Angel of Smoky Hollow by Barbara McMahon

was as dark as twilight.
    â€œMy guess is she’ll stay where she is until the storm passes,” he said.
    â€œShouldn’t we stay here?”
    â€œIt could last for a while. Now that the power’s out, what will you do?”
    He was right. With no power, she couldn’t listen to the CDs on the fancy machines. Might as well go back home.
    When they arrived at Webb Francis’s place, Kirk parked right next to the front porch, passenger side closest. Angelica dashed to the porch, getting wet. She shook her head when she was sheltered and watched as Kirk raced up, taking the three steps in one leap.
    â€œWet!” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you where the candles are and a flashlight.” He led the way into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard over the refrigerator and pulled down a handful of candles and a huge flashlight. He pulled matches from a drawer and lined them all up on the counter in front of a window.
    â€œYou’ll have some daylight until evening. Then it’ll really get dark.”
    â€œThank you.” She tried to remember the last time they’d lost power in New York. She didn’t think they ever had since she lived there.
    â€œWhat do you do for dinner?” she asked.
    â€œI have a gas range, cook on that.” He glanced at Webb Francis’s electric stove. “You’re welcome to come over for dinner.”
    She hesitated. She had to eat.
    â€œIf the power isn’t back on I’ll come over later.”
    She escorted him to the porch. The rain seemed to be coming down in sheets, blowing in under the overhang on the side as the wind drove it.
    â€œCall if you need anything.” He stood so close he was crowding her against the porch railing, invading her space. She could smell the hint of aftershave even so late in the day. Her heart began drumming as if her body recognized his. Which was dumb, she’d barely touched the man. Yet something primal seemed to shimmer between them.
    He was so close she could feel his breath on her face. She looked up and saw the intensity in his eyes.
    â€œIf I need anything, which I doubt, I’ll call.” She wanted toreach out and touch him. Her fingers actually yearned to feel those hard arms, the power of his muscles beneath them.
    He held his position for a moment longer and she wondered if he could read her mind. When he stepped back and turned as if to leave, she almost grabbed the railing so her wobbly knees wouldn’t give way. A whirlwind couldn’t shake her any more than being close to Kirk did.
    She drew in a deep breath. Something was moving in the road. Frowning, she peered out into the rain.
    â€œIs someone walking in this downpour?” she asked.
    Kirk paused at the edge of the porch and looked. He lifted his hand in a short wave.
    A moment later a young boy ran across the yard and up to the porch. “Is Webb Francis back?” he asked.
    He carried an umbrella, but it had not kept him dry in the blowing rain. His jeans were wet, his hair was tousled. He looked to be about eight years old.
    â€œNo, he’s in hospital in Bryceville,” Kirk said, stooping down to face the boy at eye level. Angelica wondered if that helped him hear.
    The boy’s face dropped. “He’s giving me fiddle lessons. I haven’t had one all week. And I need to practice so I can be in the festival.” The sad look on his face touched Angelica.
    Kirk looked up at her.
    â€œYou’re in luck, Sam, this lady plays the fiddle. She can teach you until Webb Francis gets home.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    â€œI CAN’T TEACH HIM HOW TO PLAY !” Angelica protested. She had never taught anyone how to play anything.
    â€œMake sure he know the basics, let him practice. Webb Francis will be home in a few days. He’ll probably manage sitting in a chair while Sam plays. How hard can it be?”
    â€œI don’t know anything about children,” she countered,