A Will and a Way

happen to you.”
    Confused by the sense of pleasure his words gave her, she tried to draw her hands away. “I can take care of myself, Michael.”
    He smiled but didn’t let go. “Maybe. But you’re not going to have the chance to find out. Let’s go home. I’m hungry.”
    “Typical,” she began, needing to lighten the mood. “You’d think of your stomach—oh my God, the chicken!” Breaking away, Pandora loped toward the house.
    “I’m not that hungry.” Michael sprinted after her. The relief came again when he scooped her up into his arms. When he’d heard her shout in the woods, had realized she was outside and vulnerable, his blood had simply stopped flowing. “In fact,” he said as he scooped her up, “I can think of more pressing matters than eating.”
    “Michael.” She struggled, but laughed. “If you don’t put me down, there won’t be a kitchen to eat in.”
    “We’ll eat somewhere else.”
    “I left the pan on. There’s probably nothing left of the chicken but charred bones.”
    “There’s always soup.” With that, he pushed open the kitchen door.
    Rather than a smoky, splattered mess, they found a platter piled high with crisp, brown chicken. Sweeney had wiped up the spills, and had the pans soaking in the sink.
    “Sweeney.” From her perch in Michael’s arms, Pandora surveyed the room. “What are you doing out of bed?”
    “My job,” she said briskly, but gave them a quick sidelong look. As far as she was concerned, her plans were working perfectly. She imagined Pandora and Michael had decided to take a little air while dinner was cooking, and, as young people would, had forgotten the time.
    “You’re supposed to be in bed,” Pandora reminded her.
    “Posh. I’ve been in bed long enough.” And the days of little or no activity had nearly bored her to tears. It was worth it, however, to see Pandora snug in Michael’s arms. “Feeling fit as a fiddle now, I promise you. Wash up for dinner.”
    Michael and Pandora each took separate and careful studies. Sweeney’s cheeks were pink and round, her eyes bright. She bustled from counter to counter in her old businesslike fashion. “We still want you to take it easy,” Michael decided. “No heavy work.”
    “That’s right. Michael and I’ll take care of the washing up.” She saw him scowl, just a little, and patted his shoulder. “We like to do it.”
    At Michael and Pandora’s insistence, all four ate in the kitchen. Charles, sitting next to Sweeney, was left uncertain how much he should cough and settled on a middle road, clearing his throat every so often. In an unspoken agreement, Pandora and Michael decided to keep the matter of trespassers to themselves. Both of them felt the announcement that someone was watching the house would be too upsetting for the two old people while they were recuperating.
    On the surface, dinner was an easy meal, but Pandora kept wondering how soon they could nudge the servants along to bed and contact the police. More than once, Pandora caught Sweeney looking from her to Michael with a smug smile. Sweet old lady, Pandora mused, innocently believing the cook to be pleased to have her kitchen back. It made Pandora only more determined to protect her and Charles from any unpleasantness. She concentrated on cleaning up and packing them off to bed, and it was nearly nine before she was able to meet Michael in the parlor.
    “Settled?”
    She heard the familiar restlessness in his voice and merely nodded, pouring a brandy. “It’s a bit like cajoling children, but I managed to find a Cary Grant movie that interested them.” She sipped the brandy, waiting for her muscles to relax with it. “I’d rather be watching it myself.”
    “Another time.” Michael took a sip from her snifter. “I’ve called the police. They’ll be here shortly.”
    She took the glass back. “It still bothers me to take the business to outsiders. After all, anything beyond simple trespass is speculation.”
    “We’ll let the police speculate.”
    She managed to smile. “Your Logan always handles things on his own.”
    “Someone told me once that that was just fiction.” He poured himself a brandy and toasted her. “I discovered I don’t like having you in the middle of a story line.”
    The brandy and firelight gave the evening an illusion of normalcy. Pandora took his statement with a shrug. “You seem to have developed a protect-the-woman syndrome, Michael. It’s not like you.”
    “Maybe