there, I'm gonna
hold out my hand to any other poor sucker who has the guts to take the first step."
     For the briefest of seconds he remembered The Bear and his promise of impending degradation. Would that
be a step he had to climb?
     Setting his jaw, Clary sat on his bunk and stared at his clenched fists. If he had to, he would fight as best he
could and take whatever this fire escape threw at him. He was gonna survive! And he was gonna climb!
     
     A great pillar of fire appeared before Teddy `The Bear' Whitman's cell, filling the air with an eerie crackling
sound as it turned the bars white hot. The big black man, a cowardly bully at heart, pushed his great bulk flat against
the back of the cell, whimpering, as the flames seemed to leap and dance in his direction.
     Then the blazing maelstrom spoke to him. 
     "Change your ways, Theodore Whitman, be kind to your fellow man, or I shall return to devour your
screaming flesh, filling you with unimaginable pain. Do you understand?"
     Teddy, too stunned and near shock to speak, nodded his head vigorously.
     The flames eased through the bars, coming closer, and he could feel the hot breeze on his face. Suddenly, he
found his voice.
     "I got it, man! Please, please don't hurt me! I won't hurt nobody ever again, I promise."
     As suddenly as they had appeared, the flames were gone, leaving Teddy `The Bear' Whitman to slide to the
floor of his cell, his great shoulders heaving with sobs, a changed man.
     
     Michael and a younger, smaller man stood just outside Teddy's cell, listening. With a solemn smile, Michael
nodded.
     "He will obey."
     He looked into the beautiful golden eyes of the raven-haired man beside him.
     "Thank you, Robert, your assistance was greatly appreciated."
     Robert grinned, his eyes alight with admiration.
     "Anytime, Michael. You think that big guy'll do what you say, huh?"
     Michael's eyes narrowed, his voice deepening.
     "He'd better. I'm not in the habit of making empty threats."
     Robert shivered, glad he wasn't the subject of his General's wrath. A nervous `mew' slipped between his lips.
Michael arched one silver eyebrow, deep dimples appearing in his chiseled cheeks as his teeth flashed perfect white.
     "Leftover?"
     Robert blushed, his grin widening. He shrugged.
     "Guess so. We done?"
     Michael nodded, slipping his arm around his assistant's shoulders and squeezing. He knew the young one had
a somewhat short attention span. His tone was humoring.
     "Yes, Robert, we're done. You may go."
     Laughing, he raised his large, callused hand to scratch Robert under his chin, drawing a laughing glare to the
boy's handsome face.
     "Go find your catnip."
     Eyes glowing with the memory of deep ebony fire, Michael whispered, "As I shall claim my own treat."     
                                Chapter Sixteen
                                        
     Sasha started at the sound of a knock on the door of the cabin. Who would be knocking? It wasn't like
Michael could have forgotten his key. The door didn't even have a lock to keep out the bad guys. With mild
trepidation tickling her throat, she picked up a log from beside the hearth - carefully giving it a hard shake to make
sure no eight-legged creatures had escaped Michael's attention - and took a cautious step toward the door.
     "Hello, is anybody in there?"
     The deep voice lost some of its timbre to the shaking that seemed to be overpowering it.
     "Look, if you don't want to let me in, would you please call the Sheriff or Park Rangers or, God, call William
Shatner if it'll get me out of this damn freezing snow!"
     Swallowing hard, Sasha watched as the doorknob slowly began to turn.
     "I'm warning you, I'm armed."
     The knob stopped moving.
     "Please, lady, I just want to get warm. My car broke down on that joke they call a road and I got lost in the
storm. You can keep your gun on me, you can even tie my hands, if it'll make you feel better. Can I please come in?"
     She would have had to be heartless to ignore the desperation in his plea, and Sasha could never have been
accused of heartlessness. Holding the log next to her leg, she cautiously turned the knob, ready at any second to bring
the log up hard, effectively convincing just about any man that he didn't want to rape her. Opening the door, she
became instantly ashamed of herself. Huddled on the doorstep was a man she guessed would have stood about two
inches taller than her five-foot-six when not in a slumping-for-warmth posture. His hands were shoved into the
pockets of a well-loved black leather bomber jacket, his bluejeans wet to the knee, the toes of his hiking boots
ice-encrusted. He had snowflakes on his dark eyebrows and eyelashes, his hair was soaking wet, and his lips were a
pretty shade of pastel blue that tugged at her conscience something fierce.
     The log dropped to the floor with a thump.
     "Oh, are you all right? Come in, sit by the fire."
     Sasha placed her hand on his arm, forcing herself to leave it there though the leather was so cold she
wondered if she might stick to it. She gently pulled on the half-frozen man, guiding him to the chair before the fire.
His frozen lips curled upward in a sickly attempt at a smile, and he dropped to his knees on the stone hearth.
     "I wouldn't dream of taking your chair. Besides, I thought I might just crawl into that fire."
     Sasha laughed.
     "Oh, please don't do that, the smell would be awful and it would take me forever to get it out of the furs.
Would you like a cup of tea?"
     He shivered, trying to pull his coat more tightly about his shoulders, and responded through chattering teeth.
     "You're an angel. I'd be happy to just pour hot water down my throat at the moment."
     Surveying the man's apparel, Sasha found most of it in the same soggy state as his hair.
     "I hope you won't take this wrong, but I think you should take off your clothes."
     Sparkling brown eyes met her concerned ebony gaze, straight white teeth peering through parted lips that
were slowly returning to a natural shade of peach.
     "Just my luck. A beautiful woman wants me to take off my clothes and I'm so cold I think all evidence of my
masculinity has left the building for a warmer clime. Just let me crawl into that glorious fire for a few seconds and
I'll be more than happy to take you up on your offer."
     He dropped to his hands and knees and started crawling toward the fire. Sasha laughed and placed her hands
on his shoulders.
     "It wasn't an offer, it was a suggestion on how to keep from contracting double pneumonia. Here, let me help
you."
     She ran her hands around his neck, pulling on the collar of his coat. Feeling him shiver once again, Sasha
wondered if she should hurry and get him that hot tea, or help him get out of his wet clothes so he could get dry. Oh,
she wished Michael were here, she was certain he'd know the correct treatment for extreme cold.
     "You're not kidding, are you? You really want me to strip?"
     Sasha sat in the chair facing her guest.
     "Mr...what's your name?"
     He rolled to sit on the warm stone hearth, extending his hand, which Sasha noticed wore only a thin leather
driving glove.
     "Ralph Lucien, at your service."
     Sasha shook his hand, concerned thoughts of frost-bitten fingers coming to her mind, and introduced herself.
     "I'm Sasha Frazier."
     Remembering Michael's words in front of the cabin this morning, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
     "Your real name wouldn't be Raphael, would it? As in one of Michael's brothers?"
     Tipping his - quite handsome, now that she thought about it - face to one side, her guest arched one
near-black eyebrow.
     "Michael? Who's Michael?"
     "My...uh...the man who owns this cabin. He had to run an errand but he should be back any minute."
     Ralph nodded sadly and sighed.
     "Figures. The good ones are always taken. I think I'd remember having a brother named Michael; although, at
the moment, I make no promises about the accuracy of my memory. I think my brain may be frozen. Isn't the weather
a little rough to be running errands?"
     Sasha shrugged, her grimace speaking eloquently of her opinion of Michael's absence. Ralph laughed.
     "What were you doing up here in the Arctic in the midst of a blizzard, anyway?"
     "I came up to check on Sunshine, Vern and Louise Crandall's stallion. He was a little under the weather. Do
you know the Crandall's?"
     Sasha shook her head, smiling fondly at the memory of Michael's story of the birth of Sunshine.
     "Not personally, though Michael has mentioned them. You're a vet?"
     He nodded, his collar-length black hair glowing with red highlights from the fire at his back.
     "A veteran of many a battle with uncooperative four-legged, many-toothed creatures."
     "Is Sunshine okay?"
     He chuckled.
     "He'll be fine. I suggested Louise only bake one pie at a time, or at least, only cool one at a time on the
windowsill. Three apple pies is too big a snack even for a fine stallion like Sunshine."
     Sasha laughed softly.
     "You're kidding? He actually ate three pies?"
     He nodded.
     "He's being punished for it now, but he'll survive. When the blizzard started, I, like an idiot, thought I could
beat it."
     He made a sound like a game-show buzzer.
     "Bzzz, wrong."
     "Don't you know Michael?"
     "I took over this area from old Doc Barnes two months ago. I've been trying to get to all his patients,
but..well, time management is not one of my fine points. Does he have any animals?"
     Sasha shook her head.
     "Not that I know of."
     "What's his last name? Maybe I've seen it in Doc's records."
     "It's Starch, S-t-a-r-c-h, like stark naked, which is what you should be. Here."
     She rose and pulled one of the fur throws from the bed.
     "I'll busy myself with preparing your tea...How do you take it, by the way?"
     "Black is fine, thanks."
     "Black, it is. While I make it, you get out of those wet clothes and burrow into this nice warm fur."
     "I love a woman who takes charge and gives me orders. Especially when those orders involve the removal of
my clothes."
     He winked at her, his smile open and warm.
     "You're an incorrigible flirt, aren't you?"
     He brought his hand to his chest in feigned hurt.
     "Moi? You wound me. I am quite corrigible."
     Laughing, delighted at having a companion to keep her company till Michael returned, Sasha went about
fixing his tea. She listened to the sounds of his disrobing, chastising herself when the impish desire to turn and
admire his naked body reared its ugly head. She really wished Michael would get back.
     "Okay, I'm as decent as a man dressed in nothing but a wolf fur can be."
     Exhaling her control, Sasha turned to him with a steaming mug held securely in her hand. He took it with a
grateful smile and sank once again to the warm stone hearth. Sasha, not quite comfortable too close to a near naked,
handsome man, eased herself back into the chair. He sipped the tea with an appreciative sigh.
     "This is great! Thank you."
     "You're quite welcome. I wish I could offer you something more substantial, but all I have are Twinkies.
Would you like one?"
     "Twinkies?"
     Sasha smiled brightly.
     "Michael's secret addiction. I think there are a couple left."
     Ralph chuckled softly.
     "Sounds like a real tough guy, your Michael. Thanks, but I prefer to clog my arteries with red meat and
cheese instead of sponge cake and unidentifiable white stuff. I'm not hungry, anyway. Louise stuffed me so full of her
good cooking, I welcomed the storm as an excuse to retreat before I burst."
     He used another sip of tea as an excuse to look over the pretty woman who sat not completely relaxed before
him. She was not exceptional in appearance, unless you looked into her eyes. Her .357 magnum personality flashed
in their ebony depths like fireworks. Her boyfriend was one lucky guy. If the fire in her eyes came through between
the sheets, the poor fellow was probably off getting vitamin shots!
     "I know it's none of my business, Miss Frazier..."
     "Please, call me Sasha."
     He smiled, suddenly wishing his name were Michael and he owned this cabin.
     "Sasha. As I said, I know it's none of my business, and you can tell me so, if you like, but what's a nice girl
like you doing in the middle of the frozen Utah wastelands?"
     Sasha laughed a little self-consciously.
     "I'm a reporter. I came out here to research a story for my paper."
     "Oh, who do you write for?"
     Here it comes, Sasha thought with a grimace.
     "I work for `The World Tattler.'"
     She hadn't meant to sound so defensive but she could see curiosity at her attitude reflected in his eyes.
     "Really? At the risk of sounding like a lightweight, I love that paper. I mean, I know it isn't exactly
Shakespeare, but it gets you thinking, you know? I guess I shouldn't admit this, but I kind-of want to believe most of
the weird things I read in your paper."
     Sasha's smile was gratitude and acceptance of praise in one.
     "Thank you. Most people who read `The Tattler', even if they feel that way, would never admit it."
     "What did you come here to research?"
     "Angels."
     Ralph swallowed hard on a laugh.
     "Angels? In Utah? You mean `saints' don't you? Please, don't give them a promotion, it's hard enough to live
here without being a member of the ruling church as it is."
     Sasha laughed at his mock whine.
     "No, it's not that. A few people in the area have attributed some mysterious occurrences to angels so I came to
look into it."
     He raised his eyebrows, warming to the subject.
     "Have you had any luck?"
     "I guess that would depend on whether you're talking professional or personal. I didn't find any angels, but I
found a wonderful man. I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him."
     A look of concern passed across Ralph's dark eyes, but his lips curled into a smile.
     "That's great. Is this just Michael's getaway? I mean, he doesn't live here, does he?"
     Sasha shrugged, curious.
     "As far as I know. Why?"
     Ralph shook his head.
     "Nothing, it's none of my business. Are you going to hook up a modem so you can send your stories over the
wire?"
     Sasha laughed, a feeling of unease tickling her brain.
     "Modem?! Michael doesn't even have a phone. Or electricity, for that matter."
     Her voice slowly lost its happy timbre as she listed the myriad things missing from Michael Starch's world.
     "He doesn't have indoor plumbing, or a bathroom, or central heating, or a washing machine, or...or...He
doesn't even have a conveniently located Seven-Eleven!"
     Ralph nodded sadly.
     "Now you see why I commute, though I really should live in the community I serve. I just couldn't bring
myself to endure the hardships of living out here."
     He gave a self-effacing snort of laughter.
     "Listen to me. Like not being able to run to the nearest K-mart when my TV breaks is a hardship."
     "TV?! There's no television."
     "It's okay, satellite dishes work pretty well up here. Uh," his smile drooped, his brow furrowing as he realized
he was not making the situation any better, "I guess that doesn't help you much, huh? Well, maybe your guy just
needs encouragement to get the power company up here."
     Sasha shook her head, the realization of her predicament beginning to sink in like an anchor in deep water.
     "And the phone company, and the toilet company. I don't think so. I think Michael likes things just the way
they are. What was I thinking? I'm not the Annie Oakley type. Heck, my idea of roughing it is making due with local
stations because I can't afford cable."
     "I'm sure you can work things out. If you really like this guy..."
     A slight edge of hysteria cracked Sasha's words.
     "Like him? He thinks we're married."
     Curiosity deepened the furrows shadowing her guest's forehead.
     "Thinks?"
     Sasha looked sheepish.
     "Yeah, we had this ceremony in the woods. I mean, the guy was blackmailing me. Marry me or I won't sleep
with you."
     Realizing what she had just let fall out of her mouth, Sasha dropped her gaze to the floor, her skin darkening
to crimson. Ralph chose to treat her statement as unremarkable fact to keep her talking. This was fascinating.
     "I thought it was usually the woman who pulled that line. So you were married in the forest. I hate to tell you
this, but even if the location was a little strange and the ceremony was only presided over by a local Justice of the
Peace, the marriage will still be recognized by the law."
     Sasha was shaking her head.
     "No, Michael didn't want a JP. He said he wanted to be married before God. I went along because I figured
we could do it right later. And there were other things I wanted to do at the moment, you know?"
     Ralph smiled and nodded.
     "So you just said some words in front of the sparrows?"
     Sasha shrugged.
     "That's all."
     "Look, I hate getting in the middle like this, but if you don't want to live the way this guy lives, you're gonna
be miserable out here in no time. That silly glaze of love only covers your eyes just so long. Believe me, I know."
     Desperately wanting to think about anything else, Sasha jumped on his admission.
     "The voice of experience. Were you in love?"
     Sadness, and anger, filled his dark eyes, his voice dropping to a pain-filled whisper.
     "I loved very deeply, but it wasn't returned. That's why I moved here."
     Sasha leaned forward to pat his fur-covered shoulder consolingly.
     "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."
     He slowly shook his head.
     "They're always there."
     He raised his eyes to look at her.
     "It doesn't take much to make me remember. Once again, it's none of my business, but if I were you, I'd think
long and hard about trying to change myself to conform to the one I love. In my experience, it doesn't usually work
out."
     Sasha jumped as the door flew open and Michael, looking like an enraged bull, stomped into the cabin. His
bellow shook her to her toes.
     "What the Hell is he doing here?"     
                               Chapter Seventeen
                                        
     Sasha jumped to her feet, turning to face Michael with the dark flush of embarrassed anger staining her
cheeks.
     "Michael! I realize you don't get much company out here but that's no reason to behave like a barbarian!"
     Sasha's guest had risen from the hearth upon Michael's dramatic arrival. Sasha turned to him, her
embarrassment and anger at Michael's actions clear in her every stilted move.
     "I apologize, Mr Lucien. Allow me to prove that someone who lives in this cabin has some manners. Ralph
Lucien, I would like you to meet Michael Starch. Michael..."
     She returned her attention to the silver-blonde giant standing in the middle of the cabin, her anger increasing -
if that were possible - with the realization that he hadn't even bothered to close the door. That would explain the
great gusts of Arctic wind that were freezing her lips to her teeth!
     Michael's eyes were blazing blue coals, his face florid with seething rage, as he spoke in a hiss.
     "I know who he is."
     A tap on her shoulder made Sasha turn, eyebrows raised in question. Her mouth dropped open in surprise
when she discovered that Ralph had dropped the fur, exposing his fully aroused body to her wide eyes. Funny. He
hadn't seemed that large of stature when he had been huddling at the door, a half-frozen waif. He even seemed to
have grown in height, now nearly as tall as Michael. He was well-muscled, from the breadth of his shoulders to his
strong calves. And standing proud in the middle of it all was...Sasha gasped, unable to believe what she was seeing.
The porno industry would have paid a small fortune to entice this guy into films.
     With one finger under her chin - Why hadn't she noticed his unusually long fingernails? - Lucien raised her
eyes to meet his, a wry grin tilting the corners of his mouth.
     "I'm up here, darling. Sorry, I haven't been completely truthful with you. I am Michael's brother," his eyes
slanted toward Michael as his voice hardened, "the smart one."
     "Get your hands off her!"
     The dark man stepped away from Sasha, his hands held out to his sides in a show of pacification.
     "Temper, temper."
     He narrowed his eyes, dark brown innocence turning to pure black evil before Sasha's amazed gaze.
     "How have you been, brother? Long time, no see."
     His eyes cut to Sasha, and she could have sworn she felt something cold and oily crawl over her skin. She
shivered, bringing a satisfied smile to Lucien's face.
     "Nice piece."
     He held one finger in front of his chest in a warning gesture.
     "If you follow your instincts and draw steel, brother, this lovely little hovel," a nonchalant sweep of Lucien's
hand in Sasha's direction narrowed Michael's eyes, "and everything in it, is likely to get cut to pieces."
     Michael's hand dropped to his side, slowly clenching into a fist. Lucien's face twisted in a sneer of triumph.
     "Good choice."
     His tone was blithe, friendly.
     "Besides, I was just leaving."
     He pinned Sasha with black eyes that now seemed to burn with oily fire, making her skin crawl, her nerve
endings firing with an unknown fear. His voice lowered conspiratorially.
     "If we're not angels, Miss Frazier, then how do you explain this?"
     Sasha stood frozen in place, shock making movement impossible, as huge obsidian wings slowly unfurled
from Lucien's back to a span of nearly ten feet across. With a graceful forward pull, the dark angel rose several feet
above the ground.
     "It's been a real pleasure meeting you, Sasha. I look forward to the next time."
     His black eyes cut to Michael as he hissed, "Brother."
     With a flash of silver-limned darkness, he was gone.
     Sasha slowly sank into the chair, the flames of the fire not nearly as comforting as they had been just minutes
before. From a distant place inside her mind, she heard Michael close the door, heard his soft footsteps as he moved
up behind her.
     "Sasha?"
     Her name on his lips still quavered with the ghost of his previous anger, but he had it well under control. She
held up her hand, palm toward him.
     "Give me a minute, Michael. I'm sure you can explain what just happened, it's just that I know that once I hear
your explanation, my whole world is going to rotate 180 on its axis and I'm going to have deal with that."
     Her tone climbed slowly as she spoke, indicating her increasing emotional turmoil.
     "I need one last minute of thinking I know pretty much everything I need to know to keep myself safe in this
world, okay, I really need that right now."
     Sensing her distress, and grieving for his part in it, Michael slipped his arms beneath her and lifted, carrying
her unresisting body to the bed. He carefully laid her on her side, then slid in behind her, covering their bodies with a
soft, dark fur. Wrapping his muscular arms around her, he hoped she would take strength from him. Laying his cheek
against her silky hair, he spoke softly into her ear.
     "I will protect you, my love. You have nothing to fear."
     The soft kitten in his arms suddenly erupted into an enraged tiger. She stiffened then reared up onto her
knees, turning to face him, her eyes shooting ebony sparks.
     "I have nothing to fear? Correct me if I'm wrong - and, believe me, for once in my life, I really, really want to
be wrong - but didn't I just have afternoon tea with the Devil?!"
     His heavy sigh was answer enough for Sasha. She leapt from the bed, her agitation and fear making it
impossible for her to remain still, her desire to beat her lover until he admitted it was all a sick joke making her want
to keep her distance from him.
     "That's it, I'm outta here! We're dealing with some heavy hitters here, and I don't think they abide by the
accepted rules of baseball, ya know?"
     Michael knew this was one of those situations that would be best solved with the use of sensitivity.
Unfortunately, sensitivity had never been his forte. He sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, controlling
his anger enough to keep his tone just below a yell.
     "I see. You readily believe in the Devil, but angels are a figment of lonely little old ladies' imaginations. Why
is that, could you tell me, reporter? Why is man so ready to believe in the existence of supreme evil while he fiercely
denies the existence of righteousness? All scales balance in the end. Luke is no more, or less, real than Gabe or
Raphael..."
     He stood and glared down at her.
     "Or me!"
     Something clicked inside Sasha's brain, a tiny chip of what she had perceived as reality breaking off and
disintegrating. She looked into Michael's eyes, clear blue and full of righteous indignation, swallowed convulsively,
then let her shaky knees have their way and slowly lowered herself to sit on the floor. In an equally shaky voice, she
tried to make sense of it all by employing one of her favorite working tools - the soliloquy.
     "Come on, Sasha, be a reporter. That is, after all, what it says on your job description. Look at this from an
objective angle. Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Luke - short for Lucifer, who fell from Heaven because of some kind of
disagreement with God. And the Archangel Michael beat the crap out of him and made him leave. I think."
     She glanced in Michael's direction, then went back to examining a fascinating bit of dirt by her foot.
     "You've sure got your biblical info down. More than me, anyway. So, either you're an angel and you're
reciting your own personal history, or..."
     Her eyes lit as she rose back to her feet to face Michael, the look of dawning on her pretty face making him
wary. She grew more and more excited as she spoke.
     "Or you're an alien who has studied the Bible, using angels as an explanation for your unusual powers. That
would explain the bright lights in the forest, running errands in the middle of a blizzard, even a man appearing to
sprout wings. Lots of scientific types have speculated that the angels written about in ancient tomes were really
creatures from other planets. There are even cave drawings that would seem to bear that out. And...Would you please
stop shaking your head at me?! If you have something to say, spit it out!"
     Another heavy sigh from Michael made the urge to slap his handsome face so irresistible, Sasha took a step
backward. His voice was sad, weary.
     "You're not ready. Luke tried to force the knowledge upon you to push you from me. I won't lie to you to set
your world straight, Sasha, but I won't force my reality upon you before you're ready, either. Believe what you wish,
just don't ask me to validate that belief."
     Sensing the time to leave it alone - the time when most good reporters dug in their heels - Sasha ignored her
reporter's instincts and listened instead to her heart, which was telling her that Michael had her best interests in mind
and she should listen to him. Sensing her acquiescence, Michael pulled her into his arms and nearly squeezed the
breath from her lungs in a fierce demonstration of his love for her. Then he set her from him and smiled, his eyes
sapphire stars.
     "Hungry? I brought all the stuff to make hamburgers - I think. Meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles,
onions, ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, buns, potato chips, beer, more Twinkies, an orange, and chocolate ice cream.
Did I forget anything?"
     His boyish expression was so adorable, Sasha couldn't resist the urge to throw her arms around his neck and
give him a big kiss. Before he could misinterpret her spontaneous show of affection, turning it into a hungry
afternoon, she pulled away and graced him with a sparkling smile of her own.
     "Sounds like you thought of everything. I'm starving! So where is this bounty, let's get cooking."
     "I'll get the food, you make sure the fire's ready."
     Sasha knelt on the hearth, not really sure what to do to make a fire ready. She picked up the log she had used
to threaten Lu...whoever, and poked at the flames. She figured stirring it would work, since stirring was a cooking
thing. Michael headed for the door but stopped with his hand on the knob. He didn't turn as he spoke, his words as
soft as feathers floating on air.
     "Sasha, I love you. Whatever truths we share or dispute, now and forever, know that to be as real as the
mountains that surround us."
     Then he stepped out the door.
     
     They cooked and ate their wonderful repast like two teenagers on a picnic. Hands `accidently' brushed
intimate places in the course of cooking, clothes that became too hot with the work were discarded, not to be
replaced. Modesty was unnecessary between them. They had gazed into each other's souls while joined in the
ultimate act of love. What did they have to hide from each other?
     After the main meal, they laid on the bed, talking about inconsequential things, until they felt ready for
dessert. Sasha started to get up to get the ice cream, but Michael pressed her down with one large hand placed
caressingly between her breasts, a sensual spark igniting behind his expressive eyes.
     "Let me get dessert, baby. You don't know where I keep the ice cream dishes."
     With a curious shrug, Sasha obeyed his physical command and reclined, enjoying the view as he walked
across the cabin - he had left the ice cream outside where it would stay cold until they wanted it - opened the door
and, with a loud whoop of surprise, quickly retrieved the frozen dessert. Jumping back into the room with his prize, a
cardboard carton of `Swiss Chocolate', in hand, he ran to the bed and shook his head over her body, sending tiny
pellets of frozen moisture to rain down on her naked torso. Sasha screamed and - laughing - pulled the fur over her
head.
     "You creep! I'll get you for that. When you least expect it, your butt is mine."
     With a quick tug, he pulled the fur from atop her, ignoring her screams as he grabbed her hands, his own
freezing cold. She shrieked again, glaring up at him, lustful laughter lighting sapphire and ebony alike with inner fire.
     "Very well. You wish revenge. I am not one to run from my punishments. I offer you your chance."
     Handing her the carton of ice cream, and a large wooden spoon she had seen him use for cooking, he laid on
his stomach on the floor at her feet. He pulled his long hair to the side and looked up into her face, enjoying the way
her eyes roamed over his naked back with such open admiration. 
     "Take your revenge, wench," he ordered boisterously, then, dropping his voice to a husky whisper, he
challenged, "If you dare!"
     The lust in his azure eyes called to her, warming her body, heating certain parts to the boiling point. Sasha
shook her head, chastising herself. She was becoming such a lech! 
     "You'll freeze."
     He lifted his head to get a better view of her breasts, the darkly tipped mounds rising with each of her deep,
excited breaths. The action tensed all the muscles along his smooth back, from his neck to his heels, his body
reminding Sasha of a Greek statue.
     "I have great faith that you will find a way to warm me to a fever pitch in no time at all."
     His erotic declaration, along with the darkening of his eyes, made her breath catch in her throat. She couldn't
stand it any longer, she had to touch him. Kneeling beside his prone body, ignoring the cold of the floor beneath her
knees, she sat the carton on the hard curve of his buttocks, giggling at his sharply in-drawn breath. She chuckled like
a demented cartoon villain.
     "Revenge is sweet!"
     Opening the carton, she scooped a spoonful of ice cream onto the hard plane of his back, watching in
fascination as it slid slowly along his spine, settling in the hollow just before the rise of his derrire. Moving the
carton to the floor, she placed one hand on his nether cheeks, softly rubbing to chase away the cold, then leaned over
and licked the trail the ice cream had left as it sought the lowest point in its travels.
     Michael shivered and moaned, the feel of her silken tongue caressing his back filling him with a nearly
unbearable need to be inside her, thrusting, straining to reach the physical Heaven he knew only Sasha could offer.
He raised himself to his elbows, tightening already tensed muscles in an effort to hold on to his control. He wanted to
play out this scene of love and lust as long as he could possibly stand it. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, running
in rivulets down his cheeks to drip from his nose and pool on the floor. When her tongue ceased its tender
ministrations, he thought he had survived the torture of this love game. But his beloved vixen wasn't through with
him.
     "Are you a coward who won't face his torturer, Michael? After all, it was my chest that got frozen."
     Taking a deep breath he doubted he would be able to release in the near future, Michael rolled onto his back,
using his hand to flip his hair out of his face. He glared at her, his nearly-out-of-control lust adding realism to the
expression. 
     "I am no coward, woman," he growled, his desire to pull her hot, welcoming body beneath him a living,
breathing beast within him. To combat it, he clenched his fists and forced them to the ground at his sides.
     "I accept your requital."
     Sasha's eyebrows peaked.
     "Requital? I'll have to look that one up. But," her eyes promised the agonies of Hell and the pleasures of Earth
all rolled into one, "not right this minute. I have other things on my mind right now."
     Scooping another spoonful of ice cream, she plopped the quickly melting ball into her hand and grinned down
at her narrow-eyed victim.
     "This is gonna be fun."
     When Michael realized where her hand was headed, it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep
from grabbing her wrist and putting an end to this game. Sasha, obviously a torturer in her darkest fantasies, grasped
his manhood in her warm hand, slipping her satin-skinned fingers up and down his shaft, driving him to near
oblivion. Then, with a wicked smile that told him she knew exactly how close he was to losing control, she pressed
the frozen mush in her other hand onto the underside of his swollen shaft.
     His yell could have awakened the hibernating bear in a cave miles away. He rose to his elbows, still resisting
the urge to take the game from her hands.
     "Have mercy, woman!"
     Sasha giggled as some of the steel left the sword of which Michael was so fond. She considered it her solemn
duty to restore that steel, perhaps even adding a bit more iron. Casting him a look that made the air passing in and
out of his lungs catch fire, she lowered her head and trailed her long ebony curls over his chest. Rising to her knees,
she threw back her head, sending her hair flying and pushing her breasts up and out, drawing Michael's eyes to their
swollen tips. Dark eyes blazing with all the passion he was feeling seared his face.
     "Don't worry, warrior, I intend to make this one punishment you will never forget."
     She leaned closer, her breath warming his face, and whispered, "I'm a woman, Michael, I never waste
chocolate ice cream."
     With only those words as warning, she turned and lowered her mouth to slowly lick the melted ice cream
from his shaft. Michael's head dropped back as he groaned, his back arching to bring her lips and tongue in firmer
contact with his straining flesh. As her lips engulfed his flaming sword, tiny points of light appeared behind his
eyelids. Stars, his own personal galaxy of his lady's creation. She caressed him with her strong, soft hands while she
drove him to the brink of insanity with her mouth, never breaking contact, never giving him a moment's peace to
recover. He could feel his release building inside him, tightening his skin, threatening to overwhelm his control.
     With a growl of pure animal lust, Michael reared like a great beast rising to do battle with its tormentor.
Barely controlled ferocity combining with tenderness in an uneasy truce, he pulled Sasha astride him. His hands
shook as he held her there with a firm grip on one hip. Capturing her gaze with the intensity of his own, he gloried in
the darkening of her eyes as she watched him slowly slide the fingers of his free hand between his lips. Her shiver of
anticipation nearly his undoing, he slid his moistened fingers between her legs, seeking the heart of her desire.
Finding the small bud slick and inflamed, he spread her wide with his fingers and firmly caressed her, smiling
wickedly as the moisture flowing from her to bathe his manhood told him he was bringing her near to flowering.
When his instincts told him she was near to full bloom, he grasped both her hips in his strong hands and thrust deeply
into her yearning body.
     With what could only be described as a primal scream, Sasha threw back her head, the sweet pressure of
Michael's penetration touching something inside her body that had never before been touched. With wide-eyed
wonder, she felt her muscles contract around his shaft of steel, then release, only to contract again, matching the
rhythm of his thrusts. She was out of control, her body taking that which it needed to survive. If the pressure building
inside her released all at once, she was certain she would die in that moment, gladly welcoming her demise.
     Michael watched the wonder and pleasure glowing on the face of his beautiful lady and felt it matched within
him. He pulled her to him even as he used his powerful legs to thrust into her body, wanting to meld with her, to
become one. When she started to shake, moaning with reckless abandon, his control slipped from his fingers.
     "Sasha, my love," his growled words barely resembled English, "Ah, my life, my heart."
     Suddenly, she went completely motionless above him, even her breath stilled. Their eyes met and in her dark
orbs he saw every good emotion he had ever felt - love, lust, ecstasy. He saw the fear of the unknown and her desire
to explore it, her trust in him to protect her. He saw the moon, the stars, the galaxies swirling about in the heavens.
And he knew she saw all her inner feelings reflected in his sapphire gaze.
     A moan started deep in her throat, slowly becoming a scream as it sought its freedom. Her body convulsed
atop him as she threw back her head, digging her fingertips into his chest. Her sheath contracted so tightly on his
shaft, he might have thought it painful, if he had been able to think at all. He was capable only of feeling. Pleasure
exploded in his brain like a nuclear bomb, his shout of triumph and release echoing through the little cabin. As his
seed erupted into her body, he gave one last thrust, tilting her hips with his hands to rub his body against her tender
bud. He wanted to give his lady every ounce of pleasure his body could supply. She shivered and fell forward to
cover his body with her own, sighing her last touch of consciousness.
     Slowly recovering his senses, Michael gently rolled Sasha's limp body to the floor beside him, leaving her
there only seconds as he rose to his knees and wrapped her in his arms. Lifting her to the bed, he climbed in beside
her, tucking her into the crook of his body, draping his arm securely over her hip and cupping his hand over one soft
breast. Pulling the furs over their damp, naked flesh, he surrendered to the deep, dreamless sleep that beckoned.
     And on the floor beside the bed where the lovers sought the slumber that only sated lust can bring, a carton of
chocolate ice cream, forgotten and tipped onto its side during their joining, melted onto the cabin floor, mute
testimony to the searing heat of their passion.     
                                Chapter Eighteen
                                        
     Sasha scanned the four walls of Michael's cabin, hoping to find something of interest that she had missed the
first fourteen times she had done so this morning. No luck, but then, she hadn't really expected any considering the
way the night had gone. After about five hours of tossing and turning, she had finally given up on ever achieving
deep sleep. Rising on her elbow, she had watched her version of Sleeping Beauty, amazed at how different Michael
looked in slumber. With his expressive, startlingly blue eyes closed, long silvery lashes fringing his cheek, and the
rest of his face at rest, he could have been ten years old. His face was innocence personified, his skin flawless,
untouched by all but a few laugh lines around his eyes. His high cheekbones nearly glowed with health, his square
jaw a reminder of his occasional stubborn streak. His full lips turned up in a dreamy smile, he was truly beautiful.
     Careful not to disturb him, she had eventually crawled from the bed and pulled on her clothes, and his heavy
coat, so she could take a little walk outside to attend to some personal business. Opening the door, she had gotten
quite a shock when she had been greeted by a three-foot-deep wall of snow. She had climbed over the freezing white
stuff and nearly crawled to the side of the cabin, which was as far as she chose to go this morning.
     Fearing her private parts might freeze to the ground at any minute, she completed her necessary business and
made her way as fast as possible back inside. Not that it was that much warmer within the little cabin. She would
have built a fire, but that was just one of the many things she hadn't yet gotten around to learning. Okay, so she was a
failure as a Girl Scout. Fire-building had not been high on her list of skills necessary to be a good reporter.
     Was it her imagination, or had the walls actually gotten a little closer, the room a little smaller, while she was
outside?
     Hearing Michael move right at that moment possibly saved her sanity. She turned to find him rising from the
bed, his eyes still soft and sleepy. As he caught sight of her, a bright smile lit his face. He spoke with the huskiness of
sleep still heavy on his vocal cords.
     "Good morning."
     Blushing with the memory of the previous evening, Sasha felt pink warmth flow over her face as she returned
his smile.
     "Good morning."
     Michael walked to the fireplace, unselfconsciously scratching himself as all men were wont to do first thing
in the morning. Sasha grinned, wondering if he would blush if she brought it to his attention. Probably not. He was
such a Neanderthal, he'd just say something about it being the way of men. He placed several of the logs stacked
beside the hearth into the fireplace, then knelt before it and began the mysterious process of bringing life to the
flames. Sasha decided now was as good a time as any to broach the subject of her leaving.
     "Michael, I've been thinking."
     His chuckle caressed her senses, reminding her why she had stayed this long.
     "Uh-oh. I thought I had been keeping you too busy for that. Have I been falling down on my job?"
     She playfully smacked her palm against his broad back, loving the feel of his skin. She resisted the urge to
run her fingers over his warm flesh, knowing how the muscles would begin to ripple beneath her touch, how he
would turn to her, his eyes aflame, and return the favor of the caress, his strong fingers kneading the tender flesh of
her breasts beneath her blouse, making her breath catch in her throat. Good grief, just thinking about it was getting
her all hot and bothered!
     "Have you looked outside?"
     He turned to her with a comical expression that said she knew he hadn't.
     "No, I guess you haven't. The snow is practically covering the cabin. If it snows again, it'll probably cover the
chimney. They'll have to thaw us out in the Spring."
     He laughed as he prepared the fireplace to cook breakfast, hanging the kettle for tea, then quickly pulled on
his jeans and t-shirt.
     "Don't worry, I'll do my best to keep you warm. And I doubt the snow is as deep as you think. You're a city
girl. Before now, I'll bet the only snow you'd ever seen was inside one of those little glass globes that kids get for
Christmas from maiden aunts who haven't the foggiest idea what to give a child."
     Sasha suddenly remembered Aunt Sophie's Christmas present to her the year she turned six. Two majestic
black horses running through a field of white. How Sasha laughed with glee when Sophie had shaken the globe and
large flakes of snow had bathed their ebony coats. Mama had said it was too old for her, she'd break it in no time, but
Aunt Sophie had just smiled and shaken her head with that knowing look she always seemed to have in ample
supply. Though it was safely packed away, a future gift for her little girl, Sasha still had that beautiful snow globe.
     "Sweetheart? Sasha?"
     Sasha blinked and looked up into Michael's concerned face.
     "Huh? Oh, Michael, I'm sorry. I was remembering a present from my Aunt Sophie, a snow globe. And I'll
have you know I have seen other snow. Not the Arctic deluge you seem to favor in these parts, but a breed of snow.
And I'm not particularly fond of it. It's cold, for one thing, and..."
     "Warm snow is called `rain'."
     Sasha crinkled her nose at his joke and he grinned.
     "Do you think we could postpone this weather report till I get back?"
     She almost laughed out loud as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unconsciously mimicking the
classic I-have-to-go-to-the-bathroom motions of a little boy.
     "Sure, no problem."
     He was out the door before she finished her sentence.
     In a few minutes, time Sasha used to further prepare her arguments, he returned with more firewood, and
some unrecognizable meat-thing hanging from a string.
     "Yuck! What's that?"
     He dropped the wood and quickly slipped the string behind the pile.
     "Breakfast."
     "Wait a minute. That was never a fish. Or a rabbit. Or anything else that readily comes to mind. If I'm going
to eat something, I think..."
     "Snake."
     "What?!"
     "It must have gotten caught in the blizzard. It was frozen solid by the firewood. Snake is good eating, it tastes
like..."
     "Yeah, I know, chicken."
     "I was going to say `wild duck', but I don't suppose you've ever eaten that so chicken works."
     "Great. What did you have for breakfast, Miss Frazier? Volunteer snakesicle."
     "I'm going to cook it."
     "I figured that."
     She sat silently for a minute as he began preparing breakfast. Not quite ready to broach the subject of her
leaving, though she had thought herself quite gung-ho about it, she mumbled to herself, "Figures you'd eat snake.
Garden of Eden and all. Symbolic destruction of evil."
     Michael laughed and shook his head.
     "Misinterpretation. The `serpent' of Eden was a luminescent-winged dragon. Luke favors that form, it's
dramatic."
     "Luke, as in Lucien, as is Lucifer? I thought he had to crawl on his belly for eternity."
     Another shake of his silver-gold mane.
     "That's metaphorical. He is not allowed to stand before God, thus `crawling' like a beaten adversary."
     "You actually believe everything you're saying, don't you?"
     With the expected heavy sigh, Michael nodded.
     "If you know all these things, like what the Bible really means, why don't you tell people?"
     "Father wants his children to figure it out for themselves. He says it's a maturing process that all children
need."
     Michael shrugged, his disagreement clear.
     "I say if they haven't got it yet, they're too dense to ever figure it out, but He's the boss."
     "You say `they'. Does that mean you're not one of God's children?"
     "I'm not as Adam and Eve, no. I guess you could say I'm the firstborn."
     He turned and held out his hand, which she took with a wary arch of one eyebrow.
     "Let me introduce myself."
     He gave her hand a firm shake, then spoke the words she had never wanted to hear.
     "I am the Archangel Michael, St Michael to those of the Catholic persuasion, Mikal with a `k' to Moslems,
Mikey to my brother Gabe, the Archangel Gabriel. You haven't met Raphael, probably because he's staying out of the
way until he figures he's needed. He has a lot more patience than Gabe, which isn't saying much. A two-year-old
child has more patience than Gabe. And a longer attention span."
     Laughing softly, Sasha asked, "You mean, angels aren't perfect?"
     Michael gave a shout of laughter.
     "Hardly! We make mistakes, lots of `em. We just clean up quickly, usually before anyone suffers."
     "What mistakes have you made?"
     Michael's eyes darkened, his mood turning sober, and he returned his attention to his cooking.
     "Father asked me to speak with Emperor Hirohito. I warned him, telling him what horrible consequences
would come from his actions if he continued on his current path. I believed him when he said I had convinced him to
alter his actions. What I didn't realize was that he thought I was some sort of spy, using unknown American
technology to appear and disappear. He moved up the attack on Pearl Harbor, an attack that would have taken place
on December 24th without my interference. So, although I failed in my primary mission, I at least made it so all
those men didn't die on Christmas Eve."
     Sasha placed her hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension-tightened muscles there.
     "Michael, you did your best."
     He shook his head violently, his soft hair brushing the back of her hand.
     "No! I should have put more fear into him, not believed him when he nodded and said what I wanted to hear.
But I didn't think they'd do it, attack like that with no provocation. And the eventual retaliation. All those innocent
lives lost. War should be man to man, face to face."
     Wanting to alleviate the tension, not to mention defend her sex, Sasha tried to sound offended.
     "What about `woman to woman'?"
     His contemptuous snort ruffled her feathers.
     "Hey, we women are just as capable of defending ourselves as you guys."
     Michael raised a fist before her face, flexing the muscle in his arm. With his other hand, he pulled her arm
out, inviting her with a raised eyebrow to flex her own muscle. It was Sasha's turn to snort.
     "Yeah, well, in a lot of situations, brain beats brawn."
     "Women belong in the home, nurturing man's children."
     "And I suppose kids don't need male nurturing?"
     Michael gave her a wide-eyed expression of disgust.
     "Nurturing? Men provide strength, discipline, security. Women coddle and spoil."
     Sasha shook her head.
     "You're hopeless."
     Michael handed her a small stick with pre-cut pieces of sizzling meat on one end. Her straight white teeth
flashed a very insincere smile.
     "Gee, thanks."
     He grinned and popped a hot piece of meat into his mouth, making little this-tastes-so-good sounds as he
chewed. Sasha grimaced and slowly eased a small piece of the snakemeat between teeth that threatened to bite her
own fingers at any minute. Resisting the urge to hold her nose like a two-year-old, she slowly chewed, happy to find
that snake did indeed taste a little like chicken. Wild, poisonous chicken.
     Finishing her allotted serpent, she wiped her hands on her pants, a habit she was certain meant the death of
this particular pair of jeans, and faced Michael where he sat leaning against the hearth. He had one knee up, his arm
leisurely draped across it, the picture of the relaxed mountain man. "Michael?"
     His eyes moved lazily in her direction.
     "Umm?"
     "We have to talk."
     As she had expected, he instantly became alert. Men hated that phrase.
     "Talk about what?"
     His tone was nonchalance with an undertone of wary suspicion.
     "My leaving."
     Folding his legs in front of him, he sat up. His back was straight, his shoulders thrown back, and Sasha's mind
filled with the vision of an Indian warrior slowly preparing his muscles for battle. His eyes, blue-agate shiny, grew
intense, scrutinizing her every move, every word, for a weakness.
     Oh, well, I didn't think this would be easy, Sasha reminded herself.
     "Why would you leave. This is our home."
     Sasha softly shook her head, sadness in her dark brown gaze.
     "No, Michael, this is your home. My home, such as it is, is in New York. For all that Ralph, Luke, the guy
with the wings was a lying creep, he made a good point. I can't live out here, Michael. There are just too many things
missing. No electricity, no phone, no bathroom."
     It was his turn to shake his head, the soft glow of anger's coal building in his eyes.
     "After a while you wouldn't miss them. But if they mean so much to you, I can arrange..."
     "No, Michael."
     She tried to soften the blow of her interruption by assuming a placating tone.
     "I don't want to change you. That wouldn't be fair. And I don't want to change, either. What we've had these
last few weeks has been wonderful, but it's time for me to get back to reality. I'm a reporter, a reporter who probably
no longer has a job, but I can get another one. I'm just not a wilderness person, Michael. I've got to get out of here
before the snow makes it impossible. With your help, I can get to my...Oh, my Go...," blue eyes flashed, "...sh! I
completely forgot my car! With late fees and everything, I've probably bought the little monster by now."
     "I took care of it."
     It took Sasha a minute to run the softly spoken words through her central processing system and make sense
of them.
     "How did you do that?"
     He shrugged, his eyes searing into hers.
     "I saw that it was returned. You owe nothing."
     Sasha smiled her gratefulness, but Michael didn't acknowledge it.
     "You are my wife, you live where I choose. But I will do my best to accommodate your need for modern
technology."
     Shaking her head violently, Sasha stood and paced before him.
     "You don't understand, Michael, I don't want to live in the back of beyond. I can't, and still do my job. I have
to be able to travel, to pack up and go at a moment's notice. I love you, I just can't live with you."
     "Of course you can, you just have some things to get used to. I will help..."
     "No!"
     Even Sasha was surprised at how loud she had shouted. She softened her tone, knowing by the narrowing of
deep-blue eyes that it was far too late for that.
     "I won't, okay? I'm leaving here today if I have to ask directions from a passing polar bear!"
     Michael ground his teeth, exhausting every ounce of restraint at his disposal to keep from yelling at the
woman he loved. Instead, his voice dropped to a near-whisper that raised the hair on the back of Sasha's neck.
     "You are my wife. You will do as I say."
     Time to lay all her cards on the table, smashing any hope for a future with the man she loved into a thousand
pieces.
     "I only married you in that backwoods ceremony so you would make love to me. I didn't mean it. Who ever
heard of God as a J.P.? It was sweet, an absolute Kodak moment, but that's all it was."
     Watching his sapphire eyes widen in surprise, then narrow to bare slits of cold anger as she spoke made Sasha
extremely nervous. Would he get violent if he didn't get his way? No. She didn't know all that much about Michael
but of that much she was absolutely certain - He would never strike her.
     Still, as he slowly rose to his feet to tower over her, his face a mask of restrained fury, her certainty was little
comfort. He glared down at her, freezing her in her tracks, his voice rising as he spoke.
     "You deliberately lied before God? For sex?"
     He took a step back from her, clenching his fists at his sides. He had never in his long life wanted to lash out
at a human being as badly as he did at this moment. No one, by sword or word, had ever brought this much pain to
his heart. He stared at the woman he loved, unsure what to say, how to make this agony cease.
     Sasha had to say something, had to defend herself from the painful betrayal darkening Michael's eyes. How
could she make him understand something she didn't truly understand. She loved him, but she didn't want to be him.
     "Well it was you who said you wouldn't do it until we got married, you who came up with that ridiculous
ceremony in the first place. I just gave you what you wanted so I - so we both - could get what we really wanted."
     She reached out to him, suddenly realizing how very far apart they had slipped in the last five minutes.
     "Michael?"
     The searing cold look in his eyes told her as no words ever could that she had lost him. A sudden pain gripped
her chest, as though some unseen assailant had driven a knife between her ribs, piercing her heart. In that eternal
second, she realized the truth - She would never see Michael again. Never glory in his strong arms holding her safe.
Never feel his breath caress her face, his lips claiming hers in a kiss both soft and fierce, possessive and giving. In a
sudden flash of revelation, she knew she had found, and lost, her one true love, damning herself to an eternity of
loneliness.
     Tears filled her eyes, spilling down her cheeks to dot her blouse with pearls of pain.
     "Michael, I..."
     His hand slashed between them as he turned away from her, his voice edged with steel.
     "Get your things. I will take you into town."
     Sobs nearly closed her throat as she spoke, wanting desperately to make him understand, to find a thread of
their love that she might eventually be able to knit back together.
     "Michael, please, let me explain."
     He spun back to face her, eyes blazing, clenched fists shaking with barely controlled emotion.
     "I understand."
     Sasha gasped as a soft glow began to emanate from Michael, surrounding him in pale luminescence.
     "You are a lying whore who used me to your own ends. Even that, my foolish heart, so full of love for you,
would forgive."
     He straightened, all remnants of her lover gone.
     "But you took a vow before God with no intention of keeping it, a betrayal I will never forgive."
     His flaming eyes scanned the room, returning to bore holes through her skull. His voice was that of a general
commanding his troops. No emotion, just direction.
     "Remove every taint of your presence from my home. And do so quickly. As you can plainly see, my control
is nearing its end. Angels are not perfect!"
     In two firm strides, he reached the door, flinging it open as though it had committed some transgression
against him. Once again, he spoke without looking at her, his voice losing strength with each word, like a balloon
slowly losing life-giving air. 
     "You were wrong, Sasha. Angels can lie. We resist because it would hurt our Father. Lies hurt worse than a
sword through flesh."
     His last words before he left the cabin, quietly closing the door behind him, were soft as a breath. The sound
of his voice - the caged sobs that would never be allowed to choke, the damned tears that would never be set free to
course down his strong cheeks - that sound would ring in Sasha's ears for the rest of her life.
     "I will love you for eternity."     
                                Chapter Nineteen
                                        
     Michael stared at the flames leaping and dancing in the fireplace of his little cabin. His long legs were
stretched out before him, bare feet resting on the hearth, as he lounged in the log chair, a bottle of beer in one hand
balanced on his chest. He would have liked to drink enough of the amber liquid to dull the pain, to make him forget
dark flashing eyes and silken ebony locks, but he knew Father would be hurt and disappointed in him if he drank
himself into oblivion. So he nursed a single bottle and let each minute of his short time with Sasha flow across his
closed eyelids, savoring some, wondering how he could have ever been so blind during others.
     She had never loved him, she'd just wanted the temporary use of his body. There had been others like her, lots
of them, but, for the most part, they had all been honest, making it clear that a tumble was all they wanted of him.
Not her. Not his beautiful Sasha. She had claimed to love him, agreed to be his wife, to share his life for eternity.
     Lies, all lies!
     Michael hurled the near-empty bottle against the stone hearth with such force, some of its shattered pieces
flew clear across the room to bounce off the door. He paid no heed to the few pieces of sharp glass that found their
way to the chair. If they cut him, he doubted he would be able to feel the pain, so great was the agony cutting his
heart in two.
     "Hey, Mikey...whoa!"
     Michael squeezed his eyes closed, whispering a prayer.
     "Father, please give me the patience to deal with him."
     Gabriel grimaced at the broken glass as he stepped around the chair and crouched before Michael, his deep
violet eyes so full of love and concern, it was almost Michael's undoing.
     "Michael, what's wrong? Where's Sasha?"
     The flash of sapphire pain Gabriel witnessed upon mention of the lady's name told him she wasn't there,
would not be coming back. His heart clenched in his chest, sympathetic pain for his brother nearly knocking him to
the ground. Gabriel tilted his head to the side, lifting the corners of his lips in a rather sickly smile.
     "If I put my arms around you, will they have to find the blueprints to put me back together?"
     Michael clenched his square jaw, grinding his teeth to hold his temper in control. He had no anger toward
Gabe. It was just that everything inside him hurt so badly, he wanted to strike out, to share that hurt with someone.
     And the one who deserved it was gone from him forever.
     Not waiting for an answer - no one could ever have accused Gabe of having an overabundance of patience -
the cinnamon-haired angel leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the angry warrior. Gabe knew he might be
taking his continued good health in his hands, but he couldn't stand seeing the brother he loved suffering like this and
not do anything to try to alleviate that suffering.
     Michael stiffened as Gabe's strong arms embraced him. He should push his interfering brother away, tell him
he didn't need his help. He should chastise Gabe, tell him that he - Michael - was a great warrior. No mortal woman
could cause him more than a moment's discomfort, and that of the physical variety that he could easily assuage in the
arms of another. He should...
     Pulling Gabriel so tightly against him, he thought he might have broken his ribs, Michael gasped as he felt
something inside his chest rip lose on a sigh. Gabriel tightened his arms around his brother, tears coursing down his
cheeks, tears he knew Michael would never cry.
     "She lied to me, Gabe."
     The controlled sobs keeping Michael's voice at a soft, low pitch were enough to make Gabe's chest ache. How
could Sasha have hurt strong, stubborn Michael so badly?
     "About what, Michael?"
     A long, hard breath escaped Michael's lips and Gabe knew how much effort it was taking for his big brother
not to yell, not to give his anger free rein and make a shambles of the little cabin he loved so dearly. Michael leaned
back in the chair and pinned Gabe with his icy stare, his voice so hard, so reminiscent of a cobra's hiss, it sent a
shiver down Gabe's spine.
     "About everything. The vow she took to be my wife, the vow she gave before God! She didn't mean a word of
it. She seduced me with her lies to get me between her legs. She never loved me."
     The way Michael sneered that most beautiful of words made Gabe stiffen.
     "You're wrong, Michael. She did love you. I know, I saw it in her eyes when she talked about you, when she
looked at you."
     Michael's eyes narrowed to deep blue slits, his nostrils flaring wide with fury. With a none-too-gentle nudge
to Gabe's shoulder, Michael pushed him aside and stood. He paced the full length of the cabin, returning to glare
down at Gabe where he still knelt by the chair.
     "If you seek to defend that lying whore, you had better leave. I'm in no mood to hear it."
     Gave stood and faced Michael, his chin held high.
     "I'm not defending Sasha, I'm telling you what I saw and felt. You know how people are, Michael, things get
in the way. Fear, pride, all sorts of things that have no place even existing on the same plane with something as
beautiful as love. But they do. And they get in the way."
     Realizing how much he wanted to believe what Gabe was saying, Michael pushed aside what he considered
his weakness and turned his back on his naive brother.
     "Thanks for the sermon, Brother Gabe, but I have better things to do than listen to you preach."
     Seeing the stubborn set of Michael's shoulders, Gabriel knew he was probably fighting a losing battle. But he
had to make Michael see, make him understand that Sasha loved him! Gabriel knew what he had seen shining in her
eyes that day in the forest. He had to make his stubborn brother hear him!
     Stepping around Michael so he could look into his flashing azure eyes, Gabe spoke softly, hoping to soften
the blow of his words.
     "Michael, your pride and pain are blinding you."
     Blue fire danced dangerously hot in Michael's eyes, threatening to sear Gabe to ash, but Gabe could be
extremely tenacious when he knew he was right. He wouldn't back down.
     "Sasha loves you."
     Hands of steel closed painfully on Gabriel's shoulders. He didn't flinch, didn't pull away, clenching his jaw
against the pain he doubted his brother realized he was causing.
     "You naive fool, she did not love me! Now go play your music and leave me be."
     Once again, Michael attempted to turn his back on his brother, but Gabriel would have none of it. He grabbed
Michael's shoulder and pulled, intent on using eye contact to help make his point.
     "Michael, you..."
     A fist Gabriel would later swear was the size of a small truck slammed into his jaw, sending him staggering
backward to trip over a discarded fur and fall flat on his back on the floor.
     Silence filled the room, unbroken even by the sound of a breath.
     Michael stared down at Gabriel, a look of such surprise on his handsome face, Gabe would have laughed if he
hadn't been in so much pain. His jaw felt as though it had been ripped off and put on backward, the rest of him
beginning to ache from is unplanned meeting with the hard floor. He raised questioning lilac eyes to the giant
towering over him, his semi-outraged tone reflecting his surprise - and hurt - at having become the target of
Michael's anger.
     "Ouch! Feel better now?"
     Slowly, Michael extended his hand, offering to help Gabe up. Without hesitation, the auburn-haired man
grabbed his hand and rose to stand before him.
     "Michael..."
     "I think you've said enough, little brother."
     "No!"
     Both brothers looked equally stunned at the force of Gabriel's vehement refusal. Gabe's skin darkened, his
eyes flashing violet fire.
     "Now that I've earned your undivided attention, bro, you're gonna hear what I have to say if I have to let you
beat me to a pulp."
     Gabriel saw a muscle jump in Michael's jaw, noticed him clenching his fists at his side, and he wondered if
he were going to regret his hastily spoken words. Then Michael sighed, his face softening, and he pulled Gabe into
his embrace.
     Later, when Michael was more in the mood for levity, Gabe intended to mention how truly painful Michael's
brotherly love could be at times.
     "Broken ribs, broken jaw, sprains and bruises too numerous to mention."
     Michael stepped back, holding Gabriel's arms, and raised his eyebrows in question.
     "What was that?"
     Gabe shrugged, the characteristic twinkle returning to his eyes as he smiled.
     "Just making a list for later. Will you sit down and listen to what I have to say, now?"
     Exhaling a breath that seemed to deflate him from shoulder to hip, Michael nodded and slumped into the
chair.
     "I'm listening."
     Gabe sat on the hearth before Michael, his guileless eyes bright with love for his brother.
     "Sasha loves you. I think, deep down, you know that. It's just easier this way. You said you'd listen."
     Michael had been drawing breath to argue. With flaring nostrils, he snorted his opinion of Gabe's words, but
kept silent, listening as he had said he would.
     "See, you know how to fight swords, and guns, and every other weapon known, but you don't know how to
fight your own heart. So it scares you. You aren't sure how to love Sasha, or worse, how to lose her when, and if, that
time should ever come. So when she did something to give you an out, to let you send her away instead of lose her to
a fate you can't control, you jumped at it."
     "She lied, Gabe, she lied to Father."
     Gabe shrugged, a wry grin touching the corners of his full lips.
     "You didn't think she was perfect, did you? Besides, lying to Him doesn't mean as much to them as it does to
us."
     "It should," Michael grumbled under his breath.
     "Yeah, well, if it were a perfect world, there wouldn't be as much need for us. We'd get bored, you'd probably
have to start a war or something just to keep from going nuts. It would be ugly. I think I like it this way."
     Michael puffed out his chest, rising to the bait.
     "I do not start wars!"
     Gabriel laughed.
     "Yeah, I know, but I was gettin' tired of watching you mope."
     Reaching out, Michael tenderly touched Gabe's jawline where the beginnings of a bruise could be seen. His
tone was soft and warm.
     "You prefer me angry, little brother?"
     Gabe leaned into the caress, his violet eyes glowing with soft inner flame.
     "I know you're sorry. Michael, do you know the parable of the little girl and the snake?"
     Michael did indeed know that one, but he owed Gabe a little more attention. With a quizzical rise of his
eyebrow, he leaned back, obviously waiting. Gabe smiled broadly. He loved telling stories.
     "There was this little girl walking down the road."
     "Where was she going?"
     "Huh?"
     Michael grinned.
     "The little girl. Where was she going?"
     Gabe's brow furrowed.
     "To market. Anyway, she was just walking along, minding her own business when..."
     "What was she going to buy?"
     Gabe's nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing at this latest interruption. The twinkle in Michael's deep blue eyes
let him know his big brother was trying to annoy him.
     "Condoms, so she wouldn't get any more brothers or sisters. She had a very large family and it was getting
difficult to feed them all. She knew her dad was such a lech he couldn't keep his hands off her mom, so she figured
she had better do something before they populated a small country. If you keep interrupting me, this will turn into
`War and Peace'."
     His grin widening, Michael raised his palms in surrender. Gabe narrowed his eyes again for good measure,
then continued.
     "Where was I? Oh, yeah. The little girl saw a snake lying in the road. Someone had run over his tail, and he
was too weak to slither out of the road. The little girl started to walk around the snake, but he begged her to pick him
up and put him on the side of the road so no one else would run over him."
     "Snakes can't talk."
     "Michael!"
     Michael laughed, enjoying Gabriel's youthful charm and exuberance.
     "Sorry, I couldn't resist."
     "Resist! Anyway, the little girl was scared `cause her mother had told her never to touch snakes, that they
would bite her. The snake begged and pleaded and she finally gave in and picked him up. She carefully carried him
to the side of the road, mindful of his injury, and gently laid him in the shade. As she pulled away, he bit her."
     Michael sat up, raising his clenched fist.
     "The ungrateful wretch. Where is he? Let me at him."
     Gabe grimaced but decided to ignore the interruption.
     "The little girl cried and screamed at the snake, asking him why he had bitten her. The snake said - this is the
important part, Michael - the snake said `You knew what I was when you picked me up.'"
     Gabe looked so proud of himself, his eyes shining expectantly, that Michael couldn't resist poking him one
last time. He drew together his silver-blonde brows and frowned in concentration, slowly shaking his head.
     "I don't get it, Gabe. Are you warning me against helping injured snakes?"
     "Michael..."
     "`Cause I usually just eat `em."
     Gabe sighed loudly, eliciting a deep chuckle from his big brother.
     "You're tying to say, in your inimitably long-winded fashion, that Sasha was an imperfect human when I let
her into my heart and I should have been aware of, and made allowances for, the very imperfections that may, in part,
have made me fall in love with her in the first place. I knew she didn't have a great relationship with Father, but that
made me want to teach her. She's a reporter for a paper that makes its living telling lies, so I knew her concept of
truth might differ from mine. But I wanted to make her see the beauty of honesty. I knew she had no love of the great
outdoors, but I wanted to show her what she had missed all her life. Then she took my heart and I...I was afraid. If I
pushed her away, she couldn't leave me."
     He ruffled Gabe's deep red mane.
     "You were right, little brother."
     Gabe practically floated up off the floor, a pale golden glow emanating from him. Michael, remaining seated,
looked up at him, a sick smile wrinkling his lips.
     "I called her a whore, told her to get her taint out of my life, that I could never forgive her. So, my brilliant,
intuitive guardian angel, what do I do to get her back?"
     With each admission, Gabe's glow lessened, his brow furrowing. By the time Michael asked his question,
Gabriel had sunk back to the hearth at his feet, the picture of dejection.
     "You never do anything halfway, do you?"
     Michael's shoulders slumped as he morosely shook his head, even his silver mane seeming to have lost some
of its luster. Gabe stood and wrapped his arms around Michael's shoulders in a quick hug, then stepped back, waiting
till Michael raised sad pale blue eyes to meet his lilac gaze.
     "Hey, is this the guy who beat Lucifer's great army and made it home for lunch?"
     Michael smiled in spite of himself. That battle had definitely not  been won that easily.
     "She loves you, you love her, there's no stronger power than that in all creation. We just have to figure out
how to use it to get you two back together. Give me a little time to gossip and ask for advice."
     Gabe turned and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped, wincing, and turned back to Michael.
     "Oh, uh, I was supposed to tell you that Dad wants to talk to you."
     Michael stood and glared at Gabe, who shrugged and gave him a very lame grin.
     "I forgot. When I saw you hurting, it completely slipped my mind. But it came back just now."
     "We really have to get that short in your brain fixed. Maybe if I tore your head off, I could see inside to repair
it!"
     Michael's admonishing tone didn't affect Gabe in the least. He just smiled and ran to the door.
     "Next time you see me, I'll have a plan."
     Gabriel was out the door before Michael could tell him he was more than capable of taking care of his own
problems. Michael spoke to the air above his head as he left his cabin to answer his Father's summons.
     "That's what I'm afraid of."     
                                 Chapter Twenty
                                        
     Sasha stared at the Employment Opportunities (PC for `Want Ad', she thought with a very small smile)
section of the Salt Lake Tribune as she poured lukewarm coffee she wasn't even tasting down her throat. The only
prospect she had found so far this morning was as a gofer for a church bulletin. It didn't pay much, but she supposed
she would get great rewards in Heaven. Unfortunately that wouldn't pay her rent here on the big green planet.
     Heaven.
     `Here we go again,' she thought, `Heaven equals angels equals crying uncontrollably for the next five
minutes.'
     She remembered Michael's face as he had practically thrown her from the back of his snowmobile when they
had reached the outskirts of Pleasant Grove, or Unpleasant Grave, as she thought of it now. She hadn't even known
he had a snowmobile, had no idea where he had been hiding it. After leaving the cabin that day, a day she had tried
desperately, and in vain, to forget, he had pulled up in front of the cabin and, when she stepped out onto the porch,
curtly instructed her to get on behind him. When she complied and wrapped her arms around his waist for safety, she
had felt his stomach muscles tighten as though her touch were repugnant. By the time they had reached town, she had
had ice trails on her cheeks, evidence of the tears she had been unable to contain. Michael had risen like a stone
statue, put his hands around her waist and lifted her to her feet beside the snowmobile, removing his hands from her
as quickly as possible. In a tone of acidic ice that cut her heart to shreds he had told her to leave his coat, which he
had let her wear on the ride, at the General Store. He would pick it up later. Sasha had been about to tell him she
would take it off and give it to him right then, but he had remounted the snowmobile and left before she could get a
word past the lump in her throat.
     The memory of his broad back, stiff as a steel rod, as he had pulled away without a backward glance never
failed to bring a sharp pain to her chest, freezing her breath in her lungs.
     As she had predicted, the tears began coursing down her cheeks. Sasha wondered if tears were good or bad
for your skin. With her luck of late, all this crying would make her break out like a teenager.
     She had very little memory of the weeks since Michael had left her. She had called Bob Danza, attempted to
explain the situation. Bob, the creep, had said he didn't know her, didn't want to know her, and would not give her a
reference. He informed her that The Tattler had mailed her last paycheck to her New York address only to have it
returned marked `no longer at this address,' so they had put it into the company slush fund. If she wanted it, she
would have to ask for it in writing, supply a new address, and wait six to eight weeks for accounting to process her
request. Sasha had tried once again to explain her absence. That was when Danza had exploded.
     "This is why I don't want to hire female reporters. You're waitin' on a story from `em, thinkin' they're workin'
their tails off for the byline, and they're flat on their backs makin' babies! I don't wanna hear it, Frazier. You're
another piece o' bad road, and I'm takin' the freeway, babe!"
     With that, he had broken the connection. Later - much later after she had tossed the payphone to the ground
and kicked its base till her foot hurt - she decided it was probably fortuitous that she hadn't gotten the chance to say
the things to Bob that had come to her mind. She might still need him for a reference and she knew, no matter what
he said, that he was too law-suit conscious to pan her to a future employer.
     She had picked up her things from Motel 8 - Farmer John had told her he had been real worried - and made
her way by bus into Salt Lake City, where she had rented a motel room. The fact that she could rent by the month,
week, day or hour let her know she was not at the Hyatt-Regency. As her pitiful savings dwindled and no
employment opportunities seemed to be coming her way, she wondered if she were going to end up homeless.
     "I could always throw myself on Michael's mercy, tell him I'll wash windows for my room and board."
     Remembering sapphire eyes burning with the furious flames of betrayal, she fought another wave of tears.
     "He'd probably leave me to freeze by the woodpile. That'd give him meat for several weeks."
     Sasha wrinkled her nose at her own humor.
     "I have got to get out of here."
     Grabbing her coat, Sasha left her room, grimacing at a lock that wouldn't keep out a determined alley cat, and
made her way to the coffee shop on the corner. The place wasn't known for its sterling clientele, but then, she wasn't
much more than plated stainless steel herself. It was cheap, the food was okay, and the patrons usually left her alone.
Of course, that might be because a lot of them were quite involved in heated conversations with themselves.
     Sitting at the counter, she asked for a cup of coffee and a bowl of corn flakes. Nutritious, cheap, and difficult
to burn or get too greasy. While she ate, she read the paper, putting off the inevitable search for minimum pay labor
as long as possible. Concentrating on what she considered the atrocious writing in a certain article, she hardly
noticed when someone sat next to her. Though she had chosen the seat at the end of the counter to avoid being
surrounded, that still left the chair at her right available and someone had finally chosen to sit there.
     The smell was what first caught her notice. She had always felt that the scent of an unwashed male body, if
properly harnessed, could have powered a city block for a week. Taking shallow breaths to keep from gagging she
realized she had been mistaken. The guy next to her could surely power the City of Las Vegas for an entire year!
Trying not to be too obvious, she eased to her left and looked at the man seated next to her, quietly sipping a glass of
water.
     He looked to be forty-something, though she was certain the lives these street people led added years to their
lives in a very short time. He had shoulder length black hair, at least, she thought it was black. By the condition of his
clothes, and the smell, the stringy mass could have been blonde under the layers of dirt and oil. It was wild, probably
hadn't seen a comb in at least a month. He had several days' growth of dark beard staining his cheeks. His eyes
looked to be a light color, but he hadn't looked at her so she couldn't be certain. He wore faded, torn jeans that might
have seen the Civil War; a green camouflage jacket with one pocket torn completely off, another stuffed to
overflowing with a big red bandanna. A once-white t-shirt peeked through the collar of the jacket at his neck, its
faded and stained cotton so transparent it was barely there. His black combat boots were mis-laced and one had come
untied. All-in-all, he was a great example of where Sasha feared her life might be heading.
     He suddenly turned to catch Sasha staring at him. He smiled, his dirty teeth meeting Sasha's expectations. His
eyes were a light bluish color, faded by years of a life she was willing to bet would have rivaled her worst
nightmares.
     "Hi!"
     His breath smelled of mint, and Sasha noticed a pack of gum peeking out of one of the breast pockets of his
jacket. Thanking her lucky stars, she cautiously returned his smile. Though she didn't want to encourage him, she
refused to be rude to a - Heaven help her - neighbor.
     "Hello."
     "I'm Frank."
     He held out his hand and Sasha took a deep breath, which was a mistake. She coughed slightly as she
tentatively slid her palm over his. After one quick shake, she pulled her hand away, resisting the urge to wipe it on
her napkin.
     "I'm Sasha, Sasha Frazier. Nice to meet you."
     His smile was a little sad.
     "There was a time, back before things got a little rough, you would have meant that."
     His voice was soft, melodic, and Sasha found she liked listening to him. She blushed at having been caught in
the polite lie.

     "I'm sorry."
     Her reporter's instincts told her there was a story here and since she didn't have anything else to do at the
moment, she figured she might as well pursue it. Who knows, maybe exposing the plight of the homeless would
someday bring her The Pulitzer Prize.
     "I guess I'm acting like most people do when they meet you, huh? Polite, keep their distance, run like their
being chased by demons at the first opportunity?"
     He laughed, a deep, masculine sound that hinted at the confident man he had once been.
     "That's about right. Feeling a demon at your shoulder, Sasha?"
     She smiled, a real smile, not just a polite flash of teeth, and turned to face him.
     "Not at all."
     Obsidian wings flashed across her mind.
     "But then, I wouldn't know if Satan himself were inviting me into his parlor. I'm not very good at recognizing
evil."
     He tilted his head to the side, his brows raised in question. Sasha shook her head, dismissing her comment.
     "If you don't mind my asking, how did you come to be here?"
     He chuckled.
     "Let me guess, you're a reporter."
     She shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile.
     "Is it that obvious?"
     "It's either that or a cop, and you're much too pretty to be a police officer. Are you doing some kind of human
interest story, a do-gooder piece on how to help people lift themselves out of poverty by giving them counseling and
a place to be relatively safe for a few nights before you cast them to the wolves once again?"
     The sad anger in his tone combined with his proper use of English stirred her curiosity further.
     "You speak very well for a...homeless person."
     "Very PC. `Bum' is what I've heard the most. At least, that's the most repeatable of the terms used to describe
me as I am now. As you might expect, I don't find my own story particularly fascinating, but I will make you a deal.
If you'll buy me a cup of coffee and tell me what brings you to this fine part of town, I'll tell you how I came to be
here. Deal?"
     Ashamed of herself for her initial reaction to this man, and feeling pity for him in spite of her attempts
against that emotion she was certain he would disdain, she nodded, saying with more enthusiasm than she had had
for anything in the last few days, "Deal!" She motioned for the waiter and ordered another cup of coffee, ignoring the
disgusted look the man in the greasy used-to-be-white apron gave Frank.
     "So, were you a businessman?"
     "Uh-uh, that's not the deal. You first. Are you from Salt Lake?"
     Sasha shifted uncomfortably, unaccustomed to answering questions.
     `A deal's a deal', her inner voice reminded her.
     "No, I'm from New York. I came here to do a story, but...well, I didn't get the story and my boss fired me.
Since I'd been kicked out of my apartment and my ex-landlord was holding all my worldly goods for back rent, which
I didn't have since my old job had dumped my last paycheck into the red-tape void, I decided I might as well look for
gainful employment here in the city of Salt."
     "Why didn't you get the story? Somebody beat you to it?"
     Sasha looked at the counter, the pain in her chest warning her that she was going to have difficulty talking
about Michael. Taking a deep breath, no longer noticing Frank's bouquet, she straightened her shoulders and forged
ahead.
     "'Fraid not. It wasn't that hot a story. My boss sent me out here to interview a guy to find out if he might be an
angel."
     Frank raised then furrowed his brows, equal parts surprise and skepticism.
     "An angel?"
     Sasha nodded, a soft smile curling her lips.
     "Yeah, that was about my reaction, but I wanted to keep my job so I rushed right out to the great Utah
Beyond."
     "Was the guy a real weirdo or what?"
     Sasha took a sip of her coffee to cover the expected clenching of her throat. When she raised deep chocolate
eyes to meet Frank's interested gaze, he saw such pain and longing reflected there he wished he had a bottle of liquid
comfort to offer her.
     "He - his name is Michael - he's a wonderful man who likes the simple life."
     Frank sipped his coffee, then smiled lop-sidedly.
     "So, is he an angel?"
     Sasha's voice softened to a near-whisper.
     "He thinks he is. And sometimes I..."
     "Sometimes you believed him."
     His voice was soft, insistent. Sasha nodded, her ever-present supply of tears threatening to embarrass her by
flooding down her cheeks at any minute.
     "I guess so."
     "Do you love him?"
     Her vision blurring, Sasha didn't trust her voice, so she nodded once again.
     "Then why aren't you with him?"
     Dipping her head so she could hide behind the ebony curtain of her hair, Sasha forced words through the
ever-growing lump in her throat.
     "He doesn't want me. I lied to him. I didn't realize what I was doing at the time, how much it meant to him.
When I told him the truth, I think it broke his heart."
     Grabbing a napkin, she stifled her sobs in its rough paper folds.
     "This guy botherin' you, lady?"
     Looking up through a veil of tears, Sasha saw the man behind the counter glaring at Frank, his beefy hands
clenched into fists, arms crossed over his chest. She shook her head, embarrassed to the core that anyone should see
her looking so bedraggled.
     "No, I'm fine, thanks."
     Digging in her purse, she placed two quarters next to her cup, smiling lamely at the meager tip. The burly
waiter pushed the quarters back toward her.
     "Catch me when your ship comes in, honey."
     Casting a black glance in Frank's direction, he leaned closer to Sasha, his words meant for her ears only.
     "And maybe you should be careful who you pal around with, you know?"
     She glanced Frank's way to find him looking around as if he hadn't heard a thing, but she knew by the
downward cast of his lips that he had heard every painful word.
     "My friend and I will be leaving now. Thank you for your concern."
     Slipping the quarters back into her purse - she really didn't have enough money to be proud - she slid from the
stool and made her way outside. The cold winter wind hitting her face helped her to regain her composure.
     "Hearts heal."
     Startled, Sasha jumped at the softly spoken words. She hadn't noticed Frank follow her outside, but he was
standing beside her now. Turning to look at him, she noticed his shoulders were a little straighter, his face a little
brighter, than the first time she had seen him. She shook her head.
     "I don't think so. Not this time."
     He leaned against the wall of the caf and crossed his arms over his chest to ward off the cold.
     "They say `love conquers all'. If you really love this guy, why don't you go back to him and tell him you're
sorry?"
     "He'd probably throw me out again." Emotion lowered her voice. "If I had to watch him leave me again, I
don't think I could stand it."
     "Yeah, you could, you're stronger than you think. You watched your beloved Aunt Sophie's ashes scattered
over your backyard, where she said she'd had the best time of her life watching you grow up, without bursting into
flame to join her, didn't you? You buried your pet hamster, Ben, and you didn't dig a hole big enough for both of you
and crawl in with him, as you thought you might."
     Sasha's eyes were so wide, they looked as though they might pop right out of her head. She stared at Frank in
disbelief as he reminded her of other times in her life she had felt as if all were lost, only to find that life went on,
with or without our permission. Frank's eyes had darkened to a deep emerald hue, his voice deepening to a
hypnotically melodic tone.
     "Those were losses you could not recoup, Sasha. You had to learn to live with them. But the most important
loves of your life are still within your grasp. All you need do is reach out. Force your way through your anger and
fear and pride, and ask those whom you love, those whose love you never lost, to forgive you."
     His jade green eyes were so intense, Sasha thought she might feel a whole burning through her at any second.
Recovering from her shock, she narrowed her eyes and found her voice, though it was a little breathless.
     "Let me guess. Raphael?"
     Smiling a little sheepishly, the dirty, unshaven man nodded. Outraged, Sasha attacked.
     "You lied! You said your name was Frank!"
     His smile broadening, Frank shook his shaggy head.
     "I said `I'm Frank', as in, I am honest and direct."
     Sasha wrinkled her nose and snorted.
     "Semantics. Figures."
     Hope suddenly filled her breast, brightening her words.
     "Did Michael send you?"
     Sadness emanating from him like a dark aura, Raphael shook his head.
     "Not exactly. But I am certain he is ready to forgive you."
     A vision of Michael pulling away on his snowmobile, never looking back, as her heart shattered in her chest,
flashed in Sasha's mind. Anger churned in her stomach, bubbling up and out of her mouth.
     "Forgive me? What about me forgiving him? He's the one who dumped me like so much garbage. His
backwoods marriage ceremony was stupid but I did it for him. Was that so bad? And he wanted me to give up my
whole life for him, to become something I'm not. Okay, so I shouldn't have lied, but at the time I didn't think of it as
lying, I thought of it as preserving his feelings. He said a lot of things to me that really hurt, you know. How come I
have to forgive him?"
     Frank's intense green gaze pinned her, his voice soft, yet commanding.
     "Because you were wrong, you know it and you're sorry. No," he held up his palm to silence her further tirade
of shared responsibility, "your apology has nothing to do with Michael's culpability. It has only to do with your
regret, your desire for forgiveness. Acknowledging his part of the blame, and asking your forgiveness, is his
responsibility, about which you can do nothing."
     Sasha stomped her foot.
     "Damn it!"
     Raphael winced, sending a stab of guilt through her.
     "Sorry. Look, Rafe - may I call you `Rafe'?"
     Raphael shrugged and smiled.
     "Why not? I'm not sure Gabe even knows Raphael is my real name."
     Sasha tilted her head to the side.
     "You know, he's the nicest one of you guys I've met yet."
     "Us guys?"
     Sasha nodded.
     "Yeah. Michael can be a stubborn butthead, you seem awfully serious, though I realize we've just met, Luke
is...well, intense, for lack of a better word. But Gabe is just a nice guy. I thought angels would all be the same. You
know, sweet chubby faces, luminescent wings shedding fairy dust, golden halos. Soft voices that never yelled. Smelly
bums and knock-you-dead good-looking studs never entered my mind."
     Raphael shrugged.
     "We are whatever is needed. With a world as hard and unyielding as this one has unfortunately become, soft,
sweet-voiced beings such as those you describe wouldn't get much respect, would they? In the old days, just dropping
out of the sky, hovering above people's heads was enough to get their attention, to make them listen. Nowadays, they
just start looking for the wires."
     Sasha giggled.
     "I can see your point. Anyway, things won't have changed. I don't want to live in the back of beyond where I
can't write, and Michael wants to be Paul Bunyan. I love him so much it hurts. Every day I wake up and find myself
here instead of in his arms, it feels like another little piece of my heart breaks off, never to be seen again. But we're
still at the same impasse. We want different things out of life."
     Raphael looked thoughtful, and Sasha heard that crackling, airy sound she had heard outside Michael's cabin
the morning he had left her to do some `errands'. Though it raised the tiny hairs on the back of her neck, she wasn't
afraid, just frustrated. She wanted to touch the breeze she couldn't see, be warmed by the flames that cast no heat.
And more than anything she had ever desired in her life, she wanted to hear and understand the words that only
Michael and his brothers seemed to comprehend.
     `Words?' A frown of confusion knitting her brow, Sasha questioned her thoughts. `If they're words, who's
talking, God? But you don't believe in Him anymore, remember?' Leaning against the caf beside Raphael, Sasha
shook her head in confusion. Did she believe? Had her stubborn pride and anger at a childhood trauma just kept her
from acknowledging His presence, leaving her to childishly refuse to talk to Him until He apologized?
     Blinking rapidly to bring herself back to the present, she turned to Raphael to find him gazing at her with the
most contented smile on his handsome face. Handsome? When had he become handsome? Sasha shook her head.
     "Never mind. Rafe, I have to find a church. I have a few - okay, a few thousand - words I'd like to say
to...uh...your boss."
     "You don't need a cathedral or a temple or a mosque to speak to Him, Sasha. All you need is an open heart."
     Sasha returned his smile and nodded.
     "Are you finished here?"
     Raphael shook his head, a fleeting sadness darkening the aquamarine of his eyes for a breath.
     "When I am not needed elsewhere, I come to places where the desolation of the human spirit is abundant to
give what comfort I may. I believe we will meet again, Sasha Frazier."
     He ducked his head, then turned and shuffled off down the street, one more hopeless bum in an ocean filled
to overflowing with pain and loneliness.
     Sasha felt a warm glow spread through her veins as she headed back to her hotel room, honored at having
been allowed the knowledge that beneath that tattered old coat walked the hope of the world.     
                               Chapter Twenty-One
                                        
     Tears streaked down Sasha's face as she relived the emotional pain, humiliation and disillusionment of a
ten-year-old who felt abandoned by the God she had just decided was her best friend. Why had He let this awful
thing happen to her? Did He hate her? Was she a bad person? Or was He just unfair? For the first time since that
fateful day of her first communion, Sasha objectively examined her feelings, motives and conclusions. She hadn't
realized until today how much her life had been shaped by the feelings of the little girl she had been. She needed to
face facts as an adult, and come to an adult decision.
     Why did God let bad things happen? That was a question she had seen dealt with in print more times than she
cared to remember. Solutions went from `there must be bad to be good' to `all of life is a test' to `we're actually in
Hell and don't realize it'. She didn't buy any of those, at least not whole-hog. Saying good didn't exist without bad was
a philosophical argument that ignored logic. Of course, good would exist without bad, we just wouldn't realize it was
anything special. A steady diet of chocolate ice cream would make chocolate something common and unexceptional.
     So, why did He let bad things happen? The answer, to Sasha, seemed simple. He didn't. One of the things
Sasha had found so exciting and awesome in the Bible was that God gave man free choice. Which means the
freedom to choose badly. Bad choices mean bad consequences.
     Also there was the perception of `bad' to be considered. People perceive death as a bad thing, but it's just the
natural conclusion of life.
     So the bottom line was a matter of choice and perception.
     Father Roy had chosen Sasha as the victim of his sickness, her mother had chosen a stranglehold on the
church rather than to believe in her own child, and Sasha had chosen to base her belief in God on the church and its
people, rejecting Him when they showed their human flaws. God hadn't hated her or deemed her a bad person. He
had never let her down, had always been there. She had just that traumatic childhood incident put blinders on her.
     Kneeling beside a lumpy bed in a run-down hotel room, Sasha felt the weight of the ages lifted from her
shoulders.
     "God, I know we haven't spoken in a long time. Sorry about that. I can be kind-of stubborn sometimes."
     She giggled self-consciously.
     "That's like saying the ocean can be kind-of wet sometimes, huh? I've made some mega-bad choices in my
life, and turning my back on you was the worst. I'm sorry, I realize now that it wasn't your fault. Do you think we
could start over?"
     Sasha could have sworn she felt a warm breeze caress her neck. Even if she turned around and found that the
decrepit radiator in the room had just come on, she would have known steam and mechanics had nothing to do with
that warm breeze.
     "Thanks."
     Sighing her appreciation, she started to rise, then winced and lowered herself back to her knees.
     "Uh, about that wedding ceremony. I think if I examined my motives really well, I might find that I meant
every word of it. I just turned it into a lie when it started to get in my way. Which it never actually did because if I
had any brains I would have realized that Michael was the best thing that ever happened to me and I would have
hung onto him for dear life! Anyway."
     She exhaled a deep breath then, leaning back on her heels, she lowered her head till it nearly touched the
floor.
     "I'm really sorry for ever denying you, Father. And I'm sorry I lied to you. Please forgive me. I know it takes
real balls to ask - uh, let me put that another way - I realize that I am being most presumptuous in asking, but could
you please help me get Michael back? I'm not gonna promise I'll be the perfect mate or anything like that `cause we
just got this lying thing cleared up and I don't want to start all over again. I promise I will love him till the day I die,
and beyond, if that's allowed."
     Tears caught her by surprise, unexpectedly spilling over onto her cheeks. She went on, praying through sobs.
     "Even if I can't have him, please let Michael be happy. The idea of another woman in his arms hurts so much
I want to rip out her hair by the roots, but if that's the only way he'll ever be happy, please let him find her. Soon. Oh,
Michael, I'm so sorry."
     Giving in to the sobs that were tearing through her body, Sasha climbed onto the bed and curled into a ball.
The same warm breeze softly brushed over her skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. Sobs subsiding, she realized that
for the first time in fifteen years, she didn't feel alone in a room by herself, and she knew with a certainty that her
prayer had been heard. All she had to do was wait for an answer.
     
     Mike Richard's eyesight had finally failed him. At seventy-nine years of age, he was too damn old to ask one
of his kids to drive him when he wanted to go somewhere. He had always insisted on driving whenever he and
Gretta, his wife of sixty years, had gone out, which, in the last few years, hadn't been very often. He never had liked
driving at night, and recently, he'd avoided it completely, telling Gretta there were just too many drunks out after
dark, he didn't want her in danger. The truth was, he couldn't see worth a damn once the lights went out.
     But tonight, Gretta's seventy-fifth birthday, had been special. Mike had taken her to one of those fancy Italian
restaurants, the kind she liked where the entrees on the menu were written in Italian with little explanations you had
to have 20/20 to read printed in ant tracks underneath. They'd had a wonderful dinner, spending longer than they had
realized reminiscing about their long life together. By the time they had left the restaurant for the twenty minute
drive home, the sun had gone down and it was pitch black outside.
     Mike had felt a twinge of panic, knowing he'd have a problem getting them home, but he hadn't let Gretta see.
She had been so pretty, her eyes glowing like they had when she was fifteen and he had asked her to marry him. He
hadn't wanted to ruin the evening, and he sure as hell wasn't gonna ask her to drive them home. He'd be damned if
he'd let a woman chauffeur him around town like one o' them fancy men he was always seeing on TV. He figured if
he went kinda slow, they'd be fine.
     Then Gretta had snuggled up next to him in the front seat of their old Mercury and suggested they go to
Monroe's Peak, a spot they used to go when they were younger and wanted to be alone for a while. Seeing his
beautiful bride looking up at him, her face glowing with love, Mike couldn't deny her anything. So he'd turn up the
canyon, hoping it was a lot better lit than he remembered.
     He'd made it around the first curve by the skin of his teeth. He was about to tell Gretta this wasn't such a good
idea when an oncoming car had appeared out of nowhere, zooming around the bend, barreling straight for them.
Mike had swerved to avoid a head-on but, unable to see where the road fell off, he had driven right over the edge of
the cliff. The last thing he saw was the beautiful starlit sky as his beloved car did a complete flip and began its
descent trunk-first. He never felt the impact that broke his beloved Gretta's back, smacked his brain against his skull
and turned his twenty-year-old Mercury classic into a twisted pile of scrap metal at the bottom of a thirty-foot drop.
     Gretta woke to find herself outside the car, lying next to Mike, who had been flung through the broken
windshield upon impact. She didn't remember how she came to be there. She was surprised that she felt no pain, no
discomfort whatsoever. Her concern for her own pain lasted for the single second it took for her to see Mike. Then
she sat up and cradled his head in her lap, speaking his name softly, trying desperately not to panic. He was so still,
so cold. With soft, loving strokes, she brushed his hair from his brow, wondering why he hadn't gotten around to that
haircut he had planned last weekend. Then she remembered that Brian, their oldest grandchild, had come over with
his youngest, Mikey, in tow and Grandpa had had to show the boy how to properly throw a baseball.
     In her arms Mike moaned and it was the sweetest sound Gretta had ever heard. She whispered his name,
telling him everything was going to be all right. His brow furrowed and the corners of his lips raised ever so slightly.
She knew he was a tough old bird. To stay with her, he'd fight Satan himself. Rocking him gently in her arms, Gretta
hummed an old hymn that was Mike's favorite, and waited patiently for the rescue she knew Jesus would provide.
     A bright light appeared before her, casting its warmth over her like a ray of sunshine. Gretta wasn't
frightened. She thought it might be one of those big flashlights the firemen on TV used to light their way. Then the
most beautiful woman Gretta had ever seen stepped from the center of the light, its glow surrounding her like a
luminescent cloak. She extended her hand, palm up, to Gretta and spoke in a soft, melodic voice that perfectly
matched the beauty of her countenance.
     "Gretta, it is time for you to come with me. Many of your loved ones, some you have not seen for a very long
time, waiting to greet you and welcome you home."
     Suddenly, Gretta knew why this lovely woman had come. Happiness rushed through her like a flooding river.
     "Look, Mike, it's an angel. She's come to take us home, sweetheart. Mike?"
     But Mike gave no indication of having heard her, continuing to lie quietly in her arms. The angel spoke again.
     "Gretta, it is not yet Mike's time. yet. There are things he still must do. Come, Gretta, come with me."
     Gretta's eyes filled with tears as she gazed down at the man she had loved since the first time she had set eyes
on him, strutting down the street with his friends, looking as though he owned the world. She had been certain, as
their eyes had met and her stomach had filled with beautiful butterflies, that she and Mike would be together from
that day forward till the end of time. Now this lovely creature sent from her Heavenly Father was saying their forever
had come to an end. Gretta wrapped herself protectively around Mike's inert form and, gently rocking her beloved
husband, sobbed her heart out.
     The angel waited patiently, diamond bright tears glistening on her beautiful cheeks as she shared Gretta's
pain.
     After several minutes, Gretta sat up, straightening her silver-grey hair as best she could. She once again
brushed her fingertips across Mike's brow, then she set her jaw and raised determined age-pale blue eyes to the
waiting angel. Her voice carried more power than it had in years.
     "I'm sorry if it upsets any plans, but I'm not going without Mike. Even dead, I wouldn't be whole without him.
If it means I have to change my destination, so be it. I'm not leaving Mike."
     With that, she turned her face from the beauty of the angel, not wanting to witness God's displeasure with her.
     "Please, Gretta, Mike will be fine. He will join you when it is his time."
     Gretta's eyes flashed fire as she turned back to face the angel and spoke sharply.
     "No, he won't be fine. Mike Richards can't boil water without burning it. Who's going to feed him, make him
take his pills on time, see that he goes to bed instead of sitting in front of the TV all night?"
     She returned her attention to Mike, shaking her head.
     "I'm not leaving him."
     Gretta could feel the warmth from the glowing light, knew the angel was patiently waiting for her to change
her mind. Slowly, the warm light grew dim, then disappeared completely. Tightening her hold on Mike as he began
to shiver with the cold, she prayed with all her heart for both of them to be rescued.
     The warmth returned. Gretta thought the car might have exploded as great flames suddenly appeared where
the beautiful lady angel had stood moments earlier. But she heard no explosion, only the soft crackle of the fire. She
was only slightly surprised when a large blonde man stepped from the flames.
     Oh, but he was every mother's dream of a son. Beautiful thick blonde hair, dark blue eyes the color of the sky
at dusk, lips that could never tell a lie curved into a loving smile that revealed straight white teeth, broad shoulders
that could hold the weight of the world and still have a little room left for a mother's brow, a muscular body that
would never crumble beneath the weight. And, when he spoke, a voice so full of love and truth that she knew all her
years of faith had not been in vain.
     "Gretta, I've come to take you home."
     As had the beautiful woman before him, the blonde angel extended his hand to Gretta. Smiling sadly, not
wanting to disappoint this lovely young man, Gretta none-the-less shook her head.
     "Not without my husband."
     With a deep sigh, the man glanced sideways at the large bonfire from which he had come. The flames died
instantly, their warmth remaining. Crossing his legs, he sat on the ground beside Gretta, careful not to jar Mike in
any way.
     "Gretta, I am Michael."
     Gretta responded in a prim and proper tone that had no place at the bottom of a ravine surrounded by
sagebrush and a crushed and mangled automobile.
     "Pleased to meet you, Michael."
     Michael chuckled, his eyes soft.
     "How long have you been married?"
     Gretta's face lit as though a light shone through her skin, years slipping away on the breath of a smile.
     "Sixty-one years this Valentine's Day."
     "That's very romantic."
     Gretta's snort was still ladylike.
     "I figured if I wanted Mike to remember it I'd better make it something people celebrate. His memory for
dates has never been very good."
     Michael sighed again, rubbing his temples. Dealing with angry people, righting situations that had been
deliberately steered awry, those were easy tasks compared to this. Why had Father called on him for this one? Seeing
the love in this woman's eyes when she spoke of her husband was tearing him up inside, causing his chest to clench,
his throat to tighten with the pain.
     Sasha had looked at him like that.
     "Gretta, if we love God, we must follow His will even when we don't understand or agree with Him. I know
it's difficult sometimes but..."
     "Young man, don't you tell me about following His will."
     Michael wasn't used to being interrupted. Though he frowned his displeasure, seeing the strength of love that
drove this woman, he found he didn't truly mind.
     "Mike and I have been doing our best to follow His will since the day we said `I do'. If Mike'd been willing to
make just a couple of shady deals, we would have been on easy street. And if I'd let that Jim Henry in billing have his
way, I suppose I would've gotten that raise he promised instead of losing my job to that young girl without a brain in
her head. But we both decided the Lord's way was better, that we'd be happier in Heaven for Eternity than we would
having lots of money for the short time we'd be on this Earth."
     "A good decision."
     "Was it? All these years, when things got bad, we always knew we had each other and the Lord, and we could
handle anything as long as that was so."
     Some of the fire left her as she gazed lovingly down at her unconscious husband.
     "Now you want me to go without him, to leave him behind. Alone."
     She raised eyes filled with tears and hope. Michael's heart filled with pain for this loving couple who wanted
only to remain together as they had been for so very long.
     "Young man, Michael, my body's in that mess of a car Mike's so fond of, isn't it?"
     Sighing heavily, Michael swallowed hard and gave her a sharp nod. Gretta took a deep breath, returned his
nod, then pinned him with her pale eyes.
     "Well, then, there's no question of my staying here. If I could just know that Mike will be all right without
me..."
     Michael raised his sapphire eyes to the dark sky above them, then, rolling his shoulders, he placed his palm
on Mike's brow.
     "Father might not approve of this, but I believe the two of you have earned it."
     Smiling, he gracefully rose to his feet and stepped backward.
     "I'll return when you're ready."
     He was gone.
     "Gretta?"
     Gretta jumped as Mike whispered her name. Looking down into his face, she saw his eyes were open and he
was looking at her, confusion and fear wrinkling his forehead. She brushed her fingertips over his cheek, his brow,
then let her hand come to rest on his chest. She paid no mind to the tears that poured freely from her eyes.
     "Mike, how do you feel?"
     "I got a worse headache than that time I drank tequila with the boys till three in the morning."
     Gretta shook her head, remembering how worried she'd been that morning, holding his head as he lost every
ounce of his stomach. When he had recovered enough to ask for something to eat, she had given him the lecture of
his life, warning him if he ever did that again, he'd better die `cause she'd sure as shootin' make him wish he had.
     "Mike, I've got to go now."
     "Go? Where?"
     Turning his head to the side, a move that sent a lance of pain through his brain, Mike saw the tangled
wreckage of his beloved Mercury and it all came back to him. The curve, the screech of brakes, the stars. He was so
glad Gretta hadn't been hurt. Maybe it was time to start wearing those glasses she'd insisted he get. They seemed to
make things a bit clearer even if they did bite his nose like a rabid terrier.
     "Guess I forgot my glasses," he lied with a sheepish grin. Gretta smiled the way she always did when he told
her a fib, only this time her eyes were so sad. Mike knew she was worried about him, so he tried to ease her mind.
     "Don't worry, sweetheart, it'll take a lot more to kill this old bird than a little car wreck. I just banged my head
and you know how hard that is. I'll be fine."
     "Mike, could you take care of yourself? If I wasn't here to remind you?"
     "What the heck kind of question is that?"
     Gretta wrapped her warm hand around his cold one and squeezed, her eyes indescribably sad. A tickle of fear
found Mike's brain, but he pushed it aside, speaking cajolingly.
     "Now, Gret, you ain't gonna go stay with your sister over a little car accident, are you? Last time, I nearly
burned down the house, me and the kids with it. I'll..."
     Gretta shook her head, the flood of tears staining her cheeks increasing, sobs making words impossible.
     When Mike looked into his wife's eyes he saw something there that made the bud of fear inside his mind
bloom into a full-blown panic. Moving his head more carefully this time, he looked once again at the pile of scrap
metal that had once been his prize Mercury, then back at Gretta. She didn't have a scratch on her, not even a smudge
of dirt on her beautiful face. And behind her, over by that big tree, there was a pale blue glow that didn't seem like it
belonged. Suddenly, a deep masculine voice sounded inside his head.
     "Do not be afraid. I am the Archangel Michael. I have come to take your Gretta home. She refuses to go
without you, but it is not your time."
     Other than a few tears the first time he saw his newborn son, Mike hadn't cried since he was a kid. Now hot
liquid blurred his vision as he looked at his wife of sixty years. Memorizing every line, every freckle of her face, he
did what he knew was right.
     "It won't be easy, Gret," he whispered as he used what little strength he had left to raise his hand and caress
her cheek. "You been doin' for me since my Mama handed me over to you. But I can do it for a while. You go on, I'll
catch up with you soon as I can."
     He pulled on her head and she gently placed her lips on his, savoring the love that she had always felt in his
embrace. His strength at an end, his arm fell limp at his side.
     "I'm kinda tired, Sweetheart, I think I'll take me a little nap. Tell Mama and Daddy I miss 'em."
     Through a throat raw from her attempts to speak through sobs, Gretta spoke, thinking how much like a frog
she sounded.
     "I love you, Mike. Don't forget to tell the doctors you're allergic to penicillin. And..."
     Mike looked into her eyes, his alight with all the love of the universe.
     "You know, Gret, I don't remember ever telling you I loved you. Forgive an old fool. You deserved to hear it
every day of your life. And now...I love you, sweetheart. Now you go on, you know I don't like long goodbyes."
     Gretta nodded, leaning over to kiss Mike on the forehead. From the corner of her eye, she saw a large hand,
palm up. Raising her eyes, she found Michael standing before her, a sad smile touching his lips. Placing her hand in
his, she gently laid Mike's head on the cold ground and allowed Michael to raise her to her feet. With one last look
into the eyes of her beloved husband, she mouthed "Goodbye" and prepared herself for the Kingdom of Heaven she
had always known awaited her at the end of her journey.
     As Michael Richard's lay on the cold ground waiting for the sirens he could hear in the distance to reach him,
he lost his battle with the lump in his throat, ashamed of the sobs that echoed through the forest around him. How
would he ever make it without his Gretta?
     Suddenly, a warm breeze flowed over his cold body, warming his skin, his old bones and his soul, reminding
him that he would never be alone, just temporarily lonely. Smiling just a little, Mike remembered Gretta's face, lines
and wrinkles disappearing in his mind's eye until she was once again the young girl who had accepted his love with
such beauty and grace. With the memory of his angel to soothe him, he let sleep claim him.     
                               Chapter Twenty-Two
                                        
     Sasha rang the doorbell of the small, nondescript brick house a second time, wondering if she had the correct
address. She had called ahead, received assurance that her interview would be available. Just as she was about to turn
and leave, the door, painted a bright, cheerful yellow that contrasted nicely with the dark red brick house, creaked
open to reveal a young black woman with a ready smile that begged to be matched by whomever saw it. Sasha felt
her teeth flashing through her lips before she could catch herself. Oh, well, this wasn't the kind of assignment that
needed professional detachment, anyway.
     "Hello. I'm Sasha Frazier and I work for The Deseret News. Here's my ID."
     The woman barely glanced at the laminated card Sasha pulled from her jacket pocket.
     "Come in, it's freezing out there. I'm sorry it took me so long to get to the door but I was elbow deep in dish
water. Would you like a cup of coffee? I've got a cake in the oven, but I'm afraid you're gonna have to wait about
fifteen minutes for a piece of that."
     Sasha nodded gratefully.
     "I'd love some coffee. Since I came to Salt Lake, I've been half afraid to ask for it."
     The lovely woman laughed, a light, airy sound, and motioned for Sasha to sit on the sofa that took up most of
the small living room.
     "Please, throw your coat over that chair and have a seat. I'm Miranda Hughes."
     "Good, that means I've got the right place. I'm writing an article about the local MacGruff House program and
I understand you're the chairperson."
     Miranda wrinkled her nose.
     "Well I hate to insult all the women who suffered before us but I prefer `chairman'. Chairperson sounds like
an usher. Excuse me a minute while I get that coffee I threatened you with."
     As Miranda disappeared into the kitchen, Sasha thanked her lucky stars that her first interview on this job was
turning out to be likable. When she had been hired, albeit on a trial basis due to a lack of solid experience, by the
Deseret, she had feared all her interviews would be stodgy old church men.
     Miranda Hughes was a young woman who seemed a lot more involved with people than with any church. In
her background research, Sasha had discovered that along with heading the MacGruff House program which
provided children safehouses to which they could go if they felt threatened by anyone on the street, Miranda did a
great deal to improve her community. Though single and childless, Miranda helped with the PTA, Boy Scouts and
Girl Scouts whenever they needed it. From the looks of her house, she didn't have much in the way of spare cash, but
she could always be counted on to buy candy from the kids who were selling it to earn a trip to Disneyland or some
other exotic locale they would probably never see. And she helped out at the homeless shelter two nights a week.
     Reappearing with a rather battered `Muppets' tray full of coffee and all the additives which she placed on the
coffee table in front of Sasha, Miranda blushed prettily.
     "Excuse the tray. My sister's boy, Randy, saw it at the Deseret Industries and decided I just had to have it.
Since he bought it with his own two quarters, I feel honor-bound to use it."
     Sasha laughed, liking this woman more by the minute.
     "No problem. I happen to be quite a fan of Miss Piggy, myself."
     Miranda poured cups of steaming coffee for each of them, handing one to Sasha.
     "Help yourself to fixin's."
     "Thank you. Do you mind answering a few questions? It won't take long."
     Miranda chuckled.
     "Well, I did have that appointment with Versace to get that evening gown fitted, but I think Gianni will
understand. Ask ahead."
     Sasha retrieved her trusty recorder from the purse at her side and pushed `record'.
     "Can you tell me about the MacGruff House program?"
     Miranda's face lit, telling Sasha much more clearly than any words that Miranda loved what she was doing.
     "Sure. You read a lot about kids getting grabbed right off their own streets. A lot of times that's cause they
don't have anyplace to run if they get scared. Either they're latch-key kids and their parents aren't home to offer them
any protection, or they're too far from their own homes to get there before the bad guys get them. MacGruff Houses
are places they know they can go and be safe. Where nobody will call them silly for getting scared. Most the time,
they come over just to be with someone, `cause they're lonely, you know. But a couple of times..."
     Her face reflected the fear she had felt as she had phoned the police to tell them a stranger had spoken, or
made some other overture, to one of `her' kids.
     "Then, we call the police and let them handle it. First thing I try to teach kids is how - and when, that's really
important - to call 911."
     "Do you think it really makes a difference?"
     "It does to the kids. They can play in their own neighborhood without feeling a target painted on their backs.
And it gives me a chance to try out lots of new cookie and cake recipes. There's nothing like a kid to tell you the
truth, even if it's only to pull a face."
     "You're involved in a lot of other Neighborhood activities. I spoke with a few of your neighbors and not one
of them had a bad thing to say about you. Except Mr Siegfried, who says you're trying to make him fat with all the
goodies you keep bringing him."
     Miranda laughed.
     "He lost his wife two years ago. She was a fantastic cook, much better than I'll ever be, but I thought he might
miss home-cooking. It took him five weeks to return a casserole dish, but only one to bring back my pie pan, so it
wasn't too hard to figure what he liked best. He's got the most interesting rock collection. I had never realized there
were so many different kinds of rock to be found in Utah. And he's got a story to go along with every piece of stone
in his case. How he found them, what he and his wife were doing in that particular part of the mountains or desert.
He's so full of love for those rocks and for her, it's great listening to him."
     "You seem to like kids. Why don't you have any?"
     Miranda's brow furrowed in thought for a second, then a soft smile lifted the corners of her lips.
     "That would take a special man, and I haven't had any luck finding him. I might have one someday, though at
39 it's getting a little unlikely. There seem to be so many kids whose parents are a little too busy to give them all the
attention they need. Maybe it's my job to take up the slack instead of have my own. I don't mind."
     Sasha found herself admiring this woman. Miranda knew exactly who she was and where she belonged in
life. That in itself was quite an accomplishment.
     The doorbell drew their attention to the entryway.
     "I wonder who that could be. I'm glad that cake's almost done. It's honey banana and I just love all these
guinea pigs. Excuse me."
     "Sure."
     Miranda opened the door and began quietly speaking to her visitor. Though Sasha couldn't hear their
conversation, or even say for sure if it were a man or a woman, the hair on the back of her neck began a slow ascent.
     "Please, come in out of the cold."
     As soon as Miranda's visitor stepped into the room, Sasha knew why she had had such a strange reaction.
Wearing jeans and his long fur coat, Michael stood before her. She would have jumped up and started railing at him
for bringing something so personal as their relationship to her work, but she could see by the startled look on his face
that he hadn't expected her to be there.
     "Just throw your coat over that chair and have a seat. I'll get another cup."
     Miranda set off for the kitchen, leaving Michael and Sasha to stare at each other, neither sure what to say or
do. Finally, Michael blinked and exhaled loudly.
     "You have to leave."
     "Well, if I hadn't known it was you before, I would now. Same deep voice, same aggravating demeanor."
     Michael shook his head, looking quite exasperated.
     "Sasha, there is something I must do here. I..."
     "Meaning you didn't come to see me. Don't worry, Michael, the you-could-knock-me-over-with-a-feather look
as soon as you saw me was a dead giveaway. You know Miranda?"
     "I don't have the time or inclination to answer your reporter's questions right now."
     They both ignored the ding of an oven timer sounding in the kitchen.
     Michael picked up Sasha's coat and held it for her to put on. Snorting her annoyance, Sasha crossed her arms
over her chest and turned her back on him.
     "I was here first. If Miranda wanted me to leave, I'm sure she would have said so. I'm staying."
     Michael dropped Sasha's coat back on the chair, then stepped forward and grabbed her arm, careful not to let
his combined pleasure at seeing her and anger at the inconvenient timing cause him to hurt her.
     "You must leave now."
     Sasha didn't resist the pressure on her arm; instead, she used it to help her stand. She turned to face him, her
chest near to bursting with the desire to throw her arms around his neck and either hug him or strangle him.
     "No!"
     Michael's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring like an angry stallion scenting an enemy. He tightened his grip
on her arm until she winced slightly, hoping a little discomfort might bring her to her senses. He should have known
better.
     Standing on her toes so she could get right in Michael's face, Sasha spoke in a hostile whisper.
     "Fine! Tear my arm off. Then you'll have to call an ambulance and you won't get to do whatever is so
important. I know you have nothing but contempt for my abilities, but I can smell a story here and I don't intend to let
you make me miss another one."
     Michael looked into the most stubborn eyes he had ever seen, torn between loving her and wanting to put her
over his knee and paddle her behind. The sudden pulse in his loins told him the two were not mutually exclusive.
Pushing her from him, he paced away from her, needing to put some physical space between them so he could think.
     Sasha stood glaring at him, though she couldn't help enjoying the view. His long blonde hair flowed over the
black fur of the coat like molten silver over onyx. He was so tall, his shoulders so broad, he could have doubled for a
door. How she wished she could get him to open up all the way, to let her see the inner man.
     Michael turned back to her, deep blue eyes blazing in a way that actually frightened her.
     "All right, Sasha, you want to stay, to see me work."
     He took a step toward her, flames practically leaping from his eyes.
     "You want your story. You shall have it."
     He moved so quickly, Sasha barely had time to draw a ragged breath as she was lifted into his arms and
plopped down in the chair that faced the couch. Michael rudely pointed his finger directly at her face in a classic
gesture of `stay'.
     "You will remain where I have put you and you will not interfere. Your comments will not be appreciated,
and if you become too distracting, I will send you somewhere extremely warm from which you will have a Hell of
time returning! Do you understand me?!"
     Indignantly straightening her shoulders and shifting in the chair like an irritated cat, she gave a single regal
nod of acquiescence.
     Exhaling his annoyance, Michael fought the little smile that threatened. She was so beautiful, so naturally
funny and sexy he needed all his control to keep from dragging her into his arms and...and making Father very angry
with him for not doing his job.
     In a nonchalant voice that was supposed to indicate that she had very little interest in his answer, Sasha asked,
"So what is it you came here to do?"
     Michael lowered himself to the couch, his long legs shoving the coffee table a couple inches away. Turning to
face her, he rolled his eyes Heavenward, shaking his head. He spoke softly to himself.
     "I don't know why I try, your head is harder than a flawless diamond."
     Drawing a deep breath, he captured Sasha's eyes. For a moment, he was startled by what he saw shining in
their ebony depths. The same thing he had seen in Gretta's eyes when she looked at her husband, in Amanda Peters'
eyes when Bobby came out of the woods, in Alistair McQueen's eyes when he realized he might lose Marge, and
even in Clary's eyes when he had spoken of his long lost kitten.
     Love.
     What a fool he had been. Father had been trying all along to make him see, to make him understand. Talk
about a hard head!
     Allowing his smile to shine, Michael knew what he must do. Sasha had to know - to believe! - the truth. And
what better way than to see why he had come to visit Miranda Hughes. Unlike some of the other things Father had
asked of him recently, this job was Michael's alone. Only he performed this miracle, and it was a duty he thoroughly
enjoyed.
     "Sasha, I am the Archangel Michael. I have come here to bring Miranda the miracle she so richly deserves.
For once in your life, close your mouth, open your eyes and perhaps you will truly see."
     Sasha was about to utter some wry retort when Miranda came into the room carrying three paper plates,
napkins and forks. In her mouth, dangling by its handle, was a coffee cup.
     Michael began to rise.
     "Let me help you."
     Miranda shook her head, started to say something, then thought better of it. With rather ungraceful, but
efficient, movements, she managed to get everything onto the coffee table without dropping anything. Seating herself
on the couch next to Michael, she giggled.
     "I made it! I hope you won't mind paper plates. I meant to get to those pesky dishes last night but the
Henderson kids came over to show me their new Gameboy and by the time they left, I was pooped. I won one game,
though. I've been so popular this morning, I just haven't had the chance to finish them."
     Michael tipped his head and Sasha was instantly, madly jealous at the look he gave Miranda. His eyes shone
with love, his smile warm enough to soften the hardest heart.
     "You love those children, don't you, Miranda?"
     Miranda blushed as she handed Sasha a plate, fork and napkin. Michael declined the accessories, opting to
eat the cake from his hand.
     "I suppose I do. Their parents work real hard, and the boys always have clean clothes and the latest toys, but
sometimes I think they'd be better off with a little less money and a little more time. They're good kids."
     "You love Mr Siegfried, and Leon, the paper boy, and Miss Anderson, your less-than-likable next door
neighbor who's lawn you water every summer because she's too cheap..."
     "Economical," Miranda defended her neighbor, but Michael ignored the interruption.
     "...to pay for the water but she likes green grass. Have you ever met anyone you didn't like, Miranda?"
     She shook her head, wondering how this very handsome man knew so much about her.
     "Not really. There's something good in everybody if you look hard enough." She chuckled. "Of course,
sometimes you have to use a magnifying glass, but it's there. Who are you?"
     Michael took the last bite of his cake, licking the crumbs from his fingers. His smile was boyish, lighting his
face.
     "Good cake."
     He stood in front of Miranda, putting his profile to Sasha. With a quick turn to her, he said, "This is the best
part." Turning back to fully face Miranda, he rolled his shoulders, letting his coat fall to pool at his feet. Sasha was
surprised, and even more jealous, to find he was bare-chested underneath the coat. Her breath caught in her throat as
his muscular chest with its covering of smooth silver-blonde hair was revealed. He was pumped, his jeans fitting his
hard thighs - and other things she didn't wish to think about at the moment - like a second skin. His arms pulsed with
coiled strength, the tendons in his neck bulging. His deep, smooth voice shook the walls with its power.
     "I am the Archangel Michael."     
                              Chapter Twenty-Three
                                        
     "Is this a joke?"
     Miranda Hughes eyed Michael suspiciously but with a twinkle of amusement and appreciation sparkling in
her eyes. Michael smiled down at her, midnight blue eyes warming her to the core.
     "No, Miranda, this is no joke. Would you like the more dramatic version?"
     His smile was so engaging, Miranda felt no fear even though a large very male stranger was standing
half-naked in her living room. His question had seemed somewhat playful, as though he were a little boy who wanted
to show her the frog he had just caught even though he knew it might frighten her. Miranda was not easily frightened.
     "Yes, Michael, I believe I would."
     The widening of his starlight bright smile told Miranda she had given the right answer.
     A pale blue glow began to emanate from Michael's body, spreading, reaching out to touch and warm
everything in the small room. Michael, his massive warrior's muscles pumped to their limit, raised one arm above his
head, the hand curling around some as-yet-unseen object. As both women stared in awe, a glistening silver sword
appeared in his hand. At the same time, huge wings of flame sprouted from his back, unfurling till they touched the
walls at his sides. His jeans became supple black leather that clung just as tightly to his muscular frame. His hair
blew about his head like a model in a shampoo ad, yet Miranda and Sasha felt no wind. The glow turned to gold
where it touched his silvery hair, forming a halo.
     Miranda was the first to find her voice.
     "Well, I guess you really are the Archangel Michael." She gave a nervous giggle. "That, or you've got a great
future in show business."
     Michael turned his head, pleased to find Sasha's eyes wide, her skin slightly pale, her mouth hanging wide
open in shock. Sending away his sword with a thought - it was a bit cumbersome - he returned his attention to his
current duty, Miranda.
     "Michael, is there something I can do for you?"
     "No, Miranda, it is I who have come to perform a service for you."
     His voice still echoed through the room, shaking the walls like a bass drum. Neither woman found it
unpleasant. Quite the contrary, it was strong and reassuring.
     "In a few hours, without my interference, you would suffer a massive heart attack, the result of an
undiagnosed congenital defect. Once you had given up possession of your life here, an angel would come to guide
you home. The process can be a bit traumatic, and I have a feeling you would be rather stubborn about leaving."
     "There are people here who need me."
     "Miranda, you have already given those people the most precious gift you possess, your love. They will retain
that for eternity. You have saved children, helped to set them on a better course for their lives. You have taught
people to combat loneliness by seeking the company of others. You have organized a piece of this city into a
neighborhood that will continue to exist and prosper in your name long after you have gone. You have done all that
Father has asked of you. Your time on this Earth is at an end."
     Sasha had been in shock since the moment Michael had sprouted wings made of fire that didn't burn the
things it touched. They furled and unfurled as he moved and spoke, reacting to his mood.
     `Like talking with your hands,' she had thought, a little giggle threatening her sanity.
     Now she was regaining her senses, hearing his words. And she didn't like what she was hearing.
     "Michael, you're an angel, you can fix it. Right?"
     The narrowed eyes Michael turned her way reminded her of his `somewhere extremely warm' threat of
earlier. But Sasha never had been one to be easily intimidated, and she wasn't about to start now.
     "Miranda's a really nice person, the world needs more like her. My article might get her more attention,
maybe make people want to emulate her."
     "It might surprise you to find that Luke benefits a great deal more from the efforts of you and your colleagues
in the press than does Father."
     "That's not fair! I..."
     "Silence! This is not about you. You will be quiet or..."
     "Yeah, I know, the hot place."
     Sasha's lips thinned as she crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in the chair, the very picture of
annoyance. Michael once again fought the loving smile that threatened, losing the battle just as he turned from
Sasha, so that she caught just a glimpse.
     "Miranda, I am here to conduct you to Father personally. There will be no trauma, no pain of death. With
your life of selfless love you have earned my escort."
     Miranda looked around her little living room, seeing a hundred things she had meant to do when she got
around to it. She wouldn't miss this old brick and wood building with the bad wiring and questionable plumbing, just
the people with whom she had shared laughter and love there.
     "Oh, well, I don't guess there'll be housework in Heaven. I surely won't miss that. If that's the way it's got to
be."
     Her eyes were hopeful as they probed Michael's sapphire gaze. He nodded.
     "I can see there's no arguing with you. I've got a batch of cookies in the oven - they're for the PTA meeting
tonight - do you mind if I turn off the oven before we go? I don't want to burn down the house."
     Michael smiled somewhat wryly and nodded.
     "By all means."
     "I'll just be a minute."
     Miranda stood and dashed into the kitchen.
     "I was not at all amused by your comment about me and my colleagues, Michael."
     Exasperation sighed through his lips as Michael turned to Sasha and spoke in a gentle lover's whisper that
brought gooseflesh springing to her skin.
     "My love, a few more minutes and my work will be finished here. If you wish to rant and rave at me for all
my flaws, indiscretions, failures, bad habits - whatever - you know where to find me. My door, my arms and my bed
will always be open to you. But for now," his tone of command returned, "be quiet!"
     Sasha's nostrils flared indignantly, but she held her tongue as Miranda returned from the kitchen, once again
seating herself on the couch before Michael.
     "Those cookies were done enough for kids. I guess I'm ready. Am I supposed to twitch my nose or
something?"
     Michael chuckled.
     "No. If that were necessary to perform miracles, I'd be in trouble."
     He spread his arms.
     "Come to me, Miranda."
     Mesmerized by the blue fire of his eyes, Miranda stood and stepped into his embrace. Her head tucked
perfectly beneath his chin, she could feel his breath in her hair. He closed his strong arms around her, tightening
them just enough to let her know she was safe. Miranda had never felt as loved as she did at that moment.
     Sasha's jealousy was about to make her explode. Michael wrapped his arms, and those massive, flaming
wings of his, around Miranda as though they were the most intimate of lovers. She was about to test his `extremely
warm place' threat when the glow around him increased in intensity, making flaring so bright that Sasha had to look
away to protect her eyes. When the light died down enough for her to look back, she sincerely wished she hadn't. A
scream she couldn't quite stifle escaped her lips as she stared at what was left of Miranda Hughes. She looked as
though she had been seated on the couch, maybe watching TV or having a nice afternoon coffee break, when she had
suddenly burst into flames. Nothing else in the room was even singed, no soot covered any surfaces. Even the couch
beside Miranda's body was untouched by flame.
     Strangely enough, anger was the first emotion Sasha found after the shock wore off.
     "Michael, you son-of-a-bitch, the best story ever and I can't write a word of it! You did that on purpose! This
won't work as spontaneous combustion, you know. The coffee cups..."
     She looked at the coffee table, expecting to find three half-full cups of coffee. There were none, the coffee
table, and the little table beside her chair where she had set down her empty cake plate, were completely bare.
     "Figures. You would think of everything."
     A lightbulb smile lit her face.
     "But you forgot about me. Nobody ever witnesses these things." She wrinkled her nose. "Now I see why. The
police will know I left after the fact. They'll find my footprints or something. They'll...Who am I talking to?!"
     Sasha jumped, successfully fighting the scream that threatened when she heard another voice in the room.
     "Mikey can be kind of single-minded sometimes."
     Sasha glared at Gabriel where he stood by the side of the couch.
     "You scared me out of my wits, Gabe!"
     The irrepressibly bright-eyed angel shrugged and smiled sheepishly.
     "Sorry. I never have figured out a way to let people know I'm coming without scaring them just as much with
the announcement as with the appearance. Any ideas?"
     "Are you here for a reason, or just to scare me to death and pick my brain?"
     "Sure. I'm here to clean up after Michael, but don't tell him I put it that way, okay? He can be so touchy.
Besides, I thought you might like a free lift to Pleasant Grove."
     Sasha turned away so he couldn't see the confused happiness in her eyes. She spoke with forced nonchalance.
     "Why would I want to go to that old place? There's absolutely nothing to do there."
     "I didn't think you'd be taking in the tourist attractions. Come to think of it, I don't think there are any tourist
attractions. I think that's one of the reasons Michael likes it so much. Anyway, I think you want to be there so I'm
gonna...ah...no, I'm not. You have to choose to go to Michael. Father won't let me make that choice for you. So,"
having heard nothing of his approach, Sasha jumped and turned as Gabe tapped her on the shoulder, "what's it gonna
be?"
     "There are going to be a lot of fights, Gabe."
     "Yeah, I know. If I were a betting angel, my money'd be on you."
     "Do you really think we can make it? I mean, I love him, I think he loves me, but..."
     Gabe rubbed his jaw, then gave her a wry smile.
     "Oh, yeah, he loves you. He said so, didn't he? Ya gotta remember, Michael always tells the truth, at least, the
truth as he sees it at the moment. But, unbeknownst to angel fans - and please don't tell them, it would break their
hearts - angels are not perfect. We're different than you, closer to Father, but we aren't gods. There's only one of
those. If Mikey gets too autocratic, you can always remind him of that."
     Gabe gently placed his hands on Sasha's shoulders.
     "You'll make it `cause you love each other. Michael can be real stubborn but I think he's finally gotten that
through his thick skull. He won't let it slip away, he was too miserable without you."
     Gabe grinned, and Sasha couldn't resist returning the impish expression.
     "Only don't tell him I told you that either. It might damage his manhood. Ew," Gabe glanced at the ashen
remains of Amanda Hughes, "that is one of Michael's coolest tricks, but it's so messy. Ready to blow this joint?"
     Sasha nodded quickly, wanting nothing more at this moment than to be back in Michael's arms. Gabe dropped
his eyes to his feet, drawing her attention to his dirty white tennis shoes.
     "Here we go."
     With that pronouncement, Gabe clicked his heels together three times, and Sasha knew she was no longer in
Kansas.     
                              Chapter Twenty-Four
                                        
     The cabin was warm and dusky, the fire having died down to glowing embers while Michael `visited'
Miranda Hughes. Sasha breathed in the familiar scent of wood and stone and man. As soon as she realized she was in
his cabin she became aware that Michael was not home. That realization sent a little stab of sad loneliness through
her breast, but she quickly recovered, reassuring herself that he would return soon enough. And she didn't intend to
let him out of her sight for a very long time, no matter how difficult he might become.
     Remembering the granite-like set of his jaw, the pain and betrayal dulling his sapphire eyes as he stood her in
the snow outside the Pleasant Grove General Store, Sasha swallowed hard, wondering if another dose of Michael's
rejection would be her undoing. Raising her chin defiantly, she silently chastised herself for even entertaining the
thought that she might fold under the pressure. Retreat was not an option.
     "I better go."
     Having forgotten Gabe's presence in the cabin, Sasha started slightly at his quiet announcement. She gave him
a smile over her shoulder, which he returned. Stepping around her, he leaned on the hearth.
     "You, he'll be glad to find in his little home-away-from-home. Me..." He held out his hand, palm down, and
wiggled it. "Mikey can be funny about his turf." His eyes shone and his voice raised, reminding Sasha of an eager
puppy trying to convince its master that chewing a hole in the dog food sack had been an accident. "I could watch
over you, make sure everything goes okay. If you asked me to..."
     Gabe winced and raised bright violet eyes to the ceiling.
     "Or not."
     Sasha giggled.
     "That's okay, Gabe, I'll be fine. Thank you. I can't tell you how much you've done for me."
     Gabe smiled, happy to see the depths of her ebony eyes alive with the flames of love. His reply was as warm
as the cabin.
     "Yes, you can, and you have."
     He leaned forward and placed a feather-light kiss on her forehead.
     "I envy Michael, in a nice way. Take care, Sis. See ya."
     He stepped back from her, a mischievous grin lighting his face.
     "Wanna see the angel works?"
     Sasha pulled a face.
     "Thanks, but I think one set of flaming wings a day is more than enough for me."
     "Oh, that's Michael. We're all different. Watch!"
     Before she could protest further - Sasha was certain it was planned that way - a pale violet glow began to
emanate from Gabe's skin, a bright golden halo appeared suspended on air over his auburn locks and wings of large
opalescent feathers unfurled from his back. Once again, they touched the walls of the room at his side. In his right
hand he held a silver trumpet that glowed so brightly, Sasha could barely stand to look at it. His t-shirt had become
transparent, his jeans turned white. And his eyes filled with such glowing love, it was surprising to find just a hint of
mischief still glimmering in their depths.
     "Pretty cool, huh?"
     Such a glib, contemporary phrase issuing forth from the lips of this beautiful apparition seemed almost
sacrilegious. Sasha felt a pang of sympathy for the father of such a wild boy, then realized for whom she was feeling
sorry. A self-conscious giggle escaped her lips.
     "Yes, Gabe, very cool."
     His smile was that of a little boy showing off his favorite toy to the little girl who just moved into the
neighborhood. With a grand sweep of his arms, and wings, he bowed to Sasha and disappeared.
     "Flashy, isn't he?"
     Sasha jumped as warm breath caressed her neck. Strong hands sliding down her arms raised gooseflesh in
their wake. She sighed and leaned back against Michael's chest, feeling as though she had finally come home after a
long, exhausting voyage. The heat from his flesh burned wherever he touched her, and she shivered as her blood
turned molten.
     "Are you cold?" he whispered directly into her ear, eliciting another shiver that nearly buckled her knees. His
strong arms slipped around her, one at her waist, the other higher. His fingers brushed lightly over her breast in a
gesture that could have been an accident, but she knew better.
     "N-no, it's warm in here. Very warm."
     The chuckle that rumbled through his chest caressed her back, and she sighed once again, leaning harder
against him.
     "Maybe you're wearing too many clothes."
     He nuzzled the tender skin just below her jaw, using his chin and nose to move her hair so that he could place
little nips and kisses along the back of her neck. Steadying her with one arm - she was certain she would melt into a
pool at his feet if not for that arm - he used his other hand to slowly - ever so slowly - unbutton her blouse. When she
was certain enough time had passed that the world had surely ended, he carefully slid his hands back to her shoulders
and coaxed her blouse away. She wasn't wearing a bra, one of the advantages of small, firm breasts. She inhaled
sharply as the cool air touched her bare nipples, exhaling in an explosive rush as he cupped her breasts in his palms
and gently kneaded the sensitive flesh. Once again, he whispered into her ear, sending another shiver down her
ultra-sensitized spine.
     "Cooling down?"
     Sasha's head rolled back and forth over his collar bone. She was running her hands over his arms, not certain
if she were trying to stop or direct his tender ministrations. Kissing a path across the back of her neck and shoulders,
Michael spoke into the opposite ear.
     "Then I guess I'll have to remove all of your clothes."
     A tiny whimper was the only answer Sasha could manage. She was sincerely convinced that if he didn't make
love to her in the next ten minutes, she would expire from sensory overload.
     On the other hand, that might not be such a terrible way to go.
     Careful not to hurt her, Michael gently stepped on Sasha's heels, then, wrapping his arms about her waist, he
lifted her out of her shoes. Setting her back on her bare feet and steadying her there until he was certain she would
not collapse, he slid one hand over her breast, pulling her back against his chest, while he deftly unzipped her slacks.
They were loose, business-wear pants. Once undone, they cooperated well, slithering down her legs to pool at her
feet. Michael pressed his palm over the silk-covered mound at the apex of her thighs, groaning in response to her
in-drawn breath and tiny shiver. She pressed against his hand, moving sensually from side to side. 
     Michael growled low in his throat. None-too-gently biting the tendon on the side of her neck, he slid his
fingers beneath her silken panties. Feeling her slick moisture caress his fingertips was nearly his undoing. Searching,
he found the tender nub of flesh at her hot center and bathed it in her own hot liquid. Sasha screamed, the pleasure
his touch ignited too much for her to contain. As her knees finally gave way, Michael smoothly pulled her into the
cradle of his arms and carried her to his bed, gently laying her on the furs. With trembling hands, he eased her
panties down, his face splitting into a smile of pure masculinity when she did nothing to help him, too caught up in
the sensations pummeling her body to realize that raising her hips might have been a good idea. Michael was
surprised the silk didn't come apart in his hands as he roughly jerked it over her hips, impatience robbing him of all
restraint. He needed her so badly, his body on fire, his loins throbbing with desire. He practically tore his clothes
from his body, running his hands over her soft skin at every opportunity. Completely bare, he laid down beside her,
kissing her so deeply, she wondered if she might suffocate before he came up for air.
     Not that she was complaining.
     When she could catch her breath, Sasha decided she wanted everything out in the open so they could start
anew. Though breathless, the strength of her emotions filled her voice.
     "Michael, I love you. I want to be your wife, bake your bread - hopefully with a bread machine, so it will be
edible - have your children, help you with your work...okay, what did I say?"
     Sasha had felt Michael stiffen halfway through her declaration of undying love. She figured if she wanted
everything out in the open, she needed to know what had caused that stiffening, even if she had to pry it out of the
stubborn man with a crowbar!
     Being a typical man in certain things, Michael tried to kiss her back into the idea at hand - mutual pleasure.
When she turned her face to avoid his passionate kiss, then glared at him, he knew he had lost. With a heavy sigh, he
lay back on the bed, one arm behind his head, and stared at the exposed beams of his cabin.
     "We can't have children."
     For a second, Sasha thought she had misheard him. Not have children? Why? Didn't he like children? How
much did motherhood matter to her? She hadn't really given it a lot of thought, just figured when the time was right
she'd have one or two of the little rugrats to give her two cent's worth to the next generation.
     "Why?"
     The lack of a whine in that inquiry made her proud of herself.
     Michael turned his head and pinned her with the intensity of his gaze.
     "Because I am an angel."
     Sasha inhaled deeply, then gave a sharp nod.
     "I see, it's an interspecies thing. Okay, I can live with that. We can adopt."
     Michael shook his head.
     "I don't think that would be a good idea. Though being raised out here away from the world would be good
for children, they would eventually have to enter it, and having an angel for a father might prove somewhat difficult
for them."
     Sasha supported her head on her crooked arm so she could better see his face.
     "`Raised out here'?"
     Michael shrugged, oblivious to the storm brewing within inches of his head.
     "Of course."
     Sasha rolled her eyes heavenward.
     "Of course. How foolish of me to think that we might discuss something as important as our future home.
How could I possibly think that you might take my feelings into consideration before arbitrarily deciding where we
are going to live?"
     The rising of her voice as she spoke got Michael's attention, and he turned curious, though heavy-lidded,
sapphire eyes her direction.
     "I thought that was understood. You saw the error of your ways and came back to your husband."
     Sasha was surprised at how satisfying it was to slap her palm against his bare chest, the `smack' echoing
through the cabin bringing a mocking sneer to her face. Enjoying the look of surprise on his handsome features that
had not as yet had the chance to turn to anger, she flung herself atop him, her knees straddling his chest, and pointed
a finger that nearly touched his nose.
     "I did not see the error of my ways. Well, not exactly. What I figured out in that hellish time was that I love
you and you love me. Being two intelligent," she glared down at him, "one-and-a-half intelligent adults, I thought we
could talk, compromise, work things out so that we could be happy together. I should have known better."
     "Yes, you should."
     Michael returned her glare, black ice fighting sapphire flames. He grabbed her hips and forcibly slid her body
down his until the centers of their passion were nearly joined. Though she tried to resist, it was like fighting a bull at
full charge. Once he had her poised above him, one thrust of his hips the only thing needed to join them, he
continued.
     "I do not compromise. I am what I am. If you love me as you say you do, you are more than aware of that. I
chose a remote area for my cabin so I might avoid questions that Father prefers remain unanswered. You will live
here with me."
     "I have a life!"
     Using that thrust to drive the air from her lungs, Michael pulled her down, his hand tangling in her hair,
bringing her lips into near-contact with his. His tone was fierce, his breath hot on her lips.
     "I am your life!"
     He ravaged her lips with his own, caressing, forcing, cajoling, nipping. He ran his tongue along the edge of
her lips, growling when she tried to deny him entrance. Slowly, he forced his way between her lips as he played the
age-old game of thrust and retreat with her body.
     Sasha managed to pull away from him just enough to utter the words, "You're such a Neanderthal!" before he
tightened his arms around her and rolled her beneath him, taking complete control. Oh, how she wished she had the
control, the willpower - whatever! - to resist him. But as he danced within her body, setting and changing the rhythm
at will, she was lost. She reveled in the feel of hard muscle against every inch of her skin that touched him. He kissed
her eyelids, her cheeks, her forehead, her neck. Feather-soft kisses, playful nips, nearly painful possessive bites - all
were within his repertoire. He played her like a finely-tuned instrument until all she wanted to do was sing for him,
sing until she had no voice left, until all the air left her lungs, until time ceased to exist for them and they became
lost in each other's eyes for eternity.
     Suddenly, doing one of those man things that women never really understand, he placed one hand under her
rear, the other across her back 
     holding the fur trapped against her flesh, and stood. Sasha tightened her legs around his waist, though she
wasn't truly afraid of falling, she just didn't want to put his strength to the test. Michael slammed her against the wall
of the cabin, his hand cushioning her back. Her weight now came down more fully on his shaft so that each stroke
forced her tender bud more firmly against his manhood. She had very little time to realize there really was method to
his madness before she was spiraling toward a white-hot pinnacle of pleasure the likes of which she doubted anyone
had ever actually reached and survived. But she was certainly willing to give it a try.
     Michael felt the quickening of Sasha's breath, knew she was about to achieve ecstatic satisfaction. Thrusting
with the force of his muscular thighs, he pinned her to the wall like a butterfly on exhibit. She threw back her head
and screamed her pleasure, her moisture drenching him, and he released the last bit of his control. His back arched,
pleasure shooting through him like a spear, as his hot seed exploded into her welcoming body. The spasms of her
dying pleasure milked him, leaving him spent.
     Bolstering his legs with the last few ounces of strength he possessed, Michael backed up and fell on the bed,
bringing Sasha with him. He was glad to find that she had moved her legs at the last moment, dropping them to
parallel his. He had not thought to warn her and he knew she would have lectured him if he had landed on her legs,
not to mention the fact that his weight might have broken them. He wriggled sideways until they were laying the
right way on the bed - well, close enough - pulled the edge of the blanket from beneath Sasha to cover him, and
promptly fell into an oh, so satisfied, sleep.     
                              Chapter Twenty-Five
                                        
     Sasha woke feeling satisfied, fulfilled, even glowing - and mad as a wet hen! She knew it wasn't her
imagination. Michael really had ignored her words, dictated her future and punctuated it all with his unforgettable,
and - Damn him! - irresistible lovemaking.
     Now as she watched him rise from the bed in the dark, cold cabin, she set her mind against being swayed by
his gorgeous body, his drop-dead looks, or his honeyed words. They were going to discuss the future, and resolve it
to her liking, if she had to sit on him...no, that hadn't worked out very well last time...if she had to run outside in the
frigid air and refuse to come back into the cabin until he promised to discuss it. Gooseflesh dotted her skin just
thinking about it. As Michael used the poker to examine the ashes for any signs of life, Sasha gave her curiosity
reign.
     "Why don't you..." she grinned when her voice startled him, causing him to jump slightly and turn bright eyes
of the darkest blue her direction. His `good morning' smile was enough to make her knees go weak, and she was
laying down!
     "Sorry, I thought you knew I was here."
     He wrinkled his nose like a disgruntled bunny rabbit.
     "I thought you were still sleeping."
     "Don't you mean `passed out'?"
     The masculine smile he sent her way put her mood somewhere smack in the middle of `kill the smug creep'
and `throw off the covers and entice the stud back to bed for round two'. Shaking her head, wondering where this
insatiable vixen had been hiding all her life, she decided to return to her original, safe question.
     "Why don't you cheat? With the fire? Or is it just that you don't feel the beastly cold in here?"
     Michael stood and looked down at himself, then back at her with a comical expression. Following his lead,
she looked down his body, finding his usual proud display of masculinity sadly lacking. It seemed to have shriveled,
trying to hide from the frigid temperatures by seeking protection closer to his body.
     "You're cold."
     "I'm cold."
     They spoke at the same time. Their eyes met and together they shared a burst of laughter at Michael's
expense. He pulled a log from the pile.
     "By `cheat' I assume you mean use my powers to start the fire. I suppose I could."
     He looked thoughtful.
     "Actually, I could burn this cabin to the ground in a matter of seconds."
     Sasha shifted uncomfortably, then gave him a good glare when she saw the playful gleam in his sapphire
eyes.
     "I thought you could just touch the wood with one of those melodramatic wings of yours."
     Michael's eyes widened indignantly.
     "Melodramatic?!"
     A single black eyebrow rose eloquently. He growled, realizing he'd been one-upped by the little spitfire, a fact
he chose to blithely ignore.
     "I like doing things with my bare hands. It would be easy to get lazy and use only the gifts Father has
bestowed upon me, but I'd be a ninety-seven pound weakling in no time."
     Sasha made a face that showed what she thought of that possibility. He laughed.
     "I have been known to cheat for meals, though. Fish and berries can get old fast."
     "Tell me about it."
     "You could have said something."
     "I would have if I had thought you could just click your heels and take us to Denny's."
     "`Click my heels'? Let me guess - Gabe?"
     Sasha smiled at the memory of the sweet, violet-eyed angel and Michael was unpleasantly surprised at the
tiny flare of jealousy in his chest. He'd have to work on that.
     "He's a real sweetheart, your brother. You and Rafe are so much more serious than Gabe. And I won't even
mention that other member of your family I've had the misfortune to meet."
     Michael frowned at the reminder of Luke and smacked the poker back into place.
     "Thank you. When did you meet Raphael?"
     Sasha blushed, remembering the depths of defeat to which she had sunk before Michael's brother had come
along and helped her to see the light.
     "We had breakfast together. He has a great way of making you see things without shoving them down your
throat."
     "Like someone else you know?"
     "I didn't say that."
     "I have yet to shove anything down your throat."
     Seeing his wicked grin, Sasha's blush got serious, heating her face, neck and chest.
     "Michael! What would your Father think?"
     "Father has no problem with sex between two people who love each other. That's a concept that came about
as people decided they were on Earth to suffer. Where they got that idea I'll never know. Most people are like
teenagers, they think school, which is basically what this life is, has to be grueling and unpleasant for them to be
doing it right. A few get the idea, becoming class president and captain of the football team while still getting
straight A's, but not many."
     "But isn't...ah...that kind of sex perverted?"
     One corner of Michael's lip rose and he flipped his eyebrows at her.
     "`That kind'? You mean using your lips, teeth, tongue, all of your body to show your loved one how much you
love them, how much they mean to you?"
     Sasha's skin tingled as his voice became husky. Would he actually...? Could he? Would she let him? Would
he want her to return the favor? Would she?
     "Nothing that stems from love and is enjoyed by both parties is likely to offend Father. He has been amazed at
the ingenuity of his creation in that area, even annoyed at times, but not nearly as angry as most churches would have
you believe. He doesn't condemn children because they experiment. That's why He gave them such great curiosity, so
they could try things out while they still had their parents to help them understand their feelings. And to help them
out of the scrapes that curiosity might cause. One thing He hadn't counted on, a thing that saddens Him greatly, is
people's desertion of their children. So many seem to think all they owe a child is their creation. And maybe room
and board till they can care for themselves."
     He slowly shook his head.
     "That wasn't the idea."
     Flipping one brow and shrugging, he returned his attention full force to Sasha, nearly bowling her over with
the intensity of his deep blue stare. He stood and faced her, his arms wide, palms toward her.
     "Does the idea of kissing me, anywhere, make you uncomfortable?"
     Her eyes roamed his body. Certain parts of him attested to the fact that the fire was doing its job warming the
cabin. She felt a soft throb in her nether regions at the sight. Uncomfortable? Kissing him? Not likely!
     "Not a bit."
     He nodded.
     "Father speaks to you through your heart, telling you what is right. Loving makes it easy to hear your heart.
Hatred, anger...they make you deaf to its words."
     "What a beautiful way to look at things."
     "It isn't how I see things, Sasha. I'm no poet spouting sweet words."
     Michael sighed, wondering if he would ever be able to make her understand. A sudden thought brightened
him.
     "You've heard the crackling wind, haven't you?"
     Sasha nodded, wondering where he was headed with this.
     "Have you ever listened with your heart?"
     She shook her head, thinking he had gone back to the romantic stuff, but a memory began inching its way out
of the depths of her mind. In her memory, she was ten, standing outside the church, looking up at its beautiful spire,
as her parents pried themselves and five other members of their family out of their two-door, not-so-late-model car.
A warm breeze ruffled her long hair, the white lace mantilla floating out in a reverse shadow, and she distinctly
heard a whispered, "I love you, Sasha." Thinking her father had spoken, Sasha turned to find him quite involved in
getting Aunt Sophie out of the back seat of the car. Looking around, she found no one near who could have spoken.
With a child's innocent faith, she happily accepted that God had just told her he loved her.
     Sasha hadn't thought about that warm breeze since that wonderful day had turned so horrible. Now, she raised
tear-filled eyes to Michael.
     "I heard Him."
     Michael nodded, sitting on the bed beside her and pulling her onto his lap. She snuggled into his embrace and
let the tears come, understanding somehow that they were cleansing her heart. After a few minutes, she pulled away
and looked into his eyes.
     "You hear Him all the time."
     He nodded, wiping the last tears from her cheeks with his fingertips.
     "I didn't mean to make you cry, sweetheart."
     "Oh, that's okay, they're happy tears. All this time I wanted to hear what you guys were hearing, I could have,
if only I'd known how to listen. Like finding the right set of headphones."
     Michael smiled warmly and, shaking his head, slid her back onto the bed and headed toward the fireplace.
     "Something like that, I guess. I have to `cheat', as you put it, this morning. I wasn't expecting company so I'm
not exactly stocked with food. What would you like for breakfast?"
     Taking note of her stomach for the first time since waking, Sasha blushed as it growled, sounding empty as a
cave. She closed her eyes and imagined the perfect breakfast, figuring he'd bring home Twinkies and scrambled eggs.
     "I'd like a ham and cheese omelet, pancakes smothered in hot boysenberry compote, sliced peaches and
strawberries with half-and-half, a big glass of orange juice and coffee that isn't deep-fried over a fire."
     "Yes, ma'am. And will I be receiving an appropriate tip for exemplary service?"
     Since her mind was on the wonderful meal she was imagining, his husky question caught Sasha off-guard.
She opened her eyes to be instantly captured by his intense sapphire gaze. She could do nothing but remind herself to
take one breath after the other as he stalked toward her. She had begun to lean back, preparing herself for the coming
ravishment, when he reached across her and retrieved his shirt from the other side of the bed. She had absolutely no
idea how it had gotten there. He grinned down at her, a smirk that told her he knew what she had been thinking and
had enjoyed teasing her. She smacked her open palm against his bare chest, barely controlling her gasp as he froze in
place and pinned her with narrowed eyes.
     "Well, am I promised that tip?"
     Oh, how she wished she could keep her voice from filling with air, but with his massive chest pressing her
down to the bed, his manhood rigid against her leg, it was hopeless.
     "What would you consider an appropriate tip?"
     He leaned closer, his lips barely brushing hers as he spoke.
     "Your beautiful lips adoring me, kissing the very breath from my lungs, your tongue driving me to an ecstasy
beyond my wildest imaginings."
     A shiver ran through her body, pausing in certain ultra-sensitive spots. Her back arched as she reached for
him, but he moved away at a speed just short of light. He quickly pulled on his pants, his brow furrowing with
discomfort as he arranged himself enough to fasten the buttoned fly.
     "You must be made of steel."
     "Only parts of me. What I am is hungry and I know that if I start making love to you, I'll probably continue till
we both expire from a lack of food. Besides," his grin was wicked and playful, making Sasha's heart ache with love
for him, "I want my tip."
     He was as dressed as she had ever seen him in his button-front blue work shirt and jeans, still no shoes in
sight. He started toward the door then stopped and turned to her with a mischievous glint in his beautiful deep blue
eyes, perfect white teeth flashing in a far-from-angelic grin.
     "Does the flashy stuff turn you on?"
     She might have tried harder to resist the ego slamming opportunity if his look hadn't turned challenging.
Instead, she replied in a voice filled with equal parts surprise and disdain, black eyes mirroring his challenge.
     "Oh, can you do something flashy?"
     Michael's eyes narrowed, then he dropped his gaze to the floor and shook his head.
     "You know, I try to avoid pride because Father doesn't care for it in His children, but you," he raised his eyes
and pinned her, the heat in their blue depths making her breath catch in her throat, "you are a temptation in so many
ways."
     He inhaled deeply, rolling and straightening his shoulders.
     "I shall not give in this morning. I'll be back in a few minutes, unless something comes up."
     He turned and walked out of the little cabin. Just before the door closed the very tip of a flaming wing
appeared around the edge of the door. Curling and dancing, the flames were impossible to ignore. Sasha stared in
awe at the beauty, the colors she had never really noticed before. She realized that the silver tips of the flames were
the same color as Michael's hair, the deep center flaring blue like his eyes.
     Then the door closed and the flames were gone. Sasha lay back on the bed and chuckled to herself.
     "Good resistance, Michael."
     As she lay there stretching and enjoying being a sloth, it suddenly hit her that they had discussed nothing
about their future. Once again, he had sidestepped the subject. Oh, who was she kidding, she hadn't even brought it
up. What was it about that annoying guy that made her forget what she wanted to say, ask, demand, whatever?
Instead, she always found herself listening to him, enjoying the view, falling under his physical spell till nothing else
mattered. He was driving her crazy!
     "Short trip, Sasha."
     She sighed, contentment returning to engulf her like a warm blanket.
     "Oh, well, we've got plenty of time. We'll talk - hah, yeah, right, argue, fight, yell, throw things, make up, find
lots of ways to say we're sorry, lots of really nice, creative ways, talk some more, start the whole thing over again."
     She touched her finger to her lips, one brow rising.
     "I like it! And this is the perfect isolated location to write that book I've been threatening myself with since I
learned the words `Best Seller'. So I'll have to use a manual typewriter, it's not exactly back to the cave. In between
being deliriously happy making love to Michael and writing the Great American Novel, maybe I can learn a few
rustic necessities, like cooking. Nah, I'll let him handle that. It's best to let them know they're needed. And I can find
out all about angels. Hey!"
     Sasha sat up, excitement lighting her face like a flame bursting to life.
     "I could write a book about angels! The genuine, bona fide, real thing! That's it. I'll knock their socks off.
This'll be number one with a bullet for weeks, maybe months."
     She hugged herself, happiness overflowing in a giggle like a bubbling brook.
     "Okay, future handled. As usual, handled without talking to a man because men can't talk about anything that
doesn't have a full-back, a wrench or a vote involved, but handled just the same. This is great!"
     Pulling her trusty notepad from her purse, Sasha laid on her stomach on the bed, bent legs kicking excitedly,
quietly humming `Johnny Angel' as she began jotting down ideas for her best selling novel about angels.                                                  
Chapter Twenty-Six
                                                
     "No!"
     So much for wedded bliss.
     When Michael had returned within the hour bearing the exact breakfast she had requested, Sasha had been
too surprised, and too hungry, to tell him about her plans for their future. After they had eaten their fill, he had softly
demanded his tip and, if physical tips counted, she had spent the last couple of hours raising his tax bracket. Though
she had balked at certain things, he had been patient, helping her overcome her objections and fears, until she had
given in to his persistence and found that the reason behind an act made all the difference in the world. Things that
sounded rather repugnant in print became anything but unpleasant when done with love and mutual pleasure as the
motives.
     Michael returned every touch, every caress tenfold, adoring her with everything at his command. If he had
been any other man she would have said he worshiped her with his lips, tongue, teeth, hands and body, but she didn't
think he'd care for that choice of words so she settled for `adored'.
     Afterwards, lying wrapped in Michael's strong, sweat-slickened arms, Sasha felt that same contentment wash
over her, bathing her in comfort. She wanted to share it with him, so she told him about her plans for their future.
Though she felt him stiffen and shift beneath her arm, she thought it was just a reflection of his dislike of not being
consulted. When she stopped to draw a breath, he made his negative pronouncement in a firm, no-arguments-allowed
tone.
     Sasha raised her upper body to glare at him.
     "What?"
     "You have some problem understanding `no'?"
     Her glare deepening to a black flamethrower, she sat up, pulling the fur over her breasts more to clench her
fists in it than for modesty, and faced him fully.
     "I understand the word just fine, but I'm missing the reason for its use at this moment."
     Michael put his arms behind his head and the stubborn set of his jaw warned her this was going to be a good
one.
     "`No' you may not write a book about angels. I do not wish to be dissected like a frog under the microscope of
your words just so you may get your name on a best seller list."
     Sasha's nostrils flared at that.
     "Fine, then I won't write about the great archangel Michael. I'm certain Gabe will tell me anything I want to
know. Rafe can fill in any gaps Gabe might leave. And I could always invite Luke back for tea!"
     If she hadn't known by the flare of his sapphire eyes that her barb had struck home, she could have guessed by
the way he stiffened and turned his head toward her. His voice was bordering dangerously on a yell.
     "You will not speak to him!"
     "If you keep telling me what I will and won't do, this is going to be the shortest marriage in history!"
     "Oh, so now we're married again?"
     "According to you, we always were."
     "According to you, we never were. Either you lied, or you lied about lying. Which is it?"
     "Oh, give me a break. Like you were completely honest with me from the start?! I don't think so. You wanted
to get in my pants as much as I wanted to get in yours. Why can't you just admit it?"
     "I never denied it. It is you who denied what happened that night."
     "I didn't deny...," Sasha took a deep breath, letting it escape her lips in a slow sigh. The effort showed, but she
managed to lower her voice. "Michael, let's just call it a draw, okay? We're married in the only way that really
counts, before...Father."
     An unwilling smile threatened his lips at her words, and he nodded, though grudgingly.
     "You are my wife."
     "Yeah, and, Heaven help me, you are my husband."
     He acknowledged the plea with a minuscule lift of one eyebrow.
     "Therefore, I will protect you and provide for you and you will do as I..."
     "Don't go there, Michael! I'm your wife not your property or your dog. I still have a say in what I will and
won't do, and I say I'm going to write a book about angels with or without your help. Angels are very popular right
now and..."
     "We are not the latest fad, like skateboards and tofu!"
     He was full-out yelling now and Sasha wondered if the log walls of the little cabin would hold against the
onslaught, let alone her eardrums.
     "We are the messengers of The Most Holy. The guides of the Human Race. The..."
     "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get the picture. How is my writing about you going to hurt any of that?"
     He jumped from the bed so fast Sasha wondered if something had bitten him. Stalking to the fireplace, he
leaned on the hearth, breathing deeply. He stared at the fire as he spoke.
     "As I told you once before, there are things Father does not wish known."
     Sasha stood, pulling the fur with her. She did not intend to let him have the psychological advantage in this
discussion by remaining prone.
     "You mean things only you get to reveal when you feel like it. And did you ever think maybe Father is ahead
of us both? Maybe He sent me here to write this book, to let the truth out."
     He faced her, his eyes molten azure.
     "No! We reveal ourselves only when necessary for the good of mankind. We do not need a reporter to get us
on the six o'clock news."
     "Michael, I swear if you..."
     "Do not swear!"
     "You're going to drive me crazy! I've never been very good with rules and I've got a feeling you've got a
novel's worth of them."
     Her eyebrows rose as an idea struck.
     "And my book would let everyone know those rules, let them know what's right and wrong. Father would be
very pleased if...I hate it when you shake your head like that! You act like you are so damn superior!"
     Simmering blue flames became sapphire sunbursts at her expletive.
     "I am superior!"
     He stalked toward her as he spoke, stopping a mere two feet away.
     "Can you sprout wings of flame, be where you wish with a thought, speak to the Creator?"
     "You better watch that pride."
     "I do not speak from pride, I state facts. Angels are superior to humans as a teacher is superior to a student.
We are your guides, your protectors, your teachers, and, when necessary, your disciplinarians. We will not be used as
dime-store novel fodder to further the career of a failed tabloid reporter!"
     The crack as Sasha's palm found his cheek sounded like gunfire in the little cabin.
     "You son-of-a-bitch!"
     Faster than the eye could follow, Michael grabbed her wrists and, pulling her arms up behind her back,
brought her hard against his chest, which rose against her with his deep, hard breathing. She was fascinated, and a
little frightened, by the heat searing her wherever their bodies made contact. A blue glow had begun emanating from
his skin, making her wonder if she were about to burst into flames. He glared down into her face, his breath hot on
her cheeks, the blue of his eyes so dark it neared black. A deep growl barely resembling his voice rumbled up from
the depths of his throat.
     "I see the first thing I must teach you as my wife is respect for your husband."
     It took a great deal of courage to talk back to that growling, glaring visage, but anger had always given Sasha
more courage than wisdom.
     "Respect is a two-way street. When I feel a little coming from you, I'll consider returning it!"
     "When you do something worthy of my respect, you shall receive it. You shall respect me because I am your
husband."
     "I see. You get respect just for existing while I have to do something to earn yours. Bull! I may not be a
feminist, but that unequal I'm not."
     "You will learn."
     She was off the ground and over his knee before she knew what was happening. In the fracas, she lost her grip
on the fur, was left naked in his arms. Realization hit her just as his palm came down hard on her bare rear.
     "Ow! You chauvinist, Neanderthal...Ow! This is abuse, it's against the law...Ow! Getting physical never
solved any...Ow! Okay, I get the message."
     Michael rose from his seat on the bed and stood her before him.
     "I am old-fashioned, so I do not find Neanderthal an insult, the only law I recognize is God's law, which
allows me to chastise my wife when I feel it necessary and," he passed his palm over his cheek, "I believe you were
the first to get physical."
     She glared up at him, her eyes floating in tears of pain she refused to allow to fall.
     "What, exactly, was that supposed to prove?"
     Michael sighed heavily, her tears cutting him to the quick.
     "Punishment makes you remember the consequences of your actions, and, hopefully, makes the thing for
which you are punished less attractive the next time you are tempted by it. The worse the transgression, the more
severe the punishment."
     "Are you saying you would really hurt me?"
     The frightened little girl had slipped past her guard before her pride could catch her. Michael saw it in her
eyes, heard it in the soft, high pitch of her voice and his gut clenched so painfully it nearly brought him to his knees.
Here was one human he could not punish with impunity. Each blow to her soft skin had struck against his heart, each
`ow!' causing him to wince with her pain.
     All the anger drained from him on the single tear that escaped her control. His hand shook as he reached out
to trace that tear's trail down her cheek. His eyes, light blue now like a cloudy sky, mirrored his confusion, his voice
tinged with it as he spoke.
     "Throughout my existence I have been able to mete out punishment as it was needed. Transgression and
retribution, right and wrong, black and white. You, my love, my heart, you are my gray. I have become too
unbending."
     A wry smile curved his lips.
     "I am certain you will teach me to bend, even as I teach you to stiffen a bit."
     With a deep breath, he pulled her into his arms, thankful beyond belief that she came without resisting. He
held her tightly for several minutes, then pushed her away from him just far enough to look into her face. A little
grudging smile touched just the corners of her mouth.
     "You're a hard-ass, too."
     As gently as if she were a newborn babe he kissed her lips.
     "I will ask Father about your book. If He will allow it, so be it."
     Not exactly the exuberant response for which she had hoped, but it would have to do for now. Sasha wrapped
her arms around him and squeezed.
     "Thank you, Michael. I'll work on that respect thing."
     Michael's chuckle was her only answer.     
                              Chapter Twenty-Seven
                                        
     The disgruntled look on Michael's face when he returned from the woods told Sasha the news was good, at
least for her. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, nearly bowling him over with her enthusiasm.
     "He said yes! He said yes, didn't He, Michael?"
     Michael grinned in spite of himself, enjoying his love's excitement. He hugged her to him, easing up when he
heard the breath whoosh from her lungs.
     "With stipulations," he grumbled against her hair. Since he had straightened, she now hung in his arms, her
feet nearly a foot off the ground. She wrapped her legs around him like a little monkey, then leaned back, her curious
eyes catching his.
     "Stipulations? Such as?"
     His grin widened. This was the only triumph he had managed in this battle. He intended to enjoy it
immensely.
     "I am to read, and approve of, anything you write before it is submitted for publication."
     The stiffening of her body warned him he had better let her down before she started kicking. He did so,
setting her on her feet and closing the cabin door behind them. As he checked on the fire, not wanting it to die out for
one minute with the temperatures outside dipping to negative degrees, he surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder
and watched her pace as she digested what he had just said, wondering when the explosion would come. Judging
from the stubborn set of her jaw and the fire simmering behind her ebony eyes, it was going to be a big one.
     Sasha ground her teeth as she took five steps one way, then pivoted on her heel and covered the same five
steps back. Okay, she had prayed that God would let her write the book and he had answered her prayer. She was
going to be allowed to write the first certifiably non-fiction written work about angels. Well, there was the Bible, but
that wasn't really about angels, they were just periphery characters. The Lord was bestowing a great honor upon her.
     But, Michael?! She had worked with some demanding editors before, but his mind was so closed, she'd need
a crowbar just to let in enough light to clear out the cobwebs. He'd nix every other word. This was impossible!
     Wait, maybe she could discuss this, trade Gabe for Michael. After all, Gabriel was an angel, an archangel.
And he did have certain journalistic qualities that would make him more understanding of her work. For one, he
liked to gossip, which was an old-fashioned form of spreading the news. Yes, he would be a much better choice for
editor.
     "Father thought you might have a few objections."
     Michael's voice startled her, but she controlled the jump that threatened. Hearing the smugness seeping out of
every word, she wanted to strangle him! Instead, she turned toward him, determined to make this work out to her
benefit. Her voice dripped cooperative honey.
     "Objections? Of course not. Every writer needs an editor."
     Michael's eyebrows rose in surprise. He had been so certain she would throw a fit, and he had actually been
looking forward to the...discussion. Shrugging, he turned back to his task of restacking the logs so she wouldn't see
his disappointment.
     "Of course."
     "But..."
     Aha! She had tried to lull him into a false sense of security with her acquiescence act. A good battle strategy.
He would have to watch his back when sparring with his lady. His guard surrounded his softly spoken response.
     "But?"
     "Well, Michael, I don't want you to take this wrong, but I think Gabe would make a better editor. I mean, he
understands the mechanism of reporting. You can't bludgeon people with information, you have to make it
interesting, use finesse."
     "And you think Gabe has more finesse than I?"
     One ebony eyebrow rose, pulling that corner of her mouth with it.
     "He uses music and soft words to get people's attention, you use flames and a sword. What do you think?"
     A sheepish grin accompanied Michael's flipped eyebrows.
     "Some situations call for a different kind of finesse. I am capable of subtlety when necessary."
     "Father hates it when you lie, Michael."
     His brows pulled together in a feigned pout.
     "I am capable, I am just not called upon very often to use that ability."
     Her voice took on an airy tone of superiority.
     "I wonder why."
     Pout turned to scowl in the blink of a deep blue eye.
     "Perhaps there are others who are better at it. This has nothing to do with your book. You wish to have
Gabriel as your editor because you think you can wrap him around your little finger and you're probably right. This is
not negotiable. I must approve your words before they are given to Father's children. In return, I will answer your
questions and arrange for my brothers to speak with you."
     He was so smug about his `not negotiable' she couldn't resist poking the stick at the angry dog she knew lay
behind this particular fence.
     "Including Luke?"
     Michael's eyes flared azure fire as she had suspected they would.
     "Luke?"
     She nodded, hoping a different tactic would convince him to let Gabe edit her book.
     "Yes, Luke. I can't very well write about angels without speaking to him, finding out his story. After all, he is
an angel, isn't he?"
     Michael narrowed his eyes at her, his eyes reminding her of the thunderclouds that usually preface a tornado.
His voice rumbled like soft thunder.
     "Yes, Luke is an angel. If you wish to include information about him in your book, you may get it from
myself and my other brothers. You may not speak with him."
     "Is that part of your instructions?"
     The flare of his nostrils told her she had him there, so she pressed her advantage.
     "If it's too difficult for you to deal with him, you should let someone who doesn't have the problem take over
for you. Gabe seems..."
     Michael's snort of laughter caught her off-guard.
     "You would truly use anything or anyone to get your way, wouldn't you, little girl?"
     Though his use of the endearment sent a tiny shiver down her spine, she didn't care for the context.
     "I am not a little girl and I don't see that I am using..."
     "Don't play dumb, Sasha, it's beneath you, it's deceitful and it's unbecoming. As I have said, my overseeing of
your writing is non-negotiable, so stop trying to wheedle your way out of it. The second stipulation is..."
     "Second stipulation?! There are more?"
     Michael rolled his eyes then glared at her for interrupting him.
     "The second stipulation is that you cast angels in a favorable light."
     "With you approving every word," she grumbled, "that goes without saying. Pretty much leaves Luke out, too,
doesn't it?"
     Michael beamed smugly, his tone clearly stating that he had known that all along.
     "I suppose it does, although mentioning him as The Fallen One would be acceptable. The third stipulation..."
     "Should I be taking notes?"
     Michael sighed dramatically, his eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle of his forehead.
     "What you should do is be quiet until I am finished speaking."
     "Excuse me. I thought we were having a conversation here, not a dictatorial speech."
     "Now you know. Shall I continue, or are you sufficiently discouraged to abandon this foolish venture?"
     It was her turn to flare, eyes shooting black flames, nostrils wide, lips pulling back from her teeth in a
snarling grin.
     "Oh, no, you're not gonna scare me off, Bubb. I can handle a few suggestions.
     "Stipulations!"
     "Whatever. Get on with it."
     They were nearly toe-to-toe now, not quite shouting, but near enough.
     "The third stipulation is that you mention no specific incidents in such a way that the humans who were
involved would be identified."
     "Why?"
     "We do not want them hounded by the tabloids..."
     "Don't go there, Michael!"
     "I am not going anywhere. You know what would happen if people knew someone had actually seen one of
us. Tabloids, news shows, late night TV. Unwanted celebrity that might interfere with the very things we were trying
to accomplish. No specifics."
     "Great. Can I use an `unidentified source close to the angel'?"
     "You are such a source."
     Sasha couldn't help the little smile that lifted her spirits. He was right, she was the source close to the angel.
Meeting his eyes, she saw a tiny flicker of laughter amid all the roiling darkness of his anger. A chuckle shook
through her words.
     "You got me there. Anything else?"
     "Father had only three."
     "I hear a `but'."
     Michael dropped his gaze to the floor, the demand leaving his tone to be replaced by soft request.
     "I would have you take my chosen family name as befits my wife."
     Though several rabid feminist arguments came to mind, Sasha knew she wouldn't fight this one. Since losing
him for those horrid weeks when he had been angry with her, she had come to the conclusion that she wanted to be
Michael's wife in every way.
     "Okay."
     His eyes flew wide, scanning her face to see if she were trying some new fighting tactic. Finding no trace of
guile in her near-black gaze, he narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side.
     "Okay?"
     "I agree with the custom of taking my husband's name. I like St Arch. I intend to use the original spelling, it's
more dramatic. Any more bombshells?"
     "No. What will you need?"
     Sasha sighed, remembering the less-than-modern conditions under which she would have to write this super
tome.
     "Electricity, a telephone, a lap-top computer...Relax, Michael, I'm just daydreaming. All I need is a typewriter
of the manual persuasion. And lots of paper. Oh, and some more batteries for my tape recorder. Come to think of it,
I'll need more tapes."
     She glanced around the little cabin and frowned.
     "And a desk and chair. A little one that will fit over in that corner. Do you think we could get a couple of
those little kerosene lamps, the light in here is not the best for writing. And...Michael?"
     During her recitation of her list of needs, Michael's face had slowly lost all expression. Now, he turned away
from her and slumped into the chair. Thinking something was wrong, Sasha knelt before him, not at all happy with
the my-best-friend-just-died expression she found him wearing. She took his hand in her own and squeezed.
     "Michael, is something wrong?"
     He glanced at her, sky-blue eyes filled with desolation, then returned his gaze to the fire.
     "How long will it take you to write your book?"
     His question was toneless.
     "I really don't know. Maybe six months, maybe less. It depends on how interesting you guys turn out to be."
     She had tried to make him smile with that comment, failed dismally.
     "Why?"
     He sighed heavily as he began flicking his thumbnail at a piece of dirt that clung to his jeans.
     "Six months."
     He nodded as though he had just been handed down a jail sentence. A sudden thought struck Sasha and she
decided to take a stab in the dark.
     "At least that long, allowing for all the time we'll be spending under the furs."
     His sideways glance was so full of hope, she almost burst out laughing. Smiling, she threw her arms around
his neck and climbed into his lap.
     "Did you think I could just forget a gorgeous hunk like you in the same room with me? You'll have to find
things to do outside or I won't get any work done at all. Can you get the things I need?"
     Michael's arms slid around her back and he pulled her tightly against him. He breathed in the scent of her,
disgusted with his own jealousy of her time, but relieved just the same that she intended to make time for him.
Knowing himself, he was certain there would be times he wanted her attention that she didn't want to give it, but that
would be alright. Fighting with his lady was enjoyable, too.
     "I can. But first..."
     He nuzzled her neck, running one hand down her back, across her hip and...her hand on his stopped his
progress, bringing a disgruntled frown to his brow as he raised his head to discover her reasons.
     "I'm ready to get to work, Michael."
     "And I am ready for a different sort of work, my sweet."
     He thrust his hardness against her in a way she couldn't mistake. With an exaggerated sigh, she gave him her
best put-upon expression.
     "Oh, that again?"
     With a growl, he bit her neck, making chewing noises as she giggled and squirmed. His hand was high on her
thigh, moving higher, seeking...
     Michael suddenly pulled back, tilting his head to the side, his eyes intense as he stared at a point behind her
head. Sasha was about to turn, certain an eight-legged monster must be dangling from the rafters, when Michael
spoke, nearly scaring the wits out of her.
     "I must go."
     He carefully stood and placed her in the chair. Sasha's breath whooshed from her lungs.
     "Whew! We have got to work out a code or something, Michael. The way you were staring, I thought the king
of all spider monsters was about to rip my head off!"
     Michael smiled down at her.
     "Father needs me."
     "Yeah, I got that. When will you be back?"
     "I don't know. If you'd like, I'll ask Gabriel or Raphael to check on you if I'm gone long."
     "That would be nice. I could do a little research."
     Michael leaned down and gave her a kiss that left her wanting a great deal more. Then he was gone.     
                              Chapter Twenty-Eight
                                        
     Sasha busied herself making the bed, stirring the fire, cleaning as best she could. That took about twenty
minutes. Then she was left with nothing to do, no one to talk to and no typewriter. The knock at the door was
welcome, to say the least. Remembering Luke's visit, she stopped just short of throwing open the door, her hand on
the knob.
     "Who is it?"
     "The only visitor who ever knocks, I'm sure."
     Her throat clenched as she recognized Luke's voice. Looking around for her trusty fire-poker, Sasha fought
the fear building inside her.
     "Sasha, if I wanted to hurt you, I would have just materialized inside the cabin and had at you. I only want to
talk. May I come in?"
     He was so civilized it seemed rude to leave him standing on the doorstep. And his argument made sense.
     "Okay, but Michael will be home any minute and you know how angry he'll be if he finds you here."
     He slowly opened the door and stepped into the room. His black eyes scanned her hands, then rose to meet
her frightened glare. His smile wasn't anywhere near as evil as she had expected, was actually rather engaging.
     "I'm glad to see you're unarmed. Please relax, Sasha. I knew Michael wasn't here so I took the opportunity to
speak with you."
     He wore black jeans, a black turtleneck, black boots. All black, imagine that. She narrowed her eyes at him as
he proceeded to sit on the hearth next to the fire, the same spot he had taken the last time he visited. 
     "How did you know Michael wasn't here?"
     "I had someone watching the cabin."
     Her imagination running away with her, Sasha wondered what hideous demonic creature had been sitting
outside, waiting for her to be left alone out here in the frozen wasteland where no one could here her scream. She
jumped as Luke laughed.
     "You look like you just saw a ghost. Why don't you sit down and we'll talk?"
     Though his tone was the soul of propriety, his eyes demanded obedience. Since there was nowhere for her to
run, Sasha decided she might as well not annoy him.
     When she sat on the edge of the chair, Luke smiled and nodded, obviously pleased with her obedience.
Leaning back against the hearth, he closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.
     "This really is a nice place Michael built. I only call it a hovel to make him angry. Not that it takes much
effort on my part to achieve that goal."
     He was quiet for a moment which gave Sasha the opportunity to study him in what she assumed was his true
form. Comparing his height to hers, Sasha estimated him to be about 6'4". His hair fell to his shoulders in velvet
waves of the darkest brown, his eyes so near black it was hardly worth the argument. His brow seemed permanently
furrowed, his nose patrician, his lips full and well-defined, his chin rugged and square. All-in-all, he was quite
handsome. None of the innocent veterinarian facade remained. His face, even at rest, was full of strength and
cunning.
     He must have felt her examining him because he turned her way, slowly opening his eyes.
     "Do you always put people under a microscope when they're not looking, Miss Frazier?"
     Sasha felt a blush stain her cheeks.
     "It's a work-related handicap, I'm afraid. I didn't figure you for the shy type, though."
     A short burst of laughter lightened his features, taking years from his fortyish face.
     "No, I doubt the word `shy' has ever been applied to me. I understand you're going to write a book about us."
     "If by `us' you mean angels, yes, I am."
     He nodded.
     "Interesting. The old man agreed?"
     "Old man?"
     He rolled his eyes, sarcastically pointing toward the ceiling, then returned his piercing gaze to her.
     "Yes, Father agreed."
     "Michael's got you calling the old man `Father', huh? Oh, well, God, Jehovah, what's in a name?"
     Sasha's eyes widened in surprise at his blasphemy. He chuckled.
     "Don't look so surprised. Once you've disowned a kid, they tend to get very disrespectful. Am I to be in this
book?"
     Remembering Michael's words, Sasha nodded.
     "I don't think it would be complete without your story. You are, after all, an angel."
     "I am an archangel. Remember, I'm the one with the ego. Little things like `arch' can be very important to
me."
     His smile said he was joking, but Sasha was never certain what to think where Luke was concerned.
     "I'll keep that in mind. Did you come to be interviewed?"
     Turning his face toward the flames, Luke looked thoughtful.
     "How are you getting along? I mean, a human involved with an angel?"
     Sasha was taken aback by the unexpected nature of the question. Recovering, she answered truthfully.
     "It has its ups and downs. Why?"
     His voice dropped and he spoke as if to himself.
     "Sometimes, lately, it's...lonely. A woman..."
     He seemed to remember himself, blinking his return from some distant musing and turning back to her.
     "Though Mikey gets in my way sometimes, we used to be good friends. Besides, if he's busy keeping you
happy," his eyes slid toward the bed, darkening Sasha's blush to crimson, "he'll stay out of my face. Well, time to go."
     He stood, bringing Sasha out of the chair as though fired from a cannon. His sly grin at her fear reminded her
who, and what, he was.
     "Oh, before I go, I simply must do something rotten to maintain my reputation. I wouldn't want Michael to
think I had gone soft."
     His whole face seemed to change, to darken with evil intent.
     "You'll grow old, you know, old and gray. People will think Mikey's your son, then your grandson, then your
great-grandson. He'll stay young and beautiful while you grow wrinkled and decrepit."
     As Sasha stared in disbelief, his face returned to the relaxed, friendly facade he had worn through most of this
meeting.
     "Let me know when you want that interview, I'll try to fit you into my schedule."
     No way was she going to let him think he'd gotten the better of her with his malicious declaration. Sasha
found her most flip tone to reply.
     "Don't do me any favors. And don't bother with your black wing exit, either. Michael is more impressive than
you could ever think of being."
     His black brows drew together into a single wide line across his forehead, thunderclouds forming in his
obsidian eyes. Obviously pride was one of his many flaws. A big one. His voice took on a snakeish quality that
brought an involuntary shiver to Sasha. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and rubbed her arms against the
cold of his gaze.
     "Come with me, Sasha," he hissed, "and I'll do my best to impress you."
     Sasha forced strength into her voice, not willing to let him see her fear.
     "No, thank you, I have better things to do than..."
     "You disappoint me. You issued the challenge. I thought you would be brave enough to follow through. My
mistake."
     Sasha knew he was throwing her own pride in her face. She knew she should refuse. But...what was he
planning? He wouldn't dare hurt her, not with Michael due back at any minute. Would he?
     Luke slowly walked to the cabin door, then turned to face her.
     "Which is stronger, Sasha, your curiosity or your fear?"
     That did it!
     "I am not afraid of you!"
     His leer said he knew she was lying.
     "Then come outside."
     "It's freezing out there."
     "Lame. I promise not to keep you long. Wear Michael's great monstrosity of a coat, if you wish. Any other
excuses?"
     He was so self-satisfied, Sasha had to show him she was not afraid of him. Of course, she was afraid of him -
What was she, crazy?! - but she hated his smug assumption of that fear as fact. She quickly pulled Michael's coat
from its peg and struggled into it, not at all surprised that Luke didn't offer to help. He just smiled that annoying
smile of his and watched.
     Stepping out of the cabin, Sasha gasped as the cold sliced into any skin that was unlucky enough to be
exposed to it. Luke didn't seem to feel a thing. He stopped a few feet in front of her and turned to face her, white
teeth flashing. This smile was evil, pure and simple. For about the thousandth time in her life, Sasha wondered if her
temper and pride had just gotten her into big trouble.
     With a blinding flash of red, the man that stood before her became a beast of legend. Rising twenty feet
above the roof of the cabin on a graceful neck the breadth of a redwood, the dragon's huge head was triangular, a
collar of sharp points rising behind in emphasis. He glared down at her with black eyes that seemed to glow. Scales
that must have measured a foot in diameter glowed every color of the rainbow, the colors shifting and changing in
the sunlight. Great wings lay folded across his back, a long tail with a pointed tip waved slowly back and forth
indicating his slightly annoyed mood.
     Sasha could do nothing but stare up at the beautiful, nightmarish apparition, her mouth hanging open, eyes
wide with awe and fear. Then, the great reptile did the unthinkable. It spoke to her in the deep, warm voice of Luke,
the Fallen Archangel.
     "Impressed now?"
     No words would come. All she could think about was an article she had once read about Tyrannosaurus Rex
that claimed the giant lizard had hunted by sight, uninterested in anything that didn't move. Feeling the fear freezing
her muscles in place, she didn't think movement was an option at the moment, anyway.
     The dragon's great head slowly lowered, causing Sasha's head to drop farther and farther back on her neck
until she thought it would surely snap. She felt hot breath fanning across her body as the dragon spoke again,
annoyance sharpening its tone.
     "I said, are you impressed now?"
     `Why can't I faint', she thought with a bit of self-disgust, `this is the point where all good heroines faint. I
want to faint.'
     But she was too much of a survivor to relinquish her consciousness at such a crucial moment. Instead, she felt
her spine stiffen, her nostrils flare. Who was this demon that possessed her at times like this?
     "I think you could get work at Disneyland, if you don't mind minimum wage. Now, if you're finished trying to
frighten me with parlor tricks to make Michael angry, I have things to do. Let me know when you have some time
free on your calendar for that interview and I'll try to work you in. But don't worry. Even if we can't manage to get
together, I can always get info on you from your brothers. No angel book would be complete without mention of the
one who was ungrateful - and stupid - enough to turn against his father."
     Refusing to blink - partly because she didn't want to break eye contact which might appear weak, and partly
because she was afraid she would see her life passing across her closed eyelids - she wiggled the fingers of one hand
in his direction.
     "Bye."
     Sasha stepped into the cabin and gently closed the door behind her. Leaning against it, she covered her ears as
a roar shook the ground, making the wood that Michael had so neatly stacked against the side of the hearth seek the
low ground. The roar ended as abruptly as it had begun.
     When the cabin door opened and slammed against her back, Sasha screamed and ran for her poker.
     "Sasha?"
     Michael's worry-filled voice was the sweetest thing she had ever heard.
     "Michael?"
     Relief flooded through her. It wasn't Luke, coming back inside to eat her. It was Michael, her Michael, come
to rescue her. Tossing the poker aside, she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing with all her
strength.
     "Are you alright, my love?"
     He tried to push her away so he could get a better look at her, see if she were hurt, but it was no use. She had
a death grip on his neck, her face hidden against his chest. She nodded against him and he figured that would have to
do until he could get her calmed down enough to assess her condition. Lifting her into his arms, he closed the door
with a kick, then lowered himself into the chair before the fire. Holding her as tightly as he dared, he gently rocked
her until her shivering stopped.
     "Sasha, what happened?"
     "The wood fell down."
     Scanning the cabin, Michael saw the lengths of firewood spread out over the floor.
     "That upset you?"
     For the first time since he had returned, she leaned back and looked up at him, her expression stating quite
clearly that she thought him daft.
     "The wood fell because the dragon roared. And who knows how many spiders escaped your notice when you
brought that stuff in here. They could have been waiting for just this kind of thing. They probably knew you were
gone, everybody else did. And then the door opened and..."
     "Wait, Sasha, sweetheart, I'm not following you. Who knew I wasn't here? What dragon?"
     He stiffened, eyes darkening to deepest blue, nostrils flaring.
     "Dragon?!"
     "You got it. But don't go getting mad `cause that's exactly why he did it. And I did kind of ask for it. But the
spiders were the last straw. I thought I was going to get eaten no matter which way I ran."
     "What do you mean, you `asked for it'?"
     "Oh, I tried to play `mine's bigger than yours' with the devil. Bad idea."
     Though he wanted to hunt down his brother and strangle him, Michael forced himself to remain cool as he
questioned Sasha about the happenings of the morning.
     "Why was he here?"
     Sasha shrugged.
     "You know, I'm not really sure. He talked a little about the book, wanted to know if he would be in it, but he
didn't pursue it. He asked how you and I were getting along."
     "Indeed."
     She smiled up at Michael.
     "How did I know you'd get indignant at that one? I don't think he meant any harm."
     "Luke always means someone harm."
     She made a face at his ominous tone.
     "You're just a bit prejudiced, don't you think?"
     One arched brow was her only reply.
     "Anyway, when he wanted to be bad, he did just fine. First, he reminds me that you don't age and I do, not
something a woman wants to have thrown in her face. Then, after I told him that you were the coolest winged
creature around," she smiled as Michael's chest swelled beneath her fingers, "he does his dragon routine, scares the
crap out of me - I didn't think he'd be that BIG! - roars like an amplified lion and exits stage left. I've heard of weird
in-laws but I think mine take the cake."
     Seeing the dark frown still marring Michael's fine features, she lightly dug her fingertips into his side,
drawing a startled "Hey!" from him.
     "Stop frowning, your face might freeze that way."
     His smile was soft and loving, concern for her blunting the edges.
     "For once, Luke did not lie. I will not age, Sasha. I will always look the way you see me now, as I have since
my creation."
     He left unasked the question that haunted his beautiful blue eyes, but digging beneath the surface of the
spoken word was one of Sasha's best reporters' tricks.
     "I hadn't really thought about it before he was so kind as to rub my nose in it, but..."
     She gently brushed her fingertips over Michael's brow, ran them across his cheekbone, down into the hollow
below, across the corner of his mouth into the slight masculine hollow in the center of his chin. As she trailed her
hand along the underside of his chin, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back. Placing a soft kiss on the exposed
skin of his neck, Sasha grinned at the soft shudder that racked his body and leaned her head against his shoulder.
     "I'm not about to complain about the view. I've always lived for today and I don't intend to stop now. We don't
look alike, so no one is going to think you're my grandson, they'll just think I'm one heck of a lucky cradle-robber."
     He rolled his head to gaze into her dark eyes, speaking in an emotion- charged whisper.
     "If it hurts you, I will move Heaven and Earth to see it changed."
     "I know you will, Michael. Do you think you might carry me to the bed and make the Earth move a little right
now?"
     A devilish grin split his face.
     "Can't you walk to the bed?"
     Looking toward the fallen wood, then back at him, she arched an eyebrow and shook her head, her black
mane falling across his chest and neck.
     "Not on a bet."
     He sucked in his breath as she forced her hand between them and cupped it tightly around the swelling at his
center.
     "We can stay here and talk about my baseless fear of eight-legged trespassers, or you can carry me to the bed
and slay my imaginary dragons. Your choice."
     Narrowing his eyes, Michael growled and rose from the chair with her held securely in his arms.
     "Your dragons don't have a chance."
     Later, just before falling into a deep, satisfied sleep, the thought came to Sasha on a soft giggle that imaginary
dragons should be on the endangered species list.     
                              Chapter Twenty-Nine
                                        
     It had been six weeks since Sasha had begun writing her non-fiction angel opus and she was getting the
feeling that she might have led Michael astray with her prediction of six months writing time. When she made that
estimate, she hadn't realized how much information she would have to assimilate and transform into interesting
reading material. She'd had no idea how many of the heavenly beings she would have to interview. There were
twelve archangels - thirteen, if you counted Lucifer, a number she found rather ironic - and hundreds of lesser angels,
all with specialities, hobbies, likes and dislikes. It was like trying to write a book about a species and include
something about each and every one of its members.
     At this rate, War and Peace would look like a magazine compared to her finished work!
     And Michael was not very good at finding things to do all day so she could write. He could tolerate the lack
of her attention for a few hours, then he'd start nibbling her neck or running his hands over her arms, something to
make her mind wander to more carnal pursuits, and the day's writing would come to an end.
     At this rate, she'd be an old woman - a very happy, satisfied old woman - by the time `Angels On Earth', the
name she had chosen - and had approved by his Archangelness - was finished.
     Only when Michael had to run one of his `errands' for Father could she hope to get in five or six hours of
writing. He always told her he was leaving, unless she was asleep, when he would leave a note on the pillow. She
loved his considerate nature.
     Michael had gone on such an errand this morning, had been gone now for almost six hours, judging by how
many cups of coffee Sasha had consumed. She usually averaged one every two hours. As she rose to get her fourth
cup of the day, trying not to worry, even though he had never been gone this long, the door flew open and Michael
stumbled into the cabin. He was cradling his left arm with his right and the first thing Sasha noticed was the bright
red stain that flowed over the bulging muscle of his bicep. The white loincloth that served as his only covering was
flecked with drops of blood. He moved quickly into the room, angrily kicking the door shut, and dropped into the
chair before the ever-present fire.
     For a moment, Sasha stood like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, shock dulling her senses.
Was Michael actually bleeding? How? Why? Then her natural instinct to help her loved one kicked in and she ran to
the side of the chair and knelt.
     "Michael? Are you all right? What can I do?"
     Sapphire flashed a warning that the passion of battle was still upon him just before he pulled her to him with
his good arm and kissed her breath away. His tongue plunged between her teeth before she even had a chance to
resist, gently stroking the tender surfaces. His lips ground to the edge of pain, then retreated to the softest of caresses.
Sasha wasn't certain where she could touch him without hurting him so she settled for resting her hands on his knees,
leaning into his kiss, welcoming his possession. Her fear lessened with each shift of his lips, each light brush of his
tongue. When he released her, she sat back on her heels, slightly dazed by his oral lovemaking.
     "Help me get this off."
     He started pulling at the loincloth, wincing when he moved his injured arm. Sasha pushed his hand away.
     "I'll get it."
     Though his eyes were still a bit fierce, his smile was warm.
     "Can't wait to get me naked, eh, wench?"
     She gave him a quick, and very insincere, glare as she pulled the sweat-soaked white cloth from his hips.
     "You wish. What should I do with this?"
     "Take it outside and rinse it as best you can in the snow." He spoke in an instructional tone, though anger
tinged every word the darkest black. "Wring it out and wrap it around my arm to stop the bleeding."
     "Shouldn't you see a doctor, get some stitches or..."
     "Do as I say!"
     Slitted black diamonds met sapphire ice.
     "Fine!"
     Sasha did exactly as he had instructed her with mechanical precision. She rinsed the cloth in snow till it was
thoroughly soaked and dripping clear water. With great gusto, she wrung the freezing water from the white cotton,
imagining Michael's throat - or some other, much more tender part of him - in place of the cloth. Standing before
him, she flung the sopping cloth at his chest, growling as she turned away from him, "Wrap it yourself, Your
Majesty!"
     "Come here!"
     Busying herself straightening the furs on the bed, she snapped back in the same angry tone he had used.
     "Stop giving me orders! I'm not your servant!"
     "Woman was made to serve man. You will..."
     Whipping around to face him, she interrupted his tirade.
     "No, I will not! Woman may have originally been made to serve man, but I'm a long way from Eve and you're
not a man so that logic doesn't fly around here. If you want something from me, you can ask like a civilized human
being or you can do it yourself!"
     "Woman!"
     "I have a name. Have you forgotten it?!"
     "You're behaving like a spoiled child."
     "And you're acting like an overbearing boor. Oh, I'm sorry, that's not an act, is it?"
     Michael narrowed his eyes and rose, successfully hiding the pain that flared anew in his wounded arm.
     "Now is not the time to challenge me, Sasha. My blood still runs hot from battle."
     "And just what is that supposed to mean?"
     "I am in a foul temper. Now is not the best time to discuss your domestic problems. Come wrap my wound as
befits my woman."
     Sasha slapped her hands on her hips as one highly arched eyebrow met his order.
     "I see. Because you lost some battle..."
     "I did not lose!"
     "...I'm supposed to take the place of the beaten enemy to salve your ego. I don't think so!"
     "Sasha...!"
     She took a challenging step toward him and his loins responded instantly to the beauty of her anger. Her eyes
flared black fire, her lustrous hair crackling with defiant electricity, floating around her shoulders like ebony armor,
her skin flushed by the quickly escalating battle.
     "No! I am your wife. Not your servant, not your dog, your wife. As long as you appreciate me I will do
everything I can for you. But the minute - The minute, Michael! - you start taking me for granted, thinking you can
order me around like some lackey, you are gonna think you poked a hornet's nest with a big stick. I don't care if
you've been fighting the legions of Hell for a week, you're not gonna take out a bad day at work on me!"
     "You are the most contrary woman. Your pride and temper are..."
     "About equal to yours, I'd say."
     She turned away from him to hang his shirt, which he'd left on the bed, on its peg. Her mind was on his
autocratic ways, her flaring temper, his bleeding wound, anything but the location of the peg on the wall, she missed
it by a couple of inches, a sliver of wood slicing into her finger as her hand slammed against the wall.
     "Ouch! Damn it!"
     She threw the shirt at the wall and sucked on her bleeding finger. Turning back to Michael, she mumbled
sullenly, "Okay, now we're both wounded. Does that mean I get to give you orders?"
     Michael looked from the drop of blood that clung to her fingertip to the rivulet of blood slowly oozing down
his left arm to drip from his fingertips to the floor. One silver eyebrow climbed high.
     "You think our wounds compare?"
     Sasha shrugged, trying not to let her concern for him show. She knew if this fight didn't end soon, she was
going to give in. She couldn't stand watching him bleed and not doing something to ease his pain.
     "Blood's blood."
     Michael shook his head, his hair, turned to antique silver by sweat, clinging stubbornly to his shoulders.
Knowing he would never understand the logic of a woman, he made the decision to stop trying. He would continue to
think his way, she would continue to do her version of thinking, and together they would drive each other crazy in a
most pleasant fashion.
     Moving carefully so as not to aggravate his wound, he walked to stand before her. He ignored her heatless
glare as he pulled her wounded finger to his lips and placed a gentle kiss over the puncture. He raised eyes made
stormy blue by anger and lust to capture hers, his husky voice sending a shiver down her spine.
     "Better?"
     She nodded, not at all certain her traitorous voice would obey her commands. Suddenly his state of dress - or
undress, as it were - broke through her tangled brain. She blushed prettily, making Michael sorely wish that his arm
would stop its infernal throbbing so he could concentrate on more pleasant sensations.
     "Lie down," the air filling her words, combined with the nature of the command and his leer, deepened her
blush to crimson, "Uh, I'll see what I can do for your arm."
     With a grateful smile, Michael complied, drawing a sharp breath through his teeth as his arm hit the bed. The
concern in Sasha's dark eyes as she cast a surreptitious glance his way warmed his blood. Returning with the
still-damp loincloth, she sat on the bed beside him and began dabbing at the crimson slash that began just below his
shoulder, parting the skin, and a little of the muscle, to a couple inches above his elbow.
     "I've never been much of a nurse. Sorry."
     She apologized as the cloth slipped in the blood, sending her bare hand sliding along the wound.
     "Very sanitary. Don't you have a first-aid kit or something? If you get an infection..."
     He spoke softly, trying to comfort her.
     "I don't get infections, sweet. I rarely get wounded."
     He looked away, but not before she noticed his expression turn sheepish.
     "I became too cocky, too proud, believing no one could best me. I think Father wished to drive home a point."
     His smile was wry as he returned his attention to Sasha.
     "So my opponent did it for Him."
     Flashing him a sickly grin, she placed a clean part of the loincloth against the wound and, with his
cooperation, carefully wrapped the remaining cloth around his arm. When she was done, she quickly stood and
nearly ran to the door.
     "I'll be right back. I need some air."
     Her pasty complexion told Michael all he needed to know about her sudden desire for a constitutional. He
was not happy that there was nothing he could do to ease her discomfort, but he recognized it as fact. Sickness at the
sight of blood was something one had to get over, usually by exposure. With a deep frown, he silently promised his
lady that she would not have occasion to deal with this sickness ever again.
     She had stepped out of the cabin and he heard her take several deep breaths in an attempt to win her battle
with her stomach. As she quieted, he assumed she had regained control and would return to him soon. Drawing a
deep breath, he relaxed and closed his eyes to rest.
     "Michael?"
     "Hmm?"
     "Michael, I think you'd better come out here. Something's...Um, Michael, I think I'm on fire."     
                                 Chapter Thirty
                                        
     Michael sprang up from the bed, his wounded arm forgotten as he ran naked out into the freezing air to get to
his distressed lady. He stopped just outside the door, suspended by what he saw. Sasha was standing a few feet away
from the cabin, staring at the arm she held in front of her face. It was indeed glowing as though aflame as was the
rest of her body.
     Michael's confusion was instant and extreme. Those flames should not burn without his direction. The fire
that seemed to be consuming his lady was his own.
     She turned toward him, the smile she forced to her lips about the most pitiful thing he had ever seen.
Extending one hand toward him, she kept her tone conversational, though the strain was unmistakable.
     "I don't suppose you have an explanation for this? My mother always accused me of being too hot-blooded,
but this is ridiculous."
     Responding to the fear in her voice, Michael quickly covered the ground between them and pulled her into
his arms, hugging her tightly. He didn't want to admit, not even to himself, the sliver of fear working its way up his
spine. He smoothed his hand over her hair, breathing in her unique scent, a combination of baby shampoo, ink and
new paper.
     "Don't be afraid, sweet, this fire will not consume you. How do you feel?"
     "Feel? I feel fine. Actually, I feel great, all warm and...," a giggle that bordered too close to hysteria for
Michael's liking escaped her lips, "well, of course I feel warm, I'm on fire."
     Smoke began oozing from her skin. Preparing to choke, Sasha was surprised to find that this smoke had no
acrid sulfur odor, nor did it bite her lungs. Instead, it smelled of fresh air and sunshine. Shock began to dull her
senses, allowing her to calmly lean back and look up at Michael. What she saw surprised her, but this evening had
proven to be one big surprise right after another so seeing Michael's great wings of blue-white flame extending to
their full ten-foot width behind him was just one more to add to the pile. His head was back, his eyes cast
Heavenward.
     "Michael?"
     He immediately dropped his deep-blue gaze to meet the ebony eyes that seemed so huge in her pale face. His
eyes reflected his concern, searing her with the love that poured from them, terrifying her with the confusion they
tried so valiantly to hide.
     Her knees gave beneath the weight of her fear. Michael lifted her into his arms and, wrapping them both in
his wonderful wings, he sat on the frozen ground, though neither of them felt the cold. Sasha thought maybe it was
the blazing heat of pure love held within the wings of an angel that kept them warm.
     As she studied the lines and angles of her husband's face, Sasha saw the breeze that ruffled his hair.
     "Sasha?"
     Her eyes widened as she realized Michael's lips hadn't moved. As a matter of fact, it wasn't even his voice she
had heard call to her. Though Michael's voice was always strong and sure, this voice had the strength of a million
armies, the certainty of eternity, the wisdom of the greatest computer to the nth degree. Though she didn't dare put a
name to it, Sasha knew without a doubt who wanted her attention.
     "Yes, sir."
     She sounded like a five-year-old talking to her father. Smiling at her own thoughts, Sasha thought, `Isn't that
pretty much what you are?'
     The wind blew down through Michael's wings and across her face. She watched as the confusion melted from
his eyes, leaving only the warmth of love. He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to rest on the top of her head.
     The deep, powerful voice spoke again.
     "Sasha, you have loved well, giving my beloved Michael the direction he had been in danger of losing. You
have returned to my fold and pleased me greatly. You are now worthy of your place in the kingdom of Heaven.
Because of your love for Michael, I offer you a choice. Ascend now, circumventing death through Michael's fire, or
remain, and suffer the pain of death when your time comes."
     Dropping her head back on Michael's muscular bicep, Sasha gazed deeply into his eyes. She thought she saw
the answers to her questions there but, being a reporter who knew better than to assume, she gave voice to her
curiosity.
     "Will you be there with me?"
     Sadness so profound it made tears come to her eyes shone in his sapphire pools as he shook his head.
     "Angels protect and guide man as he struggles to find his path. Here, we interact with you. In Heaven, there is
no need for that interaction as Father speaks directly to your soul."
     "But when it's all over, we all get to be angels, right? Then..."
     Again, he sadly shook his head.
     "Humans are a little like split personalities. A corporeal being competes with a Heavenly soul for eternal
possession. That's one of the things that made Luke so jealous. Angels are all soul, though we can appear corporeal
when we so choose. Father created a beautiful Heaven for those of you who triumph against your darker side. In that
paradise, we are window-dressing, beings of light to brighten your days, to shine as stars in your nights. When it's all
over...," he shrugged, "there are things even I cannot explain, things only Father knows."
     "If I go now, I leave the man I love forever. If I don't, I hurt the Father I have come to love, who I know loves
me because I can feel it all around me. This isn't fair."
     Tears streaked down her cheeks as she fought the deep wracking sobs that threatened to overcome her. She
flung her arms around Michael's neck and pulled till her cheek rested against his.
     "I don't want to lose you. I get lonely for you when you've been gone for an hour, how am I supposed to stand
eternity without you? It wouldn't be Heaven, it would just be a really nice place where I could get answers to all the
questions that I've been storing up for as long as I can remember. Michael, what should I do?"
     He kissed her cheek, his lips warm against her skin. Feeling moisture on her cheek that she knew hadn't come
from her own eyes, she hugged him more tightly as he spoke softly into her ear.
     "You must do as your heart directs. Father is our creator. He gives us life and love and asks nothing in
return..."
     Incensed fury ignited in her dark eyes as she leaned back to glare up at him.
     "Nothing? Nothing?! He is asking everything of me, Michael! All those years of watching my friends fall in
love, get married, have pretty, obnoxious children. All those years of telling myself that it didn't matter, that I wanted
a career more than a man, believing I wasn't lovable, that I was dirty somehow. Now, finally, everything is pretty
clear to me, and damn near perfect, and He wants me to leave it all behind. You call that asking nothing?"
     Michael's nostrils flared, his eyes darkening to deep azure, signals she had learned meant his anger heating
up. Grabbing her upper arms, he pushed her farther away from his body, his wings standing fast to brace her. His
tone brooked no opposition.
     "Yes, I consider that nothing compared to what He has given. Life, Paradise, the suffering of His son. He asks
only that you give up..."
     He suddenly seemed to lose steam, his grip on her arms softening to a caress. He blinked slowly and she saw
the sadness hiding deep in his sapphire eyes. Tenderly brushing the hair from his brow, she finished for him.
     "You. My angel of fire."
     "I love God, Sasha. I never meant to be your test but it would appear I must guide all humans on their quest
for the right path, even the woman I love. Do you love Him above all?"
     Her first response was to blurt out `Not above you!' because Michael was solid as granite, the feel of his skin
beneath her hands a never-ending source of comfort and security. God had always been such a nebulous thing, so
much philosophy and faith, so difficult to love as a concrete entity. Then she remembered the little girl she had been,
the breath of life that had ruffled her hair and made her heart swell to breaking with love returned. God was as real as
every rosebud and butterfly, as real as every person who gave her their love, like Aunt Sophie and her parents
and...Michael. How could she refuse anything for the Father who had given her Michael?
     Tears streamed unchecked down a beard-roughened face that had seen little such moisture in a very long life,
matching those flowing over petal-soft cheeks.
     "I'll never forget you, Michael."
     He closed his eyes to protect her from the wrenching pain he knew he could not hide. She had made the only
choice he would have her make, and yet his heart felt as though it were being ripped from his chest. Swallowing hard
against the emotional pain threatening to unman him, he brushed his lips over hers in a kiss that he intended to be a
gentle farewell. Her fervent response foiled his plans. Passion poured from them to burn where their lips met. The
kiss might have lasted through Eternity if Sasha's sobs hadn't gotten the better of her. Michael pulled her head to his
chest and held her, for the first time in his long existence understanding the meaning of loneliness.
     Mostly due to lack of breath and energy, her sobs lessened. Michael drew a deep breath, inhaling the scent he
had come to love, running his hands over her skin, memorizing each tiny dimple and rise that was uniquely his love,
his lady, his wife. His whisper against her ear was barely more than a breath.
     "There will be no pain. I love you, Sasha, as I have never loved another, with the lust of a man and the
passion of the most mighty of God's angels."
     His magnificent wings tightened around her, the warm space within so filled with love, it was nearly a
palpable thing. Wrapping her arms around his chest, she desperately clung to him, fearing nothing so much as she
feared the moment she would be without him for eternity.
     That same deep, power-filled voice resonated from the warm breeze that caressed them both.
     "Michael."
     "Father."
     "You have both chosen well, my son. Most beloved of my angels, I bestow upon you, and your chosen
heart-mate, a gift I have never before given. Your blood mingles with that of your lady, making her as you. Teach her
the ways of the angels, Michael. She has a great deal to learn."
     Sasha couldn't believe her ears. Was that a chuckle crackling through that gentle breeze?
     "I look forward to hearing her opinion on many things. And Gabriel will have someone to talk to."
     Michael's chest swelled with love and happiness till he thought it might burst.
     "Father, I..."
     "And I love you, Michael. Stop searching for the words to tell me what I already know and care for your
lady."
     Again, that deep chuckle flowed through the warm flowing air.
     "I wish you well, my son."
     Sasha's mind was playing tricks on her, it must be. `Making her as you'? What did that mean? Was she going
to get crispy crittered or not? Patience 101 was a subject she had never excelled at, and as Michael continued to hold
her against his chest, not word one of explanation issuing forth from his beautiful lips, what little patience she
possessed deserted her.
     "Excuse me? Would someone mind telling me what's going on? I'm feeling nice and warm but this oven is
definitely not on broil."
     When Michael failed to respond immediately, she wedged her hands between their bodies and pushed, feeling
as though she were an ant trying to move an elephant's foot.
     "Don't make me bring out the big guns."
     Michael's chest shook with laughter, as did his voice.
     "And what might those be, sweetheart?"
     Turning her fingertips inward, she poked him with the sharp tips of her short fingernails.
     "Ow! You little vixen! Two can play at that."
     His lips descended to her neck to leave a trail of little nips and warm, open kisses that made her shiver.
Pushing against him again, she managed to get far enough away from his body to glare up at him. She had never seen
him look so happy.
     "Michael, stop that! Not that I don't enjoy it, but like most men, your timing is questionable. Why am I still
here instead of being flambeau du jour?"
     He took her hand in his and kissed the tip of one finger. She had forgotten about her sliver wound.
     "Our blood is one. You, my love, are an angel."
     One black eyebrow shot so high, it raised her hairline.
     "I'm what?!"
     He chuckled again, encouraging her ire.
     "They had better batten down the hatches in Heaven because Father has made you an angel."
     "You said angels were angels and people were people and never the twain would meet!"
     He shrugged, the breadth of his smile evidence that he was unable to contain his happiness.
     "I also said there were things only Father knows."
     Pushing and shoving, taking him completely by surprise, Sasha rose to her feet. Planting her hands on her
hips, she was the very picture of fury, a portrait Michael yearned to paint.
     "Wait a minute! You mean this whole thing was a test? I hate pop quizzes!"
     "Testing is the only way to find out if your child is learning."
     A look of dawning barely touched her face before her anger flared anew.
     "I'm finishing this book, Michael. I've jumped through all the hoops you've devised and I'm still running."
     "I see no reason you cannot continue your writing endeavor. In between lessons in proper angel conduct."
     "Like you could teach that."
     His impish grin was becoming irresistible.
     "I have a passing acquaintance with it. Enough to teach it to you."
     "Oh, and let me guess, it will be `do as I say, not as I do'."
     He laughed with unabashed agreement.
     "Exactly."
     Letting the happenings of the last few minutes sink in, Sasha narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
     "If I'm an angel, where are my wings?"
     Michael pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.
     "I don't know. Do you want to have wings?"
     "Oh, I'm sure that would help me get my book published. Talk about a publicity gag."
     He nonchalantly flipped the fingers of one hand in her direction.
     "When you wish to have wings, you will have wings."
     Frightened of what she might find, Sasha slowly turned her head to look over her shoulder. Nothing. Heaving
a deep sigh, she returned her attention to Michael, finding exactly what she had expected to find. A huge, smug grin
splitting his face.
     "Why are you grinning like a Cheshire cat?"
     "You can feel them, love, they don't sneak up on you."
     Raising her nose into the air, Sasha spoke with great assurance she didn't feel.
     "I knew that."
     She surveyed the frozen ground beneath her feet, then raised her ebony eyes to meet his laughing azure gaze.
     "Why am I not freezing?"
     "We are not of this plane. Temperature only affects us if we wish it to, or if we get so involved in something
that we forget."
     "Forget what?"
     "That we are angels."
     "That's something you can forget?"
     "When you are deeply engrossed in writing, do you always remember that you are human?"
     "It doesn't seem all that important."
     One arched eyebrow suggested she examine her own words.
     "Oh, I see your point. Does this mean I won't have to ask you about angels anymore? I mean, if I am one, I'll
know all this stuff, right?"
     That smug smile she longed to smack right off his face returned full-bore as he slowly shook his head.
     "You know the same now as you did before I gave you my blood."
     She raised one palm toward him.
     "Hold it right there, Bubb. You didn't give me anything. Don't you dare make it sound like this was your idea.
And just for the record, I think it stinks that I don't get to just know things."
     "Oh, you will just know things when it is necessary to help people. Father will supply you with any
knowledge you may need."
     "You mean, Father will call on me to do stuff for Him?"
     The excess air in her voice was evidence that she hadn't considered that possibility. Michael shrugged, his
smile softening.
     "You are an archangel, you will help people to find their path just like the rest of us."
     "Wow!"
     Michael had never loved his lady, or been as concerned for her tender feelings, as he was at that moment of
realization. He knew some of the things she would have to do would chafe her romantic heart. And some might even
make her angry enough to question Father, as had Michael himself on more than one occasion. He was glad The
Creator was a patient parent.
     "Sasha!"
     They both jumped as Gabriel bounded from the woods, a large jackrabbit on his heels. He stopped and turned
to kick snow at his living tail.
     "Go home! The carrot's are all gone. Really!"
     The rabbit stopped and sat up to wash its face, not the least disturbed by its snow shower. Gabe turned back
to his brother, a light pink blush staining his cheeks.
     "You're not going to give me the ecology, survival-of-the-fittest speech, are you?"
     Michael rose and stepped forward to hug his brother.
     "It's done so much good in the past, I'll think I'll skip it. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Gabe?"
Under his breath, he continued, "...as if I didn't know."
     Remembering his purpose, Gabe pushed Michael away with enough enthusiastic strength to make his big
brother stumble. As he made his way to Sasha, Gabe mumbled an apology over his shoulder.
     "Sorry."
     Michael smiled the smile of patient big brothers everywhere.
     "No problem."
     Gabriel pulled Sasha into his arms and lifted her off the ground, spinning around and around until they were
both dizzy.
     "Welcome to the family, Sis."
     Looking into the brightest violet eyes she had ever seen, Sasha basked in the pure love that glowed there. She
laughed, hugging him back.
     "Thanks, Gabe. I couldn't ask for a better brother-in-law."
     Watching the two of them together, Michael knew a sense of peace and completion that brought him to his
knees.     
                               Chapter Thirty-One
                                        
     Sasha was both pleased and annoyed with the fact that being an angel wasn't proving any different than being
a human being. As Michael had warned her, she didn't know any more now than she had before becoming celestial.
She hadn't figured out how to get wings, though she had tried willing them to spring from her back on several
occasions. She had no idea how to accomplish the archangel `think it and you're there' travel arrangements. Again,
Michael assured her that when she needed her special talents, they would come easily. As far as she was concerned
he took great pleasure in taunting her with all the angel abilities she didn't seem to have under the guise of answering
questions for her book. She knew better. He was torturing her.
     After several days of unbroken peace and quiet, Sasha was beginning to grind her teeth with cabin fever.
Though she had gotten a lot of work done in that quiet time, she was finding that she wanted something more,
something...angelic. Barring that, she might settle for a rousing argu...discussion. Her comments about `stealing his
blood to become a Heavenly vampire' never failed to win her a scowl from the Great Archangel, so she decided that
was as good a place to start as any. She was sitting at her little - tiny, minuscule, barely big enough for her small
manual typewriter and a cup of coffee - desk, when she looked up from the stark white of the blank page before her
to find him humming an unrecognizable tune as he braided leather for one of his mountain man creations. Sitting
cross-legged on the floor in front of the bed, his head bent over his task, he looked so magnificent. He wore only
skin-tight faded bluejeans, his silver-blonde hair draping his muscular shoulders and back. He was so happy, she was
so bored. Time to talk.
     "You know, Michael, I don't understand why you get so riled up when I say I stole your blood to become a
Heavenly vampire. I mean, that is basically what happened. See, there's that scowl again. Why should mention of a
product of some Elizabethan writer's fevered imagination tee you off?"
     He had indeed raised, then narrowed, his azure eyes to illustrate his displeasure, though `scowl' was probably
a little harsh. His brow had barely furrowed. With a heavy sigh she knew she was meant to hear, he dropped his
attention back to the leather in his lap.
     "How is the book coming?"
     "It's rude to answer a question with a question, Michael. And since I asked my question first, it takes
precedence."
     He looked up at her in annoyed confusion.
     "Who makes up these rules of conversational etiquette?"
     She shrugged, eyes wide. His eyes narrowed once again.
     "As I thought. There is no such thing as a `Heavenly vampire'. Vampires are earthly creatures."
     A flip remark died on her lips as she realized there was no guile in his intense gaze.
     "You mean, vampires are real! You're kidding, right? Wrong, those are not kidding eyes. They're real. Could I
interview one? Of course I could. I'd just have to find one. You're an angel, you can find anyone."
     "Hasn't it been done?"
     His dry tone should have warned her, but Sasha was too involved in the idea of actually talking to a creature
of the night to notice. She answered rather absent-mindedly.
     "Been done?"
     "An interview with the vampire?"
     His droll reply took a minute to sink in, winning him a narrow-eyed glare when it did.
     "Cute. That was fiction, weird fiction. This would be fact."
     "Weird fact."
     "You are being particularly perverse this morning."
     He tossed aside his leather project and rose, tossing his head like an angry stallion about to rear, his
shimmering mane obeying his command to settle behind his shoulders.
     "And you are bored and looking for a fight."
     She stood and faced him, arms akimbo.
     "You lie! I was merely making conversation."
     One silver brow shot high, the other blue eye narrowing.
     "You..."
     He tipped his head to the side just as Sasha heard, or thought she heard, a soft...what? Whisper? Chuckle?
Something that brought with it warmth and heat and every good emotion she had ever felt rolled into one.
     "Father?"
     "Good guess."
     She glared at Michael, shushing him like a child who didn't want her parents to find out she'd been fighting
with her little brother. He just grinned at her, his expression saying `He knows.'
     "Sasha, a child is in trouble. It is not her time."
     Suddenly, knowledge she hadn't had two seconds earlier flooded her mind. She saw a car stopped at a red
light. A woman about her age sat in the driver's seat, smiling toward the passenger seat which was occupied by a
little girl, maybe six years old. Her vivid red hair, a younger version of her mother's, had been pulled into two braids
and tied with hot pink ribbons. She was laughing, squinting into the bright morning sunshine.
     A warm smile lit Sasha's face at the loving scene.
     Suddenly, the little girl screamed, pointing behind the car. A tractor-trailer, going too fast to stop, barreled
into the back of the car, sending it slithering sideways into the intersection, where one then another oncoming vehicle
slammed into it. The compact car jerked first one way, then the other, the screams of both occupants a staccato
accompaniment to the screech of brakes and the ominous moan of metal straining near its breaking point.
     Sally Yeardley - knowledge of the woman's name was just there - was thrown sideways to the extent of her
seatbelt, her head slamming against the driver's window. Temporarily dazed, she watched as though viewing a movie
as flames leaped from the crumpled hood of her car. Blood oozing down the side of her face, shock protected her
mind like a warm comforter on a cold winter's night. She wondered why she had let Becky see this movie. It was
much too violent for her sweet little girl. Glancing sideways - a move that, for some reason, made her stomach feel
quite unpleasant - she was glad to see that Becky had laid down on the seat. Good, she wasn't watching, must have
fallen asleep. Sally stared in fascination as the flames leaped and danced before her eyes.
     It was not until the searing heat began to make tiny fissures in the windshield, heating her skin to the point of
pain, that Sally realized this was not a movie, this was all too painfully real. And her baby girl was right in the
middle of it.
     "Help!"
     Was that her voice, the soprano that always led the choir at Christmas? It sounded like fingernails scraping
across a blackboard. When she tried to take a deep breath to get more volume, a fit of coughing was her only reward.
Pushing against the driver's side door was futile. It wouldn't budge. Leaning over to check on Becky caused starbursts
of pain to explode behind Sally's eyes and consciousness slipped from her grasp on a scream.
     Sasha's eyes flew open. She hadn't even realized she had closed them. The whole scene had played out as
though it were on a movie screen. Though it had seemed to last several minutes, it had actually entered her
consciousness in less than a second.
     "Michael, we have to do something! They're trapped!"
     "Michael may observe so that you will not feel alone but you must complete this task, Sasha."
     Sasha gaped at the ceiling.
     "Me?! Wait a minute. I'm new at this. Those people might die if I make a mistake. What?...How?...Father?"
     "Fear not, my child, you have a good heart and the excellent instincts of an ace reporter. Trust them."
     The soft rustling told her the conversation was at an end.
     Wild-eyed, she flew to Michael, wishing he had lapels to grab. She settled for flinging her arms around his
waist so hard she nearly knocked him down.
     "Michael, I'm scared. I don't even know how to get there. Heck, I don't even know where `there' is. Those
people are trapped, they're going to burn to death. This is no time to have amateur night at the angel club. You have
to help them."
     With her head tucked under his chin she could clearly feel him shake his head.
     "You will do fine, my love. Father is an excellent judge of character."
     She smacked her hand against his chest, glaring up at him, tears of concern for people she had never met
who's welfare now rested in her hands beginning to form in the corners of her dark, luminous eyes.
     "You don't understand! They're trapped."
     He placed his hands on her shoulders, tightening just enough to get her attention and calm her with his
steadying strength.
     "What you saw has not yet happened. Father gave you knowledge of the future to prepare you for your part in
it."
     Taking a deep breath, Sasha forced her racing heart to slow, lowering the adrenaline in her blood from a full
blown panic to a minor rush. Wondering how she was able to control these things where before her transformation
she had hardly even been aware of them, she realized that she had just performed her first angelic trick. Her voice
was filled with the wonder of discovery.
     "I'm calm. Kind-of. How do I know when the accident will really happen?"
     "The urgency you feel will increase as the time grows near. It will become more difficult to control your
anxiety."
     "How am I supposed to stop it from happening? Should I jump in front of the truck? Can I stop it just by
raising my hand and saying `Stop Sesame'? How...?"
     "First, you must go to the accident."
     "How...?"
     His eyes were sad - Was that a flash of anger deep in their sapphire depths? - as he once again shook his head.
     "I am to observe. You must trust your instincts."
     "`Trust your feelings, Luke'? You've got to be kidding!"
     He gave her shoulders what he hoped was a comforting squeeze, then released her and stepped back.
     "Where do you most wish to be right now?"
     "Is this a trick question?"
     Narrowed pools of bottomless blue answered her.
     "Okay. I most want to be where I can help those people."
     Suddenly, she was no longer seeing raw wood and smelling the many scents of nature. Her nostrils were
assailed with the fumes of the road. Gas, diesel, burning oil, made all the more bitter by their recent absence from her
life. She - and Michael. Thank you, Father! - were standing on the curb at the corner of a four-lane city street
intersection. She instantly recognized it as the intersection in her...What? Dream? Memory? Sasha shrugged. For
once in her life, words were not the most important thing. Sure enough, there was the light blue car, windows closed
against the cold, red hair, lighter and darker versions, flashing in the late afternoon sun. It slid to an easy stop at the
red light.
     For the space of a single breath, Sasha's eyes locked with Becky's. In their green depths, Sasha saw dolls and
roller blades and slumber parties with all her friends. She saw a big old sheep dog that had faithfully served as a
Shetland pony until Becky had gotten too heavy for him to carry. The little girl had started training him again last
year when the baby brother she loved dearly was born, knowing he'd need a pony when he got a little bigger. Sasha
saw a beloved mother, father, grandparents, all in that second of contact.
     Then came the screech of brakes.
     Sasha's scream joined with all the other noise she had heard when witnessing the accident in her mind. She
plunged into the street, astonished when a strong arm came around her waist and pulled her back.
     "What are you doing? I have to do something."
     She turned in his arms and pounded her hands against Michael's impassive chest.
     "If you wish to help, do so with your heart open to the way. Rushing headlong into the middle of several tons
of metal will only get you severely injured. Think, Sasha! Survey the situation and think."
     She pushed away from him, turning to find what she had feared. The little blue car was a heap of mangled
steel, its occupants invisible through the dark blanket of smoke pouring from its hood. The truck had gone on
through the intersection, stopping several yards down the road. Other cars, and one other eighteen-wheeler, had also
stopped, their occupants racing about like unorganized ants on a blazing hill. They rushed to the car, some with fire
extinguishers, others with nothing but a desire to help. The air filled with the hiss of escaping chemicals, the shouts
of people trying to coordinate an effort that was happening too fast, the encouraging screams of those too afraid to
approach the flames who, wanting to help, knew instinctively that cheerleaders always made a team try harder.
     In the middle of all this chaos was Doug Bennett, the driver of the second truck. Doug had overslept that
morning, something he had never done in all his twenty-two years of driving truck for Green River Trucking.
Because he had been running late, he had taken this shortcut, a route other truckers had told him about, but he had
never personally tried. All-in-all this day had started out a little rough.
     And now he was embroiled in a fight against the fires of Hell for the life of a woman who's dazed eyes
pleaded with him through a heat-buckling windshield. As his fire extinguisher gave its last gasp, the flames showing
no sign of receding, he knew he'd better do something drastic or this woman was history. Yelling a warning to all
who might hear, he pulled back the empty extinguisher and slammed it against the driver's window, which obediently
shattered into a thousand dull-edged safety-glass pieces. His eyes were watering so badly he could barely make out
the shape of the woman slumped against the seat. He grabbed her left arm and pulled, quickly realizing that the
resistance he encountered was caused by her seatbelt. Reaching across her body, he felt for the belt release. Finding it
rather suddenly, he jumped, surprised by the heat of the metal release. His fingers screamed retreat to his brain as the
skin burned from their tips, but he wasn't going to leave this woman to burn. Finally, what seemed like hours later,
the belt gave and he grabbed the woman's arm and pulled her through the window and away from the car.
     Sally slipped in and out of consciousness as the burly trucker broke into her car. She couldn't remember why
he was there, why she was there for that matter. Shouldn't she be home, waiting for Becky to get home from school?
No, this was Saturday. As Doug Bennett lowered her to the ground, the cold air struck her like a baseball bat to the
solar plexus, bringing her to stark awareness of everything from which her shock-dazed mind had been trying to
protect her.
     Her scream was the most pitiful, soul-wrenching sound Doug had ever heard.
     "My baby!"
     Tired beyond his forty-six years, Doug fell to his knees beside the woman. Her voice was ragged and he
hoped, prayed, he had misunderstood her.
     "It's okay, lady. Help's on its way."
     He didn't realize he sounded a little rough himself. Actually, he'd heard more pleasant belt-sanders.
     Sally tried to rise but her strength had been eaten by concussion and smoke. With the last ounce she could
pull from a weary soul, she grabbed the trucker's collar and pleaded for her baby's life.
     "Please. Becky's in there. Please, God, don't let her die."
     Doug fell forward onto his hands, staring in disbelief at the eyes he would never forget.
     "Oh, Jesus, please tell me she's hallucinating."
     But her eyes told him this prayer was not going to go his way. Looking back at the car, he could see that the
intensity of the flames had pushed the people back. If there was a little girl in there, she was all alone. A picture of
his own little girl, his Paula, flashed before his eyes. If she were in that car he would hope that someone would get
her out. Looking around, he knew he was that someone for this woman's Becky.
     Dragging himself to his feet, he wondered if his legs could bare his weight much longer.
     `Long enough,' he promised himself and a little girl named Becky he'd never met.                                        
                               Chapter Thirty-Two
                                        
     Doug stumbled toward the car, the searing heat burning his skin from ten feet away. Could anyone still be
alive in there? Maybe, his hopeful mind whispered. If the little girl had fallen to the floor, the lower ground would be
cooler, and the dashboard might protect her. But for how long? Straining eyes that had already soaked the front of his
shirt with tears, he thought he caught a glimpse of red lying on the front seat. As he stepped forward to get a better
look, the flames blazed higher with a sound like an angry lion's roar. Was it his imagination, or could he actually feel
the skin on his face beginning to blister?
     "God, help me! Oh, to Hell with me. Help this little girl."
     Doug's shout was lost to all but the ears that needed to hear it.
     Tears streaked down Sasha's face as she watched life paint a tableau of tragedy, courage and kindness. She
had always believed people to be in this life basically for themselves. Well, maybe not always, but at least since she
had become an adult and started viewing the world through what she considered 20-20 vision. Watching these

people, strangers to each other and the people they were trying to help, put themselves at risk, she realized Father had
been correct in saying she had a lot to learn.
     "Michael, what can I do?"
     Again, he shook his head, the infinite sadness in his eyes scaring her more than she cared to believe.
     "I do not know, love."
     His tone was gentle as a butterfly's wing.
     "Sometimes we are here only to guide those who's time has come. The little girl may be frightened
when...You may be here to comfort her."
     He shrugged, love, and pain, pouring from is beautiful eyes.
     "Only you have the knowledge necessary to complete your task."
     Sasha's eyes had widened with pain as he spoke of Becky's death in that conflagration. Nostrils flaring, eyes
darkening to deepest ebony, she turned back to the drama unfolding in this unknown intersection.
     "She's not going to die! Doug's got the ambition, he just needs a little help. That fire's too much for him."
     "Then you must help him."
     The speed with which everything was happening had frayed her nerves to the breaking point, so she struck
out at the nearest target. Michael. She slapped her palm against his muscular arm, seeking the satisfaction that
usually came with the loud `smack'. This time, it was small comfort.
     "Darn it, Michael."
     The light of the sneaky reporter dawned in her eyes, showing in her soft, cajoling tone.
     "Michael, I know you can't tell me what to do, but you can answer questions for my book. If a car blew up in
front of you and someone were trapped inside, what would you do?"
     His smile became lop-sided as he gave her his heart through his sapphire gaze.
     "I'd use my instincts."
     "I hate you."
     "No, you don't. Doug's going into the flames. That heat will kill him and the little girl in a very short time."
     Hands on her shoulders, Michael turned Sasha back toward her mission.
     "Trust the force, Luke."
     As she glared back over her shoulder, she saw that Michael's wings had appeared, spreading out behind him.
They moved slowly, the breeze they caused fanning her furrowed brow. Why, in Heaven's name, had he chosen now,
with all these people around, to sprout...Wings?
     Wings!
     "I can do this."
     Sasha stepped forward and touched Doug Bennett on the shoulder, not sure how she had gotten so close so
fast, but not about to analyze it right now.
     "We can do this," she whispered in his ear. That soft touch showed her his wife at home waiting impatiently
for the birth of their late-in-life, totally unexpected second child; the ten-year-old daughter he adored, though he was
so fearful of being a failure as a father; his seventy-something mother - she never would tell him her exact age, said it
was the height of rudeness to ask - who lived next door in the house he had talked her into buying when Dad died
because she refused to live with his wife and kids; even that old tomcat he called Mouser who had settled in their
garage one year and refused to leave. Everything he loved poured into Sasha's mind and she knew it was because he
was thinking about everything he had to lose.
     `I won't let you down, Doug,' she thought, `Not you or Father or Michael.'
     "Wings, now!"
     Suddenly, she was rising above the pyre, muscles she'd never before felt working hard enough to let her know
she'd be stiff tomorrow. Twisting her head to look over her shoulder, she saw great wings the color of black
diamonds sprouting from her back. They stroked slowly through the air, lifting her. When she was directly above the
car, she spoke to herself again, "Okay, hover and flap like crazy." Though the speed of her wings' soft fluttering
remained the same, the wind caused by it increased, blowing down upon the flames, pushing them back, away from
Doug and Becky.
     For the briefest of seconds, Sasha saw Luke's handsome face in the center of the blaze, dark eyes narrowed as
he gave a nod of grudging respect.
     Doug Bennett figured he'd finally lost it. Maybe the heat was scorching his brain cells. What else would
explain the soft tap on his shoulder and the gently whispered `we can do this', whatever that meant? When he turned
around, there was nobody within fifty yards of him. Even so, for some reason, that cryptic remark comforted him. He
forced himself through the broken driver's window of the car, even though every cell of his body was screaming for
survival. As soon as he had seen that little girl laying so still on the front seat, it would have taken a herd of wild
horses to stop him from doing everything in his power to get her out of that raging inferno. Reaching for her he found
what he had feared. Her seat belt was fastened. When he tried to unlatch it, it wouldn't give. He wondered fleetingly
if the mechanism had melted. At this angle, he couldn't pull the girl out. He would have to cut the belt. Coughing,
feeling his throat tightening with each breath, he felt the blackness of oxygen-deprived oblivion threatening. He
couldn't see, he couldn't breath, every inch of his body hurt for one reason or another. He, they, were running out of
time.
     Suddenly, the smoke cleared and a cool breeze that couldn't possibly exist within this Hell-on-Earth blew
across his face, filling his lungs with sweet air. He saw clearly the soot-smudged face of a little red-haired angel who
hadn't had nearly enough time in this world. She still had dolls to dress, boys to meet, babies to raise. Was it all going
to end because one of his fellow truckers hadn't been paying attention?
     Damn it, he wasn't going to give up. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his trusty Swiss Army Knife, a
gift from Paula for Father's Day last year. Though the blade was only three inches long it would have to do. He began
sawing at the tough fabric of the belt, frustration building with each stroke of the blade. At this rate, he'd never cut
through before they were both engulfed by the inferno licking at the windshield.
     Doug was never quite certain what happened at that moment. All he saw was a flash of silver - could it have
been a sword? - as it passed over the seatbelt, severing it like a razor. He didn't much care how it happened. He
silently thanked God as he pulled Becky into his arms, cradling her against his chest. He had to turn her to pull her
through the window, but as soon as he could, he pulled her to him once again. She felt so small, so vulnerable.
     "Please, God, let her be alive."
     Wanting only to get the precious little bundle to her mother, Doug cursed his lagging strength as he tripped
and fell to his knees. He was still too close to the greedy flames. The heat was increasing, the breeze having died
down as he ran from the car. Trying to stand, Doug felt so tired, he knew his strength was at an end.
     Strong hands slipped under his arms, lifting him to his feet, filling him with one last burst of strength. Doug
didn't bother to look over his shoulder, knowing in his heart that no one would be standing there. He ran forward,
stopping only when he once again fell to his knees beside Sally Yeardley.
     Sally had been on the edge of consciousness since the unknown trucker had laid her on the ground. When she
could think, her only thoughts were of Becky. She prayed, screaming out promises and pleas in her mind. When the
pain in her head threatened her very sanity, a strong hand brushed over her brow, a deep, warm voice soothing the
even more fierce pain threatening to tear her heart to shreds.
     "Rest, Sally. Be strong for your child. God is with you both."
     Had that voice been real, or just a figment of her faithful imagination?
     Feeling a thump on the ground by her side, Sally forced her eyes to open.
     "Becky!"
     The pain from her concussion, nearly debilitating just seconds earlier, was a mere annoyance as, using the
strength God gives all mothers the day their children are born, Sally rolled over and pulled her little girl into her
arms. Becky moaned, a sound Doug Bennett was very happy to hear since she hadn't made a peep all the time he had
been prying her from the burning wreck and carrying her to safety. Turning her head, the little red-head smiled at
him, her eyes clear and filled with the innocence of unquestioned belief.
     "She was beautiful, wasn't she?"
     Doug's voice was real close to a memory, but he had to know what the little one was talking about. Raising
himself to his elbows, he leaned close to the girl who's crying mother was oblivious to anything but the sacred bundle
in her arms and croaked, "Who, honey?"
     Becky wrinkled her nose and furrowed her brow, an expression he'd seen on Paula's face enough times to
know that, loosely interpreted, it meant `Boy, adults can be dense sometimes.'
     "The angel. She said I should be patient, she was still learning. Then she told me to go to sleep. Her wings
made it cool, like a big air conditioner."
     A vague image of long, black hair blowing in an impossible breeze tried to wriggle its way into Doug's
consciousness, but he fought it like a mad tiger. Angel? Nah. It was just the kid's imagination.
     In the years to come, dreams and memories would finally convince Doug of what he had seen and felt,
bringing him back to a faith he had deserted as a teenager. He would inspire people with his retelling of the events of
this day, turning many from scoffers to believers, as that beautiful dark-haired angel had turned him.
     
     Back by the side of the road, Sasha, sans wings, sobbed into her palm. She had never been so happy, felt so
fulfilled as she did at this moment. Becky, that pretty little girl, had called her beautiful with so much love in her
voice, such innocent acceptance.
     Suddenly, Sasha knew what it was to be an angel. To save one person, to see that look of awe on Becky's face
just before Sasha told her to go back to sleep, was worth all the rules, all the strangeness.
     Warm, muscular arms eased their way around her waist, pulling her against the hard chest she knew and
loved. Hot breath tickled her ear as Michael spoke.
     "Those are happy tears?"
     She nodded, speaking around the ebbing sobs.
     "Are you in trouble? I mean, I saw your sword."
     He shrugged.
     "We're finished here. Let's go home."
     She closed her eyes, knowing he'd do the work of getting them back to the cabin.
     "Go inside."
     She turned, pinning him with a black scowl.
     "Will you ever learn how to ask, instead of order?"
     His grin was so endearing she wanted to kiss his breath away. His reply made her want to strangle him.
     "No. I am the General of angels, you are an angel, therefore you..."
     "I'm supposed to follow your orders. What if I don't, do I get court-marshaled?"
     His eyes narrowed in the most wicked expression she had ever seen on his face.
     "Lucifer refused to follow orders."
     She straightened, nostrils flaring indignantly. He laughed and, turning her with a gentle hand on her shoulder,
gave her butt a pat.
     "Go. I will be in shortly."
     She snorted over her shoulder, just to let him know she wasn't meekly obeying, and flounced into the cabin,
slamming the door behind her. Quickly, she turned and quietly re-opened the door. She doubted she would ever lose
her reporter's need to know, especially when the situation involved knowledge that someone didn't want her to
acquire. That was, after all, the best kind.
     Michael was standing with his head lowered, a gentle breeze ruffling his long silvery mane. Straining her
ears, Sasha heard Father's words.
     "I told you not to help Sasha perform her mission, Michael. Have you an explanation for disobeying me?"
     Michael raised his face to the sky, love glowing in his azure eyes along with a twinkle of mischief. He waved
his hands in a gesture of dismissal.
     "I didn't help Sasha. I helped Doug Bennett."
     Silence. Sasha swallowed hard, waiting for the lightning bolt that she was certain was on its way to fry
Michael where he stood. His smile never faltered.
     A chuckle rumbled through the sky like distant thunder.
     "Sometimes I forget that you and Lucifer are brothers. Don't scowl like that, Michael, your face might freeze
that way. You did well, Sasha, I am pleased."
     Embarrassed at being caught, Sasha tried to put as much nonchalance into the opening of the cabin door as
she could muster. She smiled lamely at Michael, shrugging as she spoke to the sky.
     "I'm glad. Do you think I could go along on a few of Michael's missions, just to watch and get an idea of how
the big boys do their thing? Kind-of like an apprentice."
     Michael almost shouted, "No!" as the breeze sighed, "Yes. After all, Michael was such a good observer."
     "Father, she'll get in my way, she'll argue with me about the way I do things, she..."

     "I will not! I'll..."
     "Children!"
     The ground beneath their feet shook, snapping the attention of both combatants sheepishly back to the sky
above their heads.
     "Michael, you forget who fashioned you and your brother. Don't whine, teaching will do you good. And
Sasha, show Michael the proper respect. Not only is he the most trusted and beloved of all my angels, he is also your
husband."
     "Yes, Father," they responded in unison, shooting each other a sideways glare.
     Sasha fought the urge to stick out her tongue, feeling she had won a great boon. Then she caught sight of
Michael's smug smile and her stomach began sinking to the general vicinity of her toes.
     "What?!"
     "When I work I have absolute authority. No questions, just `how high do you want me to jump, sir?'"
     "You have got to be kidding!"
     He arched a brow.
     "Do you want to ask Father?"
     A heavy sigh accompanied the deflation of her chest.
     "No. I knew there had to be a catch."
     With two strides he was in front of her, pulling her into his arms.
     "Come inside. I will show you that following my orders is not all bad."
     "As if! I do not follow..."
     Michael's lips on hers as he lifted her into his strong arms and carried her into their little log cabin silenced
Sasha's protests. For a time.
     Over the beautiful snow-covered forest rumbled the gentle, content laughter of The Master.
     Father was indeed well-pleased.