Vision in White ordering information at LittleBrown.co.uk

On January first, Mac rolled over to smack her alarm clock, and ended up facedown on the floor of her studio.

“Shit. Happy New Year.”

She lay, groggy and baffled, until she remembered she’d never made it upstairs into bed – and the alarm was from her computer, set to wake her at noon.

She pushed herself up to stagger to the kitchen and the coffeemaker.

Why did people want to get married on New Year’s Eve? Why would they make a formal ritual out of a holiday designed for marathon drinking and probably inappropriate sex? And they just had to drag family and friends into it, not to mention wedding photographers.

Of course, when the reception had finally ended at two a.m., she could’ve gone to bed like a sane person instead of uploading the shots, reviewing them – spending nearly three more hours on the Hines- Myers wedding photos.

But, boy, she’d gotten some good ones. A few great ones.

Or they were all crap and she’d judged them in a euphoric blur.

No, they were good shots.

She added three spoons of sugar to the black coffee and drank it while standing at the window, looking out at the snow blanketing the gardens and lawns of the Brown Estate.

They’d done a good job on the wedding, she thought. And maybe Bob Hines and Vicky Myers would take a clue from that and do a good job on the marriage.

Either way, the memories of the day wouldn’t fade. The moments, big and small, were captured. She’d refine them, finesse them, print them. Bob and Vicky could revisit the day through those images next week or sixty years from next week.

That, she thought, was as potent as sweet, black coffee on a cold winter day.

Opening a cupboard, she pulled out a box of Pop-Tarts and, eating one where she stood, went over her schedule for the day.

Clay-McFearson (Rod and Alison) wedding at six. Which meant the bride and her party would arrive by three, groom and his by four. That gave her until two for the pre-event summit meeting at the main house.

Time enough to shower, dress, go over her notes, check and recheck her equipment. Her last check of the day’s weather called for sunny skies, high of thirty- two. She should be able to get some nice preparation shots using natural light and maybe talk Alison – if she was game – into a bridal portrait on the balcony with the snow in the background.

Mother of the bride, Mac remembered – Dorothy (call me Dottie) – was on the pushy and demanding side, but she’d be dealt with. If Mac couldn’t handle her personally, God knew Parker would. Parker could and did handle anyone and anything.

Parker’s drive and determination had turned Vows into one of the top wedding and event planning companies in the state in a five- year period. It had turned the tragedy of her parents’ deaths into hope, and the gorgeous Victorian home and the stunning grounds of the Brown Estate into a thriving and unique business.

And, Mac thought as she swallowed the last of the Pop-Tart, she herself was one of the reasons.

She moved through the studio toward the stairs to her upstairs bed and bath, stopped at one of her favorite photos. The glowing, ecstatic bride with her face lifted, her arms stretched, palms up, caught in a shower of pink rose petals.

Cover of Today’s Bride, Mac thought. Because I’m just that good.

In her thick socks, flannel pants, and sweatshirt she climbed the stairs to transform herself from tired, pj-clad, Pop-Tart addict into sophisticated wedding photojournalist.

She ignored her unmade bed – why make it when you were just going to mess it up again? – and the bedroom clutter. The hot shower worked with the sugar and caffeine to clear out any remaining cobwebs so she could put her mind seriously to today’s job.

She had a bride who was interested in trying the creative, a passive-aggressive MOB who thought she knew best, a groom so dazzling in love he’d do anything to make his bride happy. And both her B and G were seriously photogenic.

The last fact made the job both pleasure and challenge. Just how could she give her clients a photo journey of their day that was spectacular, and uniquely theirs?

Bride’s colors, she thought, flipping through her mental files as she washed her short, shaggy crop of red hair. Silver and gold. Elegant, glamorous.

She’d had a look at the flowers and the cake – both getting their finishing touches today – the favors and linens, attendants’ wardrobes, headdresses. She had a copy of the playlist from the band with the first dance, mother- son, father- daughter dances highlighted.

So, she thought, for the next several hours, her world would revolve around Rod and Alison.

She chose her suit, her jewelry, her makeup with nearly the same care as she chose her equipment. Loaded, she went out to make the short trek from the pool house that held her studio and little apartment to the main house.

The snow sparkled, crushed diamonds over ermine, and the air was cold and clean as mountain ice. She definitely had to get some outside shots, daylight and eve ning. Winter wedding, white wedding, snow on the ground, ice glistening on the trees, just dripping from the denuded willows over the pond. And there the fanciful old Victorian with its myriad rooflines, the arched and porthole windows, rising and spreading, soft blue against the hard shell of sky. Its terraces and generous portico heralded the season with their festoons of lights and greenery.

She studied it as she often did as she walked the shoveled paths. She loved the lines of it, the angles of it, with its subtle touches of pale yellow, creamy white picked out in that soft, subtle blue.

It had been as much home to her as her own growing up. Often more so, she admitted, as her own had run on her mother’s capricious whims. Parker’s parents had been warm, welcoming, loving and – Mac thought now – steady. They’d given her a calm port in the storm of her own childhood.

She’d grieved as much as her friend at their loss nearly seven years before.

Now the Brown Estate was her home. Her business. Her life. And a good one on every level. What could be better than doing something you loved, and doing it with the best friends you’d ever had?

She went in through the mudroom to hang up her outdoor gear, then circled around to peek into Laurel’s domain.

Her friend and partner stood on a step stool, meticulously adding silver calla lilies to the five tiers of a wedding cake. Each flower bloomed at the base of a gold acanthus leaf to glimmering, elegant effect.

“That’s a winner, McBane.”

Laurel’s hand was steady as a surgeon’s as she added the next lily. Her sunny hair was twisted at the back of her head into a messy knot that somehow suited the angular triangle of her face. As she worked, her eyes, bright as bluebells, held narrowed concentration.

“I’m so glad she went for the lily centerpiece instead of the bride and groom topper. It makes this design. Wait until we get to the ballroom and add it.”

Mac pulled out a camera. “It’s a good shot for the website. Okay?”

“Sure. Get any sleep?”

“Didn’t hit until about five, but I stayed down till noon. You?”

“Down by two thirty. Up at seven to finish the groom’s cake, the desserts – and this. I’m so damn glad we have two weeks before the next wedding.” She glanced over. “Don’t tell Parker I said that.”

“She’s up, I assume.”

“She’s been in here twice. She’s probably been everywhere twice. I think I heard Emma come in. They may be up in the office by now.”

“I’m heading up. Are you coming?”

“Ten minutes. I’ll be on time.”

“On time is late in Parker’s world.” Mac grinned. “I’ll try to distract her.”

“Just tell her some things can’t be rushed. And that the MOB’s going to get so many compliments on this cake she’ll stay offour backs.”

“That one could work.”

Mac started out, winding through to check the entrance foyer and the massive drawing room where the ceremony itself would take place. Emmaline and her elves had already been at work, she noted, undressing from the last wedding, redressing for the new. Every bride had her own vision, and this one wanted lots of gold and silver ribbon and swag as opposed to the lavender and cream voile of New Year’s Eve.

The fire was set in the drawing room and would be lit before the guests began to arrive. White- draped chairs sparkling with silver bows formed row after row. Emma had already dressed the mantel with gold candles in silver holders, and the bride’s favorite white calla lilies massed in tall, thin glass vases.

Mac circled the room, considered angles, lighting, composition – and made more notes as she walked out and took the stairs to the third floor.

As she expected, she found Parker in the conference room of their office, surrounded by her laptop, BlackBerry, folders, cell phone, and headset. Her dense brown hair hung in a long tail – sleek and simple. It worked with the suit – a quiet dove gray – that would blend in and complement the bride’s colors.

Parker missed no tricks.

She didn’t look up but circled a finger in the air as she continued to work on the laptop. Knowing the signal, Mac crossed to the coffee counter and filled mugs for both of them. She sat, laid down her own file, opened her own notebook.

Parker sat back, smiled, and picked up her mug. “It’s going to be a good one.”

“No doubt.”

“Roads are clear, weather’s good. The bride’s up, had breakfast and a massage. The groom’s had a workout and a swim. Caterers are on schedule. All attendants are accounted for.” She checked her watch. “Where are Emma and Laurel?”

“Laurel’s putting the finishing touches on the cake, which is stupendous. I haven’t seen Emma, but she’s started dressing the event areas. Pretty. I want some outdoor shots. Before and after.”

“Don’t keep the bride outside for too long before. We don’t want her red- nosed and sniffling.”

“You may have to keep the MOB off my back.”

“Already noted.”

Emma rushed in, a Diet Coke in one hand, a file in the other. “Tink’s hungover and a no-show, so I’m one short. Let’s keep this brief, okay?” She dropped down at the table. Her curling black hair bounced over the shoulders of her sweatshirt. “The Bride’s Suite and the Drawing Room are dressed. Foyer and stairway, nearly finished. The bouquets, corsages, and boutonnieres checked. We’ve started on the Grand Hall and the Ballroom. I need to get back to that.”

“Flower girl?”

“White rose pomander, silver and gold ribbon. I have her halo – roses and baby’s breath – ready for the hairdresser. It’s adorable. Mac, I need some pictures of the arrangements if you can fit it in. If not, I’ll get them.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks. The MOB – ”

“I’m on it,” Parker said.

“I need to – ” Emma broke offas Laurel walked in.

“I’m not late,” Laurel announced.

“Tink’s a no- show,” Parker told her. “Emma’s short.”

“I can fill in. I’ll need to set the centerpiece of the cake and arrange the desserts, but I’ve got time now.”

“Let’s go over the timetable.”

“Wait.” Emma lifted her can of Diet Coke. “Toast first. Happy New Year to us, to four amazing, stupendous, and very hot women. Best pals ever.”

“Also smart and kick- ass.” Laurel raised her bottle of water. “To pals and partners.”

“To us. Friendship and brains in four parts,” Mac added, “and the sheer coolness of the whole we’ve made with Vows.”

“And to 2009.” Parker lifted her coffee mug. “The amazing, stupendous, hot, smart, kick- ass best pals are going to have their best year ever.”

“Damn right.” Mac clinked her mug to the rest. “To Wedding Day, then, now, and always.”

“Then, now, and always,” Parker repeated. “And now. Timetable?”

“I’m on the bride,” Mac began, “from her arrival, switch to groom at his. Candids during dressing event, posed as applies. Formal portraits in and out. I’ll get the shots of the cake, the arrangements now, do my setup. All family and wedding party shots separate prior to the ceremony. Post-ceremony I should only need forty-five minutes for the family shots, full wedding party, and the bride and groom.”

“Floral dressing in bride and groom suites complete by three. Floral dressing in foyer, Parlor, staircase, Grand Hall, and Ballroom by five.” Parker glanced at Emma.

“We’ll be done.”

“Videographer arrives at five thirty. Guest arrivals from five thirty to six. Wedding musicians – string quartet – to begin at five forty. The band will be set up in the Ballroom by six thirty. MOG, attended by son, escorted at five fifty, MOB, escorted by son-in-law, directly after. Groom and groomsmen in place at six.” Parker read off the schedule. “FOB, bride, and party in place at six. Descent and pro cession. Ceremony duration twentythree minutes, recession, family moments. Guests escorted to Grand Hall at six twenty- five.”

“Bar opens,” Laurel said, “music, passed food.”

“Six twenty- five to seven ten, photographs. Announcement of family, wedding party, and the new Mr. and Mrs. seven fifteen.”

“Dinner, toasts,” Emma continued. “We’ve got it, Parks.”

“I want to make sure we move to the Ballroom and have the first dance by eight fifteen,” Parker continued. “The bride especially wants her grandmother there for the first dance, and after the father-daughter, mother-son dance, for her father and his mother to dance. She’s ninety, and may fade early. If we can have the cake cutting at nine thirty, the grandmother should make that, too.”

“She’s a sweetheart,” Mac put in. “I got some nice shots of her and Alison at the rehearsal. I’ve got it in my notes to get some of them today. Personally, I think she’ll stay for the whole deal.”

“I hope she does. Cake and desserts served while dancing continues. Bouquet toss at ten fifteen.”

“Tossing bouquet is set,” Emma added.

“Garter toss, dancing continues. Last dance at ten fifty, bubble blowing, bride and groom depart. Event end, eleven.” Parker checked her watch again. “Let’s get it done. Emma and Laurel need to change. Everyone remember their headsets.”

Parker’s phone vibrated, and she glanced at the readout. “MOB. Again. Fourth call this morning.”

“Have fun with that,” Mac said and escaped.

She scouted room by room, staying out of the way of Emma and her crew as they swarmed over the house with flowers, ribbons, voile. She took shots of Laurel’s cake, Emma’s arrangements, framed others in her head.

It was a routine she never allowed to become routine. She knew once it became rote, she’d miss shots, opportunities, bog down on fresh angles and ideas. And whenever she felt herself dulling, she thought of a blue butterfly landing on a dandelion.

The air smelled of roses and lilies and rang with voices and footfalls. Light streamed through the tall windows in lovely beams and shafts, and glittered on the gold and silver ribbons. “Headset, Mac!” Parker rushed down the main staircase.

“The bride’s arriving.”

As Parker hurried down to meet the bride, Mac jogged up. She swung out on the front terrace, ignoring the cold as the white limo sailed down the drive. As it eased to a stop she shifted her angle, set, and waited.

Maid of honor, mother of the bride. “Move, move, just a little,” she muttered. Alison stepped out. The bride wore jeans, Uggs, a battered suede jacket and a bright red scarf. Mac zoomed in, changed stops. “Hey! Alison!”

The bride looked up. Surprise turned to amused delight, and to Mac’s pleasure, Alison threw up both arms, tossed back her head, and laughed.

And there, Mac thought as she caught the moment, was the beginning of the journey.

Within ten minutes, the Bride’s Suite – once Parker’s own bedroom – bustled with people and confusion. Two hairdressers plied their tools and talents, curling, straightening, styling, while others wielded paints and pots.

Utterly female, Mac thought as she moved through the room unobtrusively, the scents, the motions, the sounds. The bride remained the focus – no nerves on this one, Mac determined. Alison was confident, beaming, and currently chattering like a magpie.

The MOB, however, was a different story.

“But you have such beautiful hair! Don’t you think you should leave it down? At least some of it. Maybe – ”

“An updo suits the headdress better. Relax, Mom.”

“It’s too warm in here. I think it’s too warm in here. And Mandy should take a quick nap. She’s going to act up, I just know it.”

“She’ll be fine.” Alison glanced toward the flower girl.

“I really think – ”

“Ladies!” Parker wheeled in a cart of champagne, with a pretty fruit and cheese tray. “The men are on their way. Alison, your hair’s gorgeous. Absolutely regal.” She poured a flute, offered it to the bride.

“I really don’t think she should drink before the ceremony. She barely ate today, and – ”

“Oh, Mrs. McFearson, I’m so glad you’re dressed and ready. You look fabulous. If I could just steal you for a few minutes? I’d love for you to take a look at the Drawing Room before the ceremony. We want to make sure it’s perfect, don’t we? I’ll have her back in no time.” Parker pushed champagne into the MOB’s hand, and steered her out of the room.

Alison said, “Whew!” and laughed.

For the next hour, Mac split herself between the bride’s and groom’s suites. Between perfume and tulle, cufflinks and cummerbunds. She eased back into the bride’s domain, circled around the attendants as they dressed and helped one another dress. And found Alison alone, standing in front of her wedding dress.

It was all there, Mac thought as she quietly framed the shot. The wonder, the joy – with just that tiny tug of sorrow. She snapped the image as Alison reached out to brush her fingers over the sparkle of the bodice.

Decisive moment, Mac knew, when everything the woman felt reflected on her face.

Then it passed, and Alison glanced over.

“I didn’t expect to feel this way. I’m so happy. I’m so in love with Rod, so ready to marry him. But there’s this little clutch right here.” She rubbed her fingers just above her heart. “It’s not nerves.”

“Sadness. Just a touch. One phase of your life ends today. You’re allowed to be sad to say good- bye. I know what you need. Wait here.”

A moment later, Mac led Alison’s grandmother over. And once again stepped back.

Youth and age, she thought. Beginnings and endings, connections and constancy. And, love.

She snapped the embrace, but that wasn’t it. She snapped the glitter of tears, and still, no. Then Alison lowered her forehead to her grandmother’s, and even as her lips curved, a single tear slid down her cheek while the dress glowed and glittered behind them.

Perfect. The blue butterfly.

She took candids of the ritual while the bride dressed, then the formal portraits with exquisite natural light. As she’d expected, Alison was game to brave the cold on the terrace.

And Mac ignored Parker’s voice through her headset as she rushed to the Groom’s Suite to repeat the pro cess with Rod. She passed Parker in the hallway as she strode back to the bride. “I need the groom and party downstairs, Mac. We’re running two minutes behind.”

“Oh my God!” Mac said in mock horror and ducked into the Bride’s Suite.

“Guests are seated,” Parker announced in her ear moments later. “Groom and groomsmen taking position. Emma, gather the bridal party.”

“On it.”

Mac slipped out to take her stand at the bottom of the stairs as Emma or ga nized the bridesmaids.

“Party ready. Cue the music.”

“Cuing music,” Parker said, “start the procession.”

The flower girl would clearly be fine without the nap, Mac decided as the child nearly danced her way down the staircase. She paused like a vet at Laurel’s signal, then continued at a dignified pace in her fairy dress across the foyer, into the enormous parlor, and down the aisle formed by the chairs.

The attendants followed, shimmering silver, and at last, the maid of honor in gold.

Mac crouched to aim up as the bride and her father stood at the top of the stairs, holding hands. As the bride’s music swelled, he lifted his daughter’s hand to his lips, then to his cheek. Even as she took the shot, Mac’s eyes stung.

Where was her own father? she wondered. Jamaica? Switzerland? Cairo?

She pushed the thought and the ache that came with it aside, and did her job.

Using Emma’s candlelight, she captured joy and tears. The memories. And stayed invisible and separate.

Tribute ordering information at LittleBrown.co.uk

According to legend, Steve McQueen once swam buck-naked among the cattails and lily pads in the pond at the little farm. If true, and Cilla liked to think it was, the King Of Cool had stripped off and dove in post The Magnificent Seven and prior to The Great Escape.

In some versions of the legend, Steve had done more than cool off on that muggy summer night in Virginia – and he’d done the more with Cilla’s grandmother. Though they’d both been married to other people at the time, the legend carried more cheer than disdain. And since both parties were long dead, neither could confirm or deny.

Then again, Cilla thought as she studied the murky water of the lily-choked pond, neither had bothered – as far as she could ascertain – to confirm or deny while they’d had the chance.

True or false, she imagined Janet Hardy, the glamorous, the tragic, the brilliant, the troubled, had enjoyed the buzz. Even icons had to get their kicks somewhere.

Standing in the yellow glare of sun with the dulling bite of March chilling her face, Cilla could see it perfectly. The steamy summer night, the blue wash from the spotlight moon. The gardens would’ve been at their magnificent peak and stunning the air with fragrance. The water would’ve been so cool and silky on the skin, and the color of chamomile tea with pink and white blossoms strung over it like glossy pearls.

Janet would have been at her stunning peak as well, Cilla mused. The spun-gold of her hair tumbling free, spilling over white shoulders … No, those would have been spun-gold, too, from her summer tan. Gilded shoulders in the tea-colored water, and her Arctic blue eyes bright with laughter – and most likely a heroic consumption of liquor.

Music darting and sparkling through the dark, like the fireflies that flashed over the fertile fields, the velvet lawns, Cilla imagined. The voices from the weekend guests who wandered over the lawns, the porches and patios as bright as the music. Stars as luminous as the ones that gleamed overhead like little jewels scattered away from that spotlight moon.

Dark pockets of shadows, streaming colored lights from lanterns.

Yes, it would’ve been like that. Janet’s world had been one of brilliant light and utter dark. Always.

Cilla hoped she dove into that pond unapologetically naked, drunk and foolish and happy. And utterly unaware her crowded, desperate, glorious life would end barely a decade later.

Before turning away from the pond, Cilla listed it in her thick notebook. It would need to be cleaned, tested and ecologically balanced. She made another note to read up on pond management and maintenance before she attempted to do so, or hired an expert.

Then the gardens. Or what was left of them, she thought as she crossed through the high, lumpy grass. Weeds, literal blankets of vines, overgrown shrubs with branches poking through the blankets like brown bones, marred what had once been simply stupendous. Another metaphor, she supposed, for the bright and beautiful choked off and buried in the grasping.

She’d need help with this part, she decided. Considerable help. However much she wanted to put her back into this project, get her hands into it, she couldn’t possibly clear and hack, slash and burn, and redesign on her own.

The budget would have to include a landscaping crew. She noted down the need to study old photographs of the gardens, to buy some books on landscaping to educate herself, and to contact local landscapers for bids.

Standing, she scanned the ruined lawns, the sagging fences, the sad old barn that stood soot-gray and scarred from weather. There had been chickens once – or so she’d been told – a couple of pretty horses, tidy fields of crops, a small, thriving grove of fruit trees. She wanted to believe – maybe needed to believe – she could bring all that back. That by the next spring, and all the
springs after, she could stand here and look at all the budding, the blooming, the business of what had been her grandmother’s.

Of what was now hers.

She saw how it was, and how it once had been through her own Arctic blue eyes shaded by the bill of a Rock the House ball cap. Her hair, more honey than gold dust, threaded through the back of the cap in a long, messy tail. She wore a thick hooded sweatshirt over strong shoulders and a long torso, faded jeans over long legs, and boots she’d bought years before for a hiking trip through the Blue Ridge Mountains. The same mountains that rolled up against the sky now.

Years ago, she thought. The last time she’d come east, come here. And when, she supposed, the seeds for what she would do now had been planted.

Didn’t that make the last four – or was it five – years of neglect at least partially her doing? She could’ve pushed sooner, could have demanded. She could have done something.

“Doing it now,” she reminded herself. She wouldn’t regret the delay any more than she would regret the manipulation and bitter arguments she’d used to force her mother to sign over the property.

“Yours now, Cilla,” she told herself. “Don’t screw it up.”

She turned, braced herself, then made her way through the high grass and brambles to the old farmhouse where Janet Hardy had hosted sparkling parties, or had escaped to between roles. And where, in 1973, on another steamy summer night, she took her own life.

So claimed the legend.

There were ghosts. Sensing them was nearly as exhausting as evaluating the ramshackle three stories, facing the grime, the dust, the disheartening disrepair. Ghosts, Cilla supposed, had kept the vandalism and squatting to a minimum. Legends, she thought, had their uses.

She’d had the electricity turned back on, and had brought plenty of light bulbs along with what she hoped would be enough cleaning supplies to get her started. She’d applied for her permits and researched local contractors.

Now, it was time to start something.

Lining up her priorities, she tackled the first of the four bathrooms that hadn’t seen a scrub brush in the last six years.

And she suspected the last tenants hadn’t bothered overmuch with such niceties during their stint.

“Could be more disgusting,” she muttered as she scraped and scrubbed. “Could be snakes and rats. And God, shut up. You’re asking for them.”

After two sweaty hours and emptying countless buckets of filthy water, she thought she could risk using the facilities without being inoculated first. Chugging bottled water, she headed down the back stairs to have a whack at the big farmhouse kitchen next. And eyeing the baby blue on white laminate on the stubby counters, she wondered whose idea that update had been, and why they’d assumed it would suit the marvelous old O’Keefe & Merritt range and Coldspot refrigerator.

Aesthetically, the room was over the line of hideous, but sanitary had to take precedence.

She braced the back door open for ventilation, tugged rubber gloves back on and very gingerly opened the oven door.

“Oh, crap.”

While the best part of a can of oven cleaner went to work, she tackled the oven racks, the burners, the stove top and hood. A photograph flitted through her memory. Janet, a frilly apron over a wasp-waisted dress, sunlight hair pulled back in a sassy tail, stirring something in a big pot on the stove. Smiling at the camera while her two children looked on adoringly.

Publicity shoot, Cilla remembered. For one of the women’s magazines. Redbook or McCall’s. The old farmhouse stove, with its center grill, had sparkled like new hope. It would again, she vowed. One day, she’d stir a pot on that same stove with probably as much faked competence as her grandmother.

She started to squat down to check the oven cleaner, then yipped in surprise when she heard her name.

He stood in the open doorway, with sunlight haloing his silvered blond hair. His smile deepened the creases in his face, still so handsome, and warmed those quiet hazel eyes.

Her heart took a bound from surprise to pleasure, and another into embarrassment.

“Dad.”

When he stepped forward, arms opening for a hug, she tossed up her hands, wheeled back. “No, don’t. I’m absolutely disgusting. Covered with … I don’t even want to know.” She swiped the back of her wrist over her forehead, then fumbled off the protective gloves. “Dad,” she repeated.

“I see a clean spot.” He lifted her chin with his hand, kissed her cheek. “Look at you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” But she laughed as most of the initial wkwardness passed. “What are you doing here?”

“Somebody recognized you in town when you stopped for supplies and said something to Patty. And Patty,” he continued, referring to his wife, “called me. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I was going to. I mean I was going to call you.” At some point. Eventually.When I figured out what to say. “I just wanted to get here first, then I …” She glanced back at the oven. “I got caught up.”

“So I see. When did you get in?”

Guilt pricked her conscience. “Listen, let’s go out on the front porch. It’s not too bad out front, and I have a cooler sitting out there holding a coldcut sub with our names on it. Just let me wash up, then we’ll catch up.”

It wasn’t as bad in front, Cilla thought when she settled on the sagging steps with her father, but it was bad enough. The overgrown, weedy lawn and gardens, the trio of misshaped Bradford pears, a wild tangle of what she thought might be wisteria could all be dealt with. Would be. But the wonderful old magnolia rose, dense with its deep, glossy leaves, and stubborn daffodils shoved up through the thorny armor of climbing roses along the stone walls.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Cilla began as she handed her father a bottle of iced tea to go with half the sub. “I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

He patted her knee, opened her bottle, then his own.

It was so like him, she thought. Gavin McGowan took things as they came – the good, the bad, the mediocre. How he’d ever fallen for the emotional morass that was her mother eluded her. But that was long ago, Cilla mused, and far away.

She bit into her portion of the sub. “I’m a bad daughter.”

“The worst,” he said, and made her laugh.

“Lizzy Bordon.”

“Second worst. How’s your mother?”

Cilla bit into her sub, rolled her eyes. “Lizzy’s definitely running behind me on Mom’s scale at the moment. Otherwise, she’s okay. Number Five’s putting together a cabaret act for her.” At her father’s quiet look, Cilla shrugged. “I think when your marriages average a three-year lifespan, assigning numbers to husbands is practical and efficient. He’s okay. Better than Numbers Four and Two, and considerably smarter than Number Three. And he’s the reason I’m sitting here sharing a sub with the never-to-be-matched Number One.”

“How’s that?”

“Putting the song and dance together requires money. I had some money.”

“Cilla.”

“Wait, wait. I had some money, and she had something I wanted. I wanted this place, Dad. I’ve wanted it for a while now.”

“You – ”

“Yeah, I bought the farm.” Cilla tossed back her head and laughed. “And she’s so pissed at me. She didn’t want it, God knows. I mean, look at it. She hasn’t been out here in years, in decades, and she fired every manager, every overseer, every custodian. She wouldn’t give it to me, and it was my mistake to ask her for it a couple years ago. She wouldn’t sell it to me then, either.”

She took another bite of the sub, enjoying it now. “I got the tragedy face, the spiel about Janet. But now she needed seed money and wanted me to invest. Big no on that followed by big fight, much drama. I told her, and Number Five, I’d buy this place, named an amount and made it clear that was firm.”

“She sold it to you. She sold you the little farm.”

“After much gnashing of teeth, much weeping, various sorrowful opinions on my daughterly behavior since the day I was born. And so on. It doesn’t matter.” Or hardly mattered, Cilla thought. “She didn’t want it; I did. She’d have sold it long before this if it hadn’t been tied up in trusts. It could only be sold and transferred to family until, what, 2012? Anyway, Number Five calmed her down, and everyone got what they wanted.”

“What are you going to do with it, Cilla?”

Live, she thought. Breathe. “Do you remember it, Dad? I’ve only seen the pictures and old home movies, but you were here when it was in its prime. When the grounds were gorgeous and the porches gleaming. When it had character and grace. That’s what I’m going to do with it. I’m going to bring it back.”

“Why?”

She heard the unspoken how? and told herself it didn’t matter that he didn’t know what she could do. Or hardly mattered.

“Because it deserves better than this. Because I think Janet Hardy deserves better than this. And, because I can. I’ve been flipping houses for almost five years now. Two years pretty much on my own. I know none of them was on the scale of this, but I have a knack for it. I’ve made a solid profit on my projects.”

“Are you doing this for profit?”

“I may change my mind in the next four years, but for now? No. I never knew Janet, but she’s influenced almost every area of my life. Something about this place pulled her here, even at the end. Something about it pulls me.”

“It’a a long way from what you’ve known,” Gavin said. “Not just the miles, but the atmosphere. The culture. The Shenandoah Valley, this part of it, is still fairly rural. Skyline Village boasts a few thousand people, and even the larger cities like Front Royal and Culpepper, it’s far and away from LA.”

“I guess I want to explore that, and I want to spend more time with my East Coast roots.” She wished he’d be pleased instead of concerned that she’d fail or give up. Again.

“I’m tired of California, I’m tired of all of it, Dad. I never wanted what Mom wanted, for me or for herself.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“So I’ll live here for a while.”

“Here?” Shock covered his face. “Live here? At the Little Farm?”

“I know, crazy. But I’ve done plenty of camping, which is what this’ll be for a few days anyway. Then I can rough it inside for a while longer. It’ll take about nine, ten months, maybe a year to do the rehab, to do it right. At the end of that, I’ll know if I want to stay or move on. If it’s moving on, I’ll figure out what to do about it then. But right now, Dad, I’m tired of moving on.”

Gavin said nothing for a moment, then draped his arm around Cilla’s shoulder. Did he have any idea, she wondered, what that casual show of support meant to her? How could he?

“It was beautiful here, beautiful and hopeful and happy,” he told her. “Horses grazing, her dog napping in the sun. The flowers were lovely. Janet did some of the gardening herself when she was here, I think. She came here to relax, she said. And she would, for short stretches. But then she needed people – that’s my take on it. She needed the noise and the laughter, the light. But now and again, she came out alone. No friends, no family, no press. I always wondered what she did during those solo visits.”

“You met Mom here.”

“I did. We were just children, and Janet had a party for Dilly and Johnnie. She invited a lot of local children. Janet took to me, so I was invited back whenever they were here. Johnnie and I played together, and stayed friends when we hit our teens, though he began to run with a different sort of crowd. Then Johnnie died. He died, and everything went dark. Janet came here alone more often after that. I’d climb the wall to see if she was here, if Dilly was with her, when I was home from college. I’d see her walking alone, or see the lights on. I spoke to her a few times, three or four times, after Johnnie died. Then she was gone. Nothing here’s been the same since.

“It does deserve better,” he said with a sigh. “And so does she. You’re the one who should try to give it to them. You may be the only one who can.”

“Thanks.”

“Patty and I will help. You should come stay with us until this place is habitable.”

“I’ll take you up on the help, but I want to stay here. Get a feel for the place. I’ve done some research on it, but I could use some recommendations for local labor – skilled and not. Plumbers, electricians, carpenters, landscapers. And just people with strong backs who can follow directions.”

“Get your notebook.”

She pushed to her feet, started inside, then turned back. “Dad, if things had worked out between you and Mom, would you have stayed in the business? Stayed in LA?”

“Maybe. But I was never happy there. Or I wasn’t happy there for long. And I wasn’t a comfortable actor.”

“You were good.”

“Good enough,” he said with a smile. “But I didn’t want what Dilly wanted, for herself or for me. So I understand what you meant when you said the same. It’s not her fault, Cilla, that we wanted something else.”

“You found what you wanted here.”

“Yes, but – ”

“That doesn’t mean I will, too,” she said. “I know. But I just might.”

First, Cilla supposed, she had to figure out what it was she did want. For more than half her life she’d done what she was told, and accepted what she had as what she should want. And most of the remainder, she admitted, she’d spent escaping from or ignoring all of that, or sectioning it off as if it had happened to someone else.

She’d been an actor before she could talk because it was what her mother wanted. She’d spent her childhood playing another child – one who was so much cuter, smarter, sweeter than she was herself. When that went away, she’d struggled through what the agents and producers considered the awkward years, where the work was lean. She cut a disastrous motherdaughter album with Dilly, and did a handful of teen slasher films in which she considered herself lucky to have been gruesomely murdered.

She’d been washed up before her eighteenth birthday, Cilla thought as she flopped down on the bed in her motel room. A has-been, a whatever-happened-to who copped a scattering of guest roles on TV and voice-overs for commercials.

But the long-running TV series and a few forgettable B-movies provided a nest egg. She’d been clever about feathering that nest, and using those eggs to allow her to poke her fingers into various pies to see if she liked the flavor.

Her mother called it wasting her God-given, and her therapist termed it avoidance.

Cilla called it a learning curve.

Whatever you called it, it brought her here to a fairly crappy hotel in Virginia, with the prospect of hard, sweaty and expensive work over the next several months. She couldn’t wait to get started.

She flipped on the TV, intending to use it as background noise while she sat on the lumpy bed to make another pass through her notes. She heard a couple of cans thud out of the vending machine a few feet outside her door. Behind her head, the ghost sounds of the TV in the next room wafted through the wall.

While the local news droned on her set, she made her priority list for the next day. Working bathroom, number one. Camping out wasn’t a problem for her, but moving out of the motel meant she required the basic facilities. Sweaty work necessitated working shower. Plumbing, first priority.

Halfway through her list her eyes began to droop. Reminding herself she wanted to be checked out and on site by eight, she switched off the TV, then the light.

As she dropped into sleep, the ghosts from the next room drifted through the wall. She heard Janet Hardy’s glorious voice lift into a song designed to break hearts.

“Perfect,” Cilla murmured as the song followed her into sleep.

She sat on the lovely patio with the view full of the pretty pond and the green hills that rolled back to the blue mountains. Roses and lilies stunned the air with perfume that had the bees buzzing drunkenly and a hummingbird, bold as an emerald, darting for nectar. The sun poured strong and bright out of cloudless skies to wash everything in the golden light of fairy tales. Birds sang their hearts out in Disneyesque harmony.

“I expect to see Bambi frolicking with Thumper any minute,” Cilla commented.

“It’s how I saw it. In the good times.” Young, beautiful in a delicate white sundress, Janet sipped sparkling lemonade. “Perfect as a stage set, and ready for me to make my entrance.”

“And in the bad times?”

“An escape, a prison, a mistake, a lie.” Janet shrugged her lovely shoulders.

“But always a world away.”

“You brought that world with you. Why?”

“I needed it. I couldn’t be alone. There’s too much space when you’re alone. How do you fill it? Friends, men, sex, drugs, parties, music. Still, I could be calm here for a while. I could pretend here, pretend I was Gertrude Hamilton again. Though she died when I was six and Janet Hardy was born.”

“Did you want to be Gertrude again?”

“Of course not.” A laugh, bright and bold as the day, danced through the air. “But I liked to pretend I did. Gertrude would have been a better mother, a better wife, probably a better woman. But Gertrude wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting as Janet. Who’d remember her? And Janet? No one will ever forget her.” With her head tilted, Janet gave her signature smile – humor and knowledge with sex shimmering at the edges. “Aren’t you proof of that?”

“Maybe I am. But I see what happened to you, and what’s happened to this place, as a terrible waste. I can’t bring you back, or even know you. But I can do this.”

“Are you doing this for you or for me?”

“Both, I think.” She saw the grove, all pink and white blossoms, all fragrance and potential. And the horses grazing in green fields, gold and white etched against hills. “I don’t see it as a perfect set. I don’t need perfect. I see it as your legacy to me and, if I can bring it back, as my tribute to you. I come from you, and through my father, from this place. I want to know that, and feel it.”

“Dilly hated it here.”

“I don’t know if she did, always. But she does now.”

“She wanted Hollywood – in big, shiny letters. She was born wanting it, and lacking the talent or the grit to get it and hold it. You’re not like her, or me. Maybe …” Janet smiled as she sipped again. “Maybe you’re more like Gertrude. More like Trudy.”

“Who did you kill that night? Janet or Gertrude?”

“That’s a question.” With a smile, Janet tipped back her head and closed her eyes.

But what was the answer? Cilla wondered about that as she drove back to the farm in the morning. And why did it matter? Why ask questions of a dream anyway?

Dead was dead, after all. The project wasn’t about death, but about life. About making something for herself out of what had been left to ruin.

As she stopped to unlock the old iron gates that blocked the drive she debated having them removed. Would that be a symbol to throwing open again what had been closed off, or would it be a monumentally stupid move that left her, and the property, vulnerable? They protested when she walked them open, and left rust on her hands.

Screw symbols and stupidity, she decided. They should come down because they were a pain in the ass. After the project, she could put them back up.

Once she’d parked in front of the house, she strode up to unlock the front door, and left it wide to the morning air. She drew on her work gloves. She’d finish tackling the kitchen, she thought. And hope the plumber her father had recommended showed up.

Either way, she’d be staying. Even if she had to pitch a damn tent in the front yard.

She’d worked up her first sweat of the day when the plumber, a grizzle-cheeked man named Buddy, showed up. He made the rounds with her, listened to her plans, scratched his chin a lot. When he gave her what she thought of as a pull-it-out-of-his-ass estimate for the projected work, she countered with a bland stare.

He grinned at that, scratched some more. “I could work up something a little more formal for you. It’d be considerable less if you’re buying the fixtures and such.”

“I will be.”

“Okay then. I’ll work up an estimate for you, and we’ll see what’s what.”

“That’s fine. Meanwhile, how much to snake out the tub in the first bath upstairs? It’s not draining right.”

“Why don’t I take a look-see? Estimate’s free and I’m here for that anyway.”

She hovered, not so much because she didn’t trust him but because you could never be sure what you might learn. She learned he didn’t dawdle, and that his fee for the small task – and a quick check of the sink and john – meant he wanted the job enough that his estimate would probably come into line.

By the time Buddy climbed back into his truck, she hoped the carpenter and electrician she’d lined up for estimates worked out as well.

She dug out her notebook to tick her meeting with Buddy off her day’s to-do list. Then she hefted her sledgehammer. She was in the mood for some demo, and the rotted boards on the front porch were just the place to start.

Order a copy of Sanctuary.

ON his third day on Desire, Nathan woke in a panic. His heart was booming, his breath short and strangled, his skin iced with sweat. He shot up in bed with fists clenched, his eyes searching the murky shadows of the room. Weak sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds and built a cage on the thin gray carpet.

His mind stayed blank for an agonizing moment, trapped behind the images that crowded it. Moonlit trees, fingers of fog, a woman’s naked body, her fanning dark hair, wide, glassy eyes. Ghosts, he told himself as he rubbed his face hard with his hands. He’d expected them, and they hadn’t disappointed him. They clung to Desire like the moss clung to the live oaks.

He swung out of bed and deliberately — like a child daring sidewalk cracks—walked through the sun bars. In the narrow bathroom he stepped into the white tub, yanked the cheerfully striped curtain closed, and ran the shower hot. He washed the sweat away, imagined the panic as a dark red haze that circled and slid down the drain. The room was thick with steam when he dried off. But his mind was clear again.

He dressed in a tattered short-sleeved sweatshirt and ancient gym shorts, then with his face unshaven and his hair dripping headed into the kitchen to heat water for instant coffee. He looked around, scowled again at the carafe and drip cone the owners had provided. Even if he could have figured out the proper measuring formula, he hadn’t thought to bring coffee filters.

At that moment he would have paid a thousand dollars for a coffeemaker. He set the kettle on the front burner of a stove that was older than he was, then walked over to the living room section of the large multipurpose room to flip on the early news.

The reception was miserable, and the pickings slim. No coffeemaker, no pay-per-view, Nathan mused as he tuned in the sunrise news on one of the three available channels. He remembered how he and Kyle had whined over the lack of televised entertainment.

How are we supposed to watch The Six Million Dollar Man on this stupid thing? It’s a gyp.

It seemed to him the color scheme was different now. He had a vague recollection of soft pastels on the wide, deep chairs and straight-backed sofa. Now they were covered in bold geometric prints, deep greens and blues, sunny yellows.

The fan that dropped from the center pitch of the ceiling had squeaked. He knew, because he’d been compelled to tug on the cord, that it ran now with only a quiet hiss of blades. But it was the same long yellow-pine dining table separating the rooms — the table he and his family had gathered around to eat, to play board games, to put together eye-crossingly complex jigsaw puzzles during that summer. The same table he and Kyle had been assigned to clear after dinner. The table where his father had lingered some mornings over coffee.

He remembered when their father had shown him and Kyle how to punch holes in the lid of a jar and catch lightning bugs. The evening had been warm and soft, the hunt and chase giddy. Nathan remembered watching the jar he’d put beside his bed wink and glow, wink and glow, lulling him to sleep. But in the morning all the lightning bugs in his jar had been dead, smothered, as the book atop the lid had plugged all the holes. He still couldn’t remember putting it there, that battered copy of Johnny Tremain. The dark corpses in the bottom of the jar had left him feeling sick and guilty. He’d snuck out of the house and dumped them in the river. He chased no more lightning bugs that summer.

Irritated at the memory, Nathan turned away from the TV, went back to the stove to pour the steaming water over a spoonful of coffee. He carried the mug out onto the screened porch to look at the river.

Memories were bound to surface now that he was here, he reminded himself. That was why he’d come. To remember that summer, step by step, day by day. And to figure out what to do about the Hathaways.

He sipped coffee, winced a little at its false and bitter taste. He’d discovered that a great deal of life was false and bitter, so he drank again.

Jo Ellen Hathaway. He remembered her as a skinny, sharpelbowed girl with a sloppy ponytail and a lightning temper. He hadn’t had much use for girls at ten, so he’d paid her little attention. She’d simply been one of Brian’s little sisters. Still was, Nathan thought. And she was still skinny. Apparently her temper was still in place as well. The streaming ponytail was gone. The shorter, choppy cut suited her personality if not her face, he decided. The carelessness of it, the nod to fashion. The color of it was like the pelt of a wild deer.

He wondered why she looked so pale and tired. She didn’t seem the type to pine away over a shattered affair or relationship, but something was hurting. Her eyes were full of sorrow and secrets.

And that was the problem, Nathan thought with a half laugh. He had a weakness for sad-eyed women. Better to resist it, he told himself. Wondering what was going on behind those big, sad, bluebell eyes was bound to interfere with his purpose. What he needed was time and objectivity before he took the next step.

He sipped more coffee, told himself he’d get dressed shortly and walk to Sanctuary for a decent cup and some breakfast. It was time to go back, to observe and to plan. Time to stir more ghosts.

But for now he just wanted to stand here, look through the thin mesh of screen, feel the damp air, watch the sun slowly burn away the pearly mists that clung to the ground and skimmed like fairy wings over the river.

He could hear the ocean if he listened for it, a low, constant rumble off to the east. Closer he could identify the chirp of birds, the monotonous drumming of a woodpecker hunting insects somewhere in the shadows of the forest. Dew glistened like shards of glass on the leaves of cabbage palms and palmettos, and there was no wind to stir them and make them rattle. Whoever chose this spot for the cottage chose well, he thought. It sang of solitude, offered view and privacy. The structure itself was simple and functional. A weathered cedar box on stilts with a generous screened porch on the west end, a narrow open deck on the east. Inside, the main room had a pitched ceiling to add space and an open feel. On each end were two bedrooms and a bath.

He and Kyle had each had a room in one half. As the elder, he laid claim to the larger room. The double bed made him feel very grown-up and superior. He made a sign for the door: Please Knock Before Entering. He liked to stay up late, reading his books, thinking his thoughts, listening to the murmur of his parents’ voices or the drone of the TV. He liked to hear them laugh at something they were watching. His mother’s quick chuckle, his father’s deep belly laugh. He’d heard those sounds often throughout his childhood. It grieved him that he would never hear them again.

A movement caught his eye. Nathan turned his head, and where he’d expected a deer he saw a man, slipping along the river bank like the mist. He was tall and lanky, his hair dark as soot. Because his throat had gone dry, Nathan forced himself to lift his mug and drink again. He continued to watch as the man walked closer, as the strengthening sun slanted over his face.

Not Sam Hathaway, Nathan realized as the beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips. Brian. Twenty years had made them both men.

Brian glanced up, squinted, focused on the figure behind the screen. He’d forgotten the cottage was occupied now and made a note to himself to remember to take his walks on the opposite side of the river. Now, he supposed, he would have to make some attempt at conversation.

He lifted a hand. “Morning. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t. I was just drinking bad coffee and watching the river.”

The Yankee, Brian remembered, a six-month rental. He could all but hear Kate telling him to be polite, to be sociable. “It’s a nice spot.” Brian stuck his hands in his pockets, annoyed that he’d inadvertently sabotaged his own solitude. “You settling in all right?”

“Yeah, I’m settled.” Nathan hesitated, then took the next step. “Are you still hunting the Ghost Stallion?”

Brian blinked, cocked his head. The Ghost Stallion was a legend that stretched back to the days when wild horses had roamed the island. It was said that the greatest of these, a huge black stallion of unparalleled speed, ran the woods. Whoever caught him, leaped onto his back, and rode would have all his wishes granted. Throughout childhood it had been Brian’s deepest ambition to be the one to catch and ride the Ghost Stallion.

“I keep an eye out for him,” Brian murmured and stepped closer. “Do I know you?”

“We camped out one night, across the river, in a patched pup tent. We had a rope halter, a couple of flashlights, and a bag of Fritos. Once we thought we heard hooves pounding, and a high, wild whinny.” Nathan smiled. “Maybe we did.”

Brian’s eyes widened and the shadows in them cleared away.

“Nate? Nate Delaney? Son of a bitch!”

The screen door squeaked in welcome when Nathan pushed it open. “Come on up, Bri. I’ll fix you a cup of lousy coffee.”

Grinning, Brian climbed up the stairs. “You should have let me know you were coming, that you were here.” Brian shot out a hand, gripped Nathan’s. “My cousin Kate handles the cottages. Jesus, Nate, you look like a derelict.”

With a rueful smile, Nathan rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I’m on vacation.”

“Well, ain’t this a kick in the ass. Nate Delaney.” Brian shook his head. “What the hell have you been doing all these years? How’s Kyle, your parents?”

The smile faltered. “I’ll tell you about it.” Pieces of it, Nathan thought. “Let me make that lousy coffee first.”

“Hell, no. Come on up to the house. I’ll fix you a decent cup. Some breakfast.”

“All right. Let me get some pants and shoes on.”

“I can’t believe you’re our Yankee,” Brian commented as Nathan started inside. “Goddamn, this takes me back.”

Nathan turned back briefly. “Yeah, me too.”

A short time later Nathan was sitting at the kitchen counter of Sanctuary, breathing in the heavenly scents of coffee brewing and bacon frying. He watched Brian deftly chopping mushrooms and peppers for an omelette.

“Looks like you know what you’re doing.”

“Didn’t you read your pamphlet? My kitchen has a five-star rating.” Brian slid a mug of coffee under Nathan’s nose. “Drink, then grovel.”

Nathan sipped, closed his eyes in grateful pleasure. “I’ve been drinking sand for the last two days and that may be influencing me, but I’d say this is the best cup of coffee ever brewed in the civilized world.”

“Damn right it is. Why haven’t you come up before this?”

“I’ve been getting my bearings, being lazy.” Getting acquainted with ghosts, Nathan thought. “Now that I’ve sampled this, I’ll be a regular.”

Brian tossed his chopped vegetables into a skillet to sauté, then began grating cheese. “Wait till you get a load of my omelette. So what are you, independently wealthy that you can take six months off to sit on the beach?”

“I brought work with me. I’m an architect. As long as I have my computer and my drawing board, I can work anywhere.”

“An architect.” Whisking eggs, Brian leaned against the counter. “You any good?”

“I’d put my buildings against your coffee any day.”

“Well, then.” Chuckling, Brian turned back to the stove. With the ease of experience he poured the egg mixture, set bacon to drain, checked the biscuits he had browning in the oven. “So what’s Kyle up to? He ever get rich and famous like he wanted?”

It was a stab, hard and fast in the center of the heart. Nathan put the mug down and waited for his hands and voice to steady.

“He was working on it. He’s dead, Brian. He died a couple of months ago.”

“Jesus, Nathan.” Shocked, Brian swung around. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“He was in Europe. He’d been more or less living there the last couple of years. He was on a yacht, some party. Kyle liked to party,” Nathan murmured, rubbing his temple. “They were tooling around the Med. The verdict was he must have had too much to drink and fallen overboard. Maybe he hit his head. But he was gone.”

“That’s rough. I’m sorry.” Brian turned back to his skillet. “Losing family takes a chunk out of you.”

“Yeah, it does.” Nathan drew a deep breath, braced himself. “It happened just a few weeks after my parents were killed. Train wreck in South America. Dad was on assignment, and ever since Kyle and I hit college age, Mom traveled with him. She used to say it made them feel like newlyweds all the time.”

“Christ, Nate, I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing.” Nathan lifted his shoulders. “You get through. I figure Mom would have been lost without Dad, and I don’t know how either one of them would have handled losing Kyle. You’ve got to figure everything happens for a reason, and you get through.”

“Sometimes the reason stinks,” Brian said quietly.

“A whole hell of a lot of the time the reason stinks. Doesn’t change anything. It’s good to be back here. It’s good to see you.”

“We had some fine times that summer.”

“Some of the best of my life.” Nathan worked up a smile. “Are you going to give me that omelette, or are you going to make me beg for it?”

“No begging necessary.” Brian arranged the food on a plate. “Genuflecting afterward is encouraged.”

Nathan picked up a fork and dug in. “So, fill me in on the last two decades of the adventures of Brian Hathaway.”

“Not much of an adventure. Running the inn takes a lot of time. We get guests year-round now. Seems the more crowded and busy life in the outside world gets, the more people want to get the hell away from it. For weekends, anyhow. And when they do, we house them, feed them, entertain them.”

“It sounds like a twenty-four/seven proposition.”

“Would be, on the outside. Life still moves slower around here.”

“Wife, kids?”

“Nope. You?”

“I had a wife,” Nathan said dryly. “We gave each other up. No kids. You know, your sister checked me in. Jo Ellen.”

“Did she?” Brian brought the pot over to top off Nathan’s cup. “She just got here herself about a week ago. Lex is here, too. We’re one big happy family.”

As Brian turned away, Nathan lifted his eyebrows at the tone.

“Your dad?”

“You couldn’t dynamite him off Desire. He doesn’t even go over to the mainland for supplies anymore. You’ll see him wandering around.” He glanced over as Lexy swung through the door.

“We’ve got a couple of early birds panting for coffee,” she began. Then, spotting Nathan, she paused. Automatically she flipped back her hair, angled her head, and aimed a flirtatious smile.

“Well, kitchen company.” She strolled closer to pose against the counter and give him a whiff of the Eternity she’d rubbed on her throat from a magazine sample that morning. “You must be special if Brian’s let you into his domain.”

Nathan’s hormones did the quick, instinctive dance that made him want to laugh at both of them. A gorgeous piece of fluff was his first impression, but he revised it when he took a good look into her eyes. They were sharp and very self-aware. “He took pity on an old friend,” Nathan told her.

“Really.” She liked the rough-edged look of him, and pleased herself by basking in the easy male approval on his face. “Well, then, Brian, introduce me to your old friend. I didn’t know you had any.”

“Nathan Delaney,” Brian said shortly, going over to fetch the second pot of freshly brewed coffee. “My kid sister, Lexy.”

“Nathan.” Lexy offered a hand she’d manicured in Flame Red. “Brian still sees me in pigtails.”

“Big brother’s privilege.” It surprised Nathan to find the siren’s hand firm and capable. “Actually, I remember you in pigtails myself.”

“Do you?” Mildly disappointed that he hadn’t lingered over her hand, Lexy folded her elbows on the bar and leaned toward him. “I can’t believe I’ve forgotten you. I make it a policy to remember all the attractive men who’ve come into my life. However briefly.”

“You were barely out of diapers,” Brian put in, his voice dripping sarcasm, “and hadn’t polished your femme-fatale routine yet. Cheese and mushroom omelettes are the breakfast special,” he told her, ignoring the vicious look she shot in his direction.

She caught herself before she snarled, made her lips curve up. “Thanks, sugar.” She purred it as she took the coffeepot he thrust at her, then she fluttered her lashes at Nathan. “Don’t be a stranger. We get so few interesting men on Desire.”

Because it seemed foolish to resist the treat, and she seemed so obviously to expect it, Nathan watched her sashay out, then turned back to Brian with a slow grin. “That’s some baby sister you’ve got there, Bri.”

“She needs a good walloping. Coming on to strange men that way.”

“It was a nice side dish with my omelette.” But Nathan held up a hand as Brian’s eyes went hot. “Don’t worry about me, pal. That kind of heartthrob means major headaches. I’ve got enough problems. You can bet your ass I’ll look, but I don’t plan to touch.”

“None of my business,” Brian muttered. “She’s bound and determined not just to look for trouble but to find it.”

“Women who look like that usually slide their way out of it too.” He swiveled when the door opened again. This time it was Jo who walked through it. And women who look like that, Nathan thought, don’t slide out of trouble. They punch their way out.

He wondered why he preferred that kind of woman, and that kind of method.

Jo stopped when she saw him. Her brows drew together before she deliberately smoothed her forehead. “You look right at home, Mr. Delaney.”

“Feeling that way, Miss Hathaway.”

“Well, that’s pretty formal,” Brian commented as he reached for a clean mug, “for a guy who pushed her into the river, then got a bloody lip for his trouble when he tried to fish her out again.”

“I didn’t push her in.” Nathan smiled slowly as he watched Jo’s brows knit again. “She slipped. But she did bloody my lip and call me a Yankee pig bastard, as I recall.”

The memory circled around her mind, nearly skipped away, then popped clear. Hot summer afternoon, the shock of cool water, head going under. And coming up swinging. “You’re Mr. David’s boy.” The warmth spread in her stomach and up to her heart. For a moment her eyes reflected it and made his pulse trip.

“Which one?”

“Nathan, the older.”

“Of course.” She skimmed her hair back, not with the studied seductiveness of her sister but with absentminded impatience. “And you did push me. I never fell in the river unless I wanted to or was helped along.”

“You slipped,” Nathan corrected, “then I helped you along.”

She laughed, a quick, rich chuckle, then took the mug Brian offered. “I suppose I can let bygones be, since I gave you a fat lip—and your father gave me the world.”

Nathan’s head began to throb, fast and vicious. “My father?”

“I dogged him like a shadow, pestered him mercilessly about how he took pictures, why he took the ones he did, how the camera worked. He was so patient with me. I must have been driving him crazy, interrupting his work that way, but he never shooed me away. He taught me so much, not just the basics but how to look and how to see. I suppose I owe him for every photograph I’ve ever taken.”

The breakfast he’d just eaten churned greasily in his stomach.

“You’re a professional photographer?”

“Jo’s a big-deal photographer,” Lexy said with a bite in her voice as she came back in. “The globe-trotting J. E. Hathaway, snapping her pictures of other people’s lives as she goes. Two omelettes, Brian, two sides of hash browns, one bacon, one sausage. Room 201’s having breakfast, Miss World Traveler. You’ve got beds to strip.”

“Exit, stage left,” Jo murmured when Lexy strode out again.

“Yes,” she said, turning back to Nathan. “Thanks in large part to David Delaney, I’m a photographer. If it hadn’t been for Mr. David, I might be as frustrated and pissed off at the world as Lexy. How is your father?”

“He’s dead,” Nathan said shortly and pushed himself up from the stool. “I’ve got to get back. Thanks for breakfast, Brian.”

He went out fast, letting the screen door slam behind him.

“Dead? Bri?”

“An accident,” Brian told her. “About three months ago. Both his parents. And he lost his brother about a month later.”

“Oh, God.” Jo ran a hand over her face. “I put my foot in that. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She set the mug down and raced out the door to chase Nathan down. “Nathan! Nathan, wait a minute.” She caught him on the shell path that wound through the garden toward the trees. “I’m sorry.” She put a hand on his arm to stop him. “I’m so sorry I went on that way.”

He pulled himself in, fought to think clearly over the pounding in his temples. “It’s all right. I’m still a little raw there.”

“If I’d known—” She broke off, shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

She’d likely have put her foot in it anyway, she decided. She’d always been socially clumsy.

“You didn’t.” Nathan clamped down on his own nerves and gave the hand still on his arm a light squeeze. She looked so distressed, he thought. And she’d done nothing more than accidentally scrape an open wound. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I’d managed to keep in touch with him.” Her voice went wistful now. “I wish I’d made more of an effort so I could have thanked him for everything he did for me.”

“Don’t.” He bit the word off, swung around to her with his eyes fierce and cold. “Thanking someone for where your life ended up is the same as blaming them for it. We’re all responsible for ourselves.”

Uneasy, she backed off a step. “True enough, but some people influence what roads we take.”

“Funny, then, that we’re both back here, isn’t it?” He stared beyond her to Sanctuary, where the windows glinted in the sun. “Why are you back here, Jo?”

“It’s my home.”

He looked back at her, pale cheeks, bruised eyes. “And that’s where you come when you feel beat up and lost and unhappy?”

She folded her arms across her chest as if chilled. She, usually the observer, didn’t care to be observed quite so clear-sightedly.

“It’s just where you go.”

“It seems we decided to come here at almost the same time. Fate? I wonder—or luck.” He smiled a little because he was going to go with the latter.

“Coincidence.” She preferred it. “Why are you back here?”

“Damned if I know.” He exhaled between his teeth, then looked at her again. He wanted to soothe that sorrow and worry from her eyes, hear that laugh again. He was suddenly very certain it would ease his soul as much as hers. “But since I am, why don’t you walk me back to the cottage?”

“You know the way.”

“It’d be a nicer walk with company. With you.”

“I told you I’m not interested.”

“I’m telling you I am.” His smile deepened as he reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’ll be fun seeing who nudges who to the other side.”

Men didn’t flirt with her. Ever. Or not that she had ever noticed. The fact that he was doing just that, and she noticed, only irritated her. The inherent Pendleton Fault Line dug between her brows. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Right. Bed stripping in 201. See you around, Jo Ellen.”

Because he turned away first, she had the opportunity to watch him walk into the trees. Deliberately she shook her hair so that it fell over her ears again. Then she rolled her shoulders as if shrugging off an unwelcome touch. But she was forced to admit she was already more interested than she wanted to be.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Sanctuary.

THE ferry steamed across Pelican Sound, heading east to Lost Desire. Nathan Delaney stood at the starboard rail as he had once before as a ten-year-old boy. It wasn’t the same ferry, and he was no longer a boy, but he wanted to re-create the moment as closely as possible.

It was cool with the breeze off the water, and the scent of it was raw and mysterious. It had been warmer before, but then it had been late May rather than mid-April.

Close enough, he thought, remembering how he and his parents and his young brother had all crowded together at the starboard rail of another ferry, eager for their first glimpse of Desire and the start of their island summer.

He could see little difference. Spearing up from the land were the majestic live oaks with their lacy moss, cabbage palms, and glossy-leaved magnolias not yet in bloom.

Had they been blooming then? A young boy eager for adventure paid little attention to flowers.

He lifted the binoculars that hung around his neck. His father had helped him aim and focus on that long-ago morning so that he could catch the quick dart of a woodpecker. The expected tussle had followed because Kyle had demanded the binoculars and Nathan hadn’t wanted to give them up.

He remembered his mother laughing at them, and his father bending down to tickle Kyle to distract him. In his mind, Nathan could see the picture they had made. The pretty woman with her hair blowing, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement and excitement. The two young boys, sturdy and scrubbed, squabbling. And the man, tall and dark, long of leg and rangy of build.

Now, Nathan thought, he was the only one left. Somehow he had grown up into his father’s body, had gone from sturdy boy to a man with long legs and narrow hips. He could look in a mirror and see reflections of his father’s face in the hollow cheeks and dark gray eyes. But he had his mother’s mouth, firmly ridged, and her deep brown hair with hints of gold and red. His father had said it was like aged mahogany. Nathan wondered if children were really just montages of their parents. And he shuddered.

Without the binoculars he watched the island take shape. He could see the wash of color from wildflowers—pinks and violets from lupine and wood sorrel. A scatter of houses was visible, a few straight or winding roads, the flash of a creek that disappeared into the trees. Mystery was added by the dark shadows of the forest where feral pigs and horses had once lived, the gleam of the marshes and the blades of waving grasses gold and green in the streaming morning sunlight.

It was all hazed with distance, like a dream.

Then he saw the gleam of white on a rise, the quick wink that was sun shooting off glass. Sanctuary, he thought, and kept it in his sights until the ferry turned toward the dock and the house was lost from view.

Nathan turned from the rail and walked back to his Jeep. When he was settled inside with only the hum of the ferry’s engines for company, he wondered if he was crazy coming back here, exploring the past, in some ways repeating it. He’d left New York, packed everything that mattered into the Jeep. It was surprisingly little. Then again, he’d never had a deepseated need for things. That had made his life simpler through the divorce two years before. Maureen had been the collector, and it saved them both a great deal of time and temper when he offered to let her strip the West Side apartment. Christ knew she’d taken him up on it and had left him with little more than his own clothes and a mattress. That chapter of his life was over, and for nearly two years now he’d devoted himself to his work. Designing buildings was as much a passion as a career for him, and with New York as no more than a home base, he had traveled, studying sites, working wherever he could set up his drawing board and computer.

He’d given himself the gift of time to study other buildings, explore the art of them, from the great cathedrals in Italy and France to the streamlined desert homes in the American Southwest.

He’d been free, his work the only demand on his time and on his heart. Then he had lost his parents, suddenly, irrevocably. And had lost himself. He wondered why he felt he could find the pieces on Desire.

But he was committed to staying at least six months. Nathan took it as a good sign that he’d been able to book the same cottage his family had lived in during that summer. He knew he would listen for the echo of their voices and would hear them with a man’s ear. He would see their ghosts with a man’s eyes. And he would return to Sanctuary with a man’s purpose.

Would they remember him? The children of Annabelle? He would soon find out, he decided, when the ferry bumped up to the dock.

He waited his turn, watching as the blocks were removed from the tires of the pickup ahead of him. A family of five, he noted, and from the gear he could see that they would be camping at the facility the island provided. Nathan shook his head, wondering why anyone would choose to sleep in a tent on the ground and consider it a vacation.

The light dimmed as clouds rolled over the sun. Frowning, he noted that they were coming in fast, flying in from the east. Rain could come quickly to barrier islands, he knew. He remembered it falling in torrents for three endless days when he’d been there before. By day two he and Kyle had been at each other’s throats like young wolves.

It made him smile now and wonder how in God’s name his mother had tolerated it.

He drove slowly off the ferry, then up the bumpy, pitted road leading away from the dock. With his windows open he could hear the cheerfully blaring rock and roll screaming out of the truck’s radio. Camper Family, he thought, was already having a great time, impending rain or not. He was determined to follow their example and enjoy the morning.

He would have to face Sanctuary, of course, but he would approach it as an architect. He remembered that its heart was a glorious example of the Colonial style—wide verandas, stately columns, tall, narrow windows. Even as a child he’d been interested enough to note some of the details.

Gargoyle rainspouts, he recalled, that personalized rather than detracted from the grand style. He’d scared the piss out of Kyle by telling him they came alive at night and prowled. There was a turret, with a widow’s walk circling it. Balconies jutting out with ornate railings of stone or iron. The chimneys were soft-hued stones mined from the mainland, the house itself fashioned of local cypress and oak.

There was a smokehouse that had still been in use, and slave quarters that had been falling to ruin, where he and Brian and Kyle had found a rattler curled in a dark corner.

There were deer in the forest and alligators in the marshes. Whispers of pirates and ghosts filled the air. It was a fine place for young boys and grand adventures. And for dark and dangerous secrets.

He passed the western marshlands with their busy mud and thin islands of trees. The wind had picked up, sending the cordgrass rippling. Along the edge two egrets were on patrol, their long legs like stilts in the shallow water.

Then the forest took over, lush and exotic. Nathan slowed, letting the truck ahead of him rattle out of sight. Here was stillness, and those dark secrets. His heart began to pound uncomfortably, and his hands tightened on the wheel. This was something he’d come to face, to dissect, and eventually to understand.

The shadows were thick, and the moss dripped from the trees like webs of monstrous spiders. To test himself he turned off the engine. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat and the voice of the wind.

Ghosts, he thought. He would have to look for them there. And when he found them, what then? Would he leave them where they drifted, night after night, or would they continue to haunt him, muttering to him in his sleep?

Would he see his mother’s face, or Annabelle’s? And which one would cry out the loudest?

He let out a long breath, caught himself reaching for the cigarettes he’d given up over a year before. Annoyed, he turned the ignition key but got only a straining rumble in return. He pumped the gas, tried it again with the same results.

“Well, shit,” he muttered. “That’s perfect.”

Sitting back, he tapped his fingers restlessly on the wheel. The thing to do, of course, was to get out and look under the hood.

He knew what he would see. An engine. Wires and tubes and belts. Nathan figured he knew as much about engines and wires and tubes as he did about brain surgery. And being broken down on a deserted road was exactly what he deserved for letting himself be talked into buying a friend’s secondhand Jeep.

Resigned, he climbed out and popped the hood. Yep, he thought, just as he’d suspected. An engine. He leaned in, poked at it, and felt the first fat drop of rain hit his back.

“Now it’s even more perfect.” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and scowled, continued to scowl while the rain pattered on his head.

He should have known something was up when his friend had cheerfully tossed in a box of tools along with the Jeep.

Nathan considered hauling them out and beating on the engine with a wrench. It was unlikely to work, but it would at least be satisfying.

He stepped back, then froze as the ghost stepped out of the forest shadows and watched him.

Annabelle.

The name swam through his mind, and his gut clenched in defense. She stood in the rain, still as a doe, her smoky red hair damp and tangled, those big blue eyes quiet and sad. His knees threatened to give way, and he braced a hand on the fender.

Then she moved, pushed back her wet hair. And started toward him. He saw then that it was no ghost, but a woman. It was not Annabelle, but, he was sure, it was Annabelle’s daughter.

He let out the breath he’d been holding until his heart settled again.

“Car trouble?” Jo tried to keep her voice light. The way he was staring at her made her wish she’d stayed in the trees and let him fend for himself. “I take it you’re not standing here in the rain taking in the sights.”

“No.” It pleased him that his voice was normal. If there was an edge to it, the situation was cause enough to explain it. “It won’t start.”

“Well, that’s a problem.” He looked vaguely familiar, she thought. A good face, strong and bony and male. Interesting eyes as well, she mused, pure gray and very direct. If she were inclined to portrait photography, he’d have been a fine subject.

“Did you find the trouble?”

Her voice was honey over cream, gorgeously southern. It helped him relax. “I found the engine,” he said and smiled. “Just where I suspected it would be.”

“Uh-huh. And now?”

“I’m deciding how long I should look at it and pretend I know what I’m looking at before I get back in out of the rain.”

“You don’t know how to fix your car?” she asked, with such obvious surprise that he bristled.

“No, I don’t. I also own shoes and don’t have a clue how to tan leather.” He started to yank down the hood, but she raised a hand to hold it open.

“I’ll take a look.”

“What are you, a mechanic?”

“No, but I know the basics.” Elbowing him aside, she checked the battery connections first. “These look all right, but you’re going to want to keep an eye on them for corrosion if you’re spending any time on Desire.”

“Six months or so.” He leaned in with her. “What am I keeping my eye on?”

“These. Moisture can play hell with engines around here. You’re crowding me.”

“Sorry.” He shifted his position. Obviously she didn’t remember him, and he decided to pretend he didn’t remember her. “You live on the island?”

“Not anymore.” To keep from bumping it on the Jeep, Jo moved the camera slung around her neck to her back. Nate stared at it, felt the low jolt. It was a high-end Nikon. Compact, quieter and more rugged than other designs, it was often a professional’s choice. His father had had one. He had one himself.

“Been out taking pictures in the rain?”

“Wasn’t raining when I left,” she said absently. “Your fan belt’s going to need replacing before long, but that’s not your problem now.” She straightened, and though the skies had opened wide, seemed oblivious to the downpour. “Get in and try it so I can hear what she sounds like.”

“You’re the boss.”

Her lips twitched as he turned and climbed back into the Jeep. No doubt his male ego was dented, she decided. She cocked her head as the engine groaned. Lips pursed, she leaned back under the hood. “Again!” she called out to him, muttering to herself.

“Carburetor.”

“What?”

“Carburetor,” she repeated and opened the little metal door with her thumb. “Turn her over again.”

This time the engine roared to life. With a satisfied nod, she shut the hood and walked around to the driver’s side window.

“It’s sticking closed, that’s all. You’re going to want to have it looked at. From the sound of it, you need a tune-up anyway. When’s the last time you had it in?”

“I just bought it a couple of weeks ago. From a former friend.”

“Ah. Always a mistake. Well, it should get you where you’re going now.”

When she started to step back, he reached through the window for her hand. It was narrow, he noted, long, both elegant and competent. “Listen, let me give you a lift. It’s pouring, and it’s the least I can do.”

“It’s not necessary. I can—”

“I could break down again.” He shot her a smile, charming, easy, persuasive. “Who’ll fix my carburetor?”

It was foolish to refuse, she knew. More foolish to feel trapped just because he had her hand. She shrugged. “All right, then.”

She gave her hand a little tug, was relieved when he immediately released it. She jogged around the Jeep and climbed dripping into the passenger seat.

“Well, the interior’s in good shape.”

“My former friend knows me too well.” Nathan turned on the wipers and looked at Jo. “Where to?”

“Up this road, then bear right at the first fork. Sanctuary isn’t far—but then nothing is on Desire.”

“That’s handy. I’m heading to Sanctuary myself.”

“Oh?” The air in the cab was thick and heavy. The driving rain seemed to cut them off from everything, misting out the trees, muffling all the sound. Reason enough to be uncomfortable, she told herself, but she was sufficiently annoyed with her reaction to angle her head and meet his eyes directly. “Are you staying at the big house?”

“No, just picking up keys for the cottage I’m renting.”

“For six months, you said?” It relieved her when he began to drive, turned those intense gray eyes away from her face and focused on the road. “That’s a long vacation.”

“I brought work with me. I wanted a change of scene for a while.”

“Desire’s a long way from home,” she said, then smiled a little when he glanced at her. “Anyone from Georgia can spot a Yankee. Even if you keep your mouth shut, you move differently.”

She pushed her wet hair back. If she’d walked, Jo thought, she’d have been spared making conversation. But talk was better than the heavy, rain-drenched silence. “You’ve got Little Desire Cottage, by the river.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, everybody knows everything around here. But my family rents the cottages, runs them and the inn, the restaurant. As it happens I was assigned Little Desire, stocked the linens and so forth just yesterday for the Yankee who’s coming to stay for six months.”

“So you’re my mechanic, landlord, and housekeeper. I’m a lucky man. Who exactly do I call if my sink backs up?”

“You open the closet and take out the plunger. If you need instructions for use, I’ll write them down for you. Here’s the fork.”

Nathan bore right and climbed. “Let’s try that again. If I wanted to grill a couple of steaks, chill a bottle of wine, and invite you to dinner, who would I call?”

Jo turned her head and gave him a cool look. “You’d have better luck with my sister. Her name is Alexa.”

“Does she fix carburetors?”

With a half laugh, Jo shook her head. “No, but she’s very decorative and enjoys invitations from men.”

“And you don’t?”

“Let’s just say I’m more selective than Lexy.”

“Ouch.” Whistling, Nathan rubbed a hand over his heart. “Di-rect hit.”

“Just saving us both some time. There’s Sanctuary,” she murmured. He watched it appear through the curtain of rain, swim out of the thin mists that curled at its base. It was old and grand, as elegant as a Southern Belle dressed for company. Definitely feminine, Nate thought, with those fluid lines all in virginal white. Tall windows were softened by arched trim, and pretty ironwork adorned balconies where flowers bloomed out of clay pots of soft red. Her gardens glowed, the blooms heavy-headed with rain, like bowing fairies at her feet.

“Stunning,” Nathan said, half to himself. “The more recent additions blend perfectly with the original structure. Accent rather than modernize. It’s a masterful harmony of styles, classically southern without being typical. It couldn’t be more perfect if the island had been designed for it rather than it being designed for the island.”

Nathan stopped at the end of the drive before he noticed that Jo was staring at him. For the first time there was curiosity in her eyes.

“I’m an architect,” he explained. “Buildings like this grab me right by the throat.”

“Well, then, you’ll probably want a tour of the inside.”

“I’d love one, and I’d owe you at least one steak dinner for that.”

“You’ll want my cousin Kate to show you around. She’s a Pendleton,” Jo added as she opened her door.
“Sanctuary came down through the Pendletons. She knows it best. Come inside. You can dry off some and pick up the keys.”

She hurried up the steps, paused on the veranda to shake her head and scatter rain from her hair. She waited until he stepped up beside her.

“Jesus, look at this door.” Reverently, Nathan ran his fingertips over the rich, carved wood. Odd that he’d forgotten it, he thought. But then, he had usually raced in through the screened porch and through the kitchen.

“Honduran mahogany,” Jo told him. “Imported in the early eighteen-hundreds, long before anyone worried about depleting the rain forests. But it is beautiful.” She turned the heavy brass handle and stepped with him into Sanctuary.

“The floors are heart of pine,” she began and blocked out an unbidden image of her mother patiently paste-waxing them. “As are the main stairs, and the banister is oak carved and constructed here on Desire when it was a plantation, dealing mostly in Sea Island cotton. The chandelier is more recent, an addition purchased in France by the wife of Stewart Pendleton, the shipping tycoon who rebuilt the main house and added the wings. A great deal of the furniture was lost during the War Between the States, but Stewart and his wife traveled extensively and selected antiques that suited them and Sanctuary.”

“He had a good eye,” Nathan commented, scanning the wide, high-ceilinged foyer with its fluid sweep of glossy stairs, its glittering fountain of crystal light.

“And a deep pocket,” Jo put in. Telling herself to be patient, she stood where she was and let him wander.

The walls were a soft, pale yellow that would give the illusion of cool during those viciously hot summer afternoons. They were trimmed in dark wood that added richness with carved moldings framing the high plaster ceiling.

The furnishings here were heavy and large in scale, as befitted a grand entranceway. A pair of George II armchairs with shellshaped backs flanked a hexagonal credence table that held a towering brass urn filled with sweetly scented lilies and wild grasses.

Though he didn’t collect antiques himself—or anything else, for that matter—he was a man who studied all aspects of buildings, including what went inside them. He recognized the Flemish cabinet-on-stand in carved oak, the giltwood pier mirror over a marquetry candle stand, the delicacy of Queen Anne and the flash of Louis XIV. And he found the mix of periods and styles inspired.

“Incredible.” His hands tucked in his back pockets, he turned back to Jo. “Hell of a place to live, I’d say.”

“In more ways than one.” Her voice was dry, and just a little bitter. It had him lifting a brow in question, but she added nothing more. “We do registration in the front parlor.”

She turned down the hallway, stepped into the first room on the right. Someone had started a fire, she observed, probably in anticipation of the Yankee, and to keep the guests at the inn cheerful on a rainy day if they wandered through.

She went to the huge old Chippendale writing desk and opened the top side drawer, flipped through the paperwork for the rental cottages. Upstairs in the family wing was an office with a workaday file cabinet and a computer Kate was still struggling to learn about. But guests were never subjected to such drearily ordinary details.

“Little Desire Cottage,” Jo announced, sliding the contract free. She noted it had already been stamped to indicate receipt of the deposit and signed by both Kate and one Nathan Delaney. Jo laid the paperwork aside and opened another drawer to take out the keys jingling from a metal clip that held the cottage name. “This one is for both the front and the rear doors, and the smaller one is for the storage room under the cottage. I wouldn’t store anything important in there if I were you. Flooding is a hazard that near the river.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“I took care of setting up the telephone yesterday. All calls will be billed directly to the cottage and added to your bill monthly.”

She opened another drawer and took out a slim folder. “You’ll find the usual information and answers in this packet. The ferry schedule, tide information, how to rent fishing or boating gear if you want it. There’s a pamphlet that describes the island—history, flora and fauna— Why are you staring at me like that?” she demanded.

“You’ve got gorgeous eyes. It’s hard not to look at them.”

She shoved the folder into his hands. “You’d be better off looking at what’s in here.”

“All right.” Nathan opened it, began to page through. “Are you always this jittery, or do I bring that out in you?”

“I’m not jittery, I’m impatient. Not all of us are on vacation. Do you have any questions—that pertain to the cottage or the island?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Directions to your cottage are in the folder. If you’d just initial the contract here, to confirm receipt of the keys and information, you can be on your way.”

He smiled again, intrigued at how rapidly her southern hospitality was thinning. “I wouldn’t want to wear out my welcome,” he said, taking the pen she offered him. “Since I intend to come back.”

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are served in the inn’s dining room. The service hours are also listed in your folder. Box lunches are available for picnics.”

The more she talked, the more he enjoyed hearing her voice. She smelled of rain and nothing else and looked—when you looked into those lovely blue eyes—as sad as a bird with a broken wing.

“Do you like picnics?” he asked her.

She let out a long sigh, snatched the pen back from him, and scrawled her initials under his. “You’re wasting your time flirting with me, Mr. Delaney. I’m just not interested.”

“Any sensible woman knows that a statement like that only presents a challenge.” He bent down to read her initials, “J.E.H.”

“Jo Ellen Hathaway,” she told him in hopes of hurrying him along.

“It’s been a pleasure being rescued by you, Jo Ellen.” He offered a hand, amused when she hesitated before clasping it with hers.

“Try Zeke Fitzsimmons about that tune-up. He’ll get the Jeep running smoothly for you. Enjoy your stay on Desire.”

“It’s already started on a higher note than I’d expected.”

“Then your expectations must have been very low.” She slid her hand free and led the way back to the front door. “The rain’s let up,” she commented, as she opened the door to moist air and mist. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding the cottage.”

“No.” He remembered the way perfectly. “I’m sure I won’t. I’ll see you again, Jo Ellen.” Will have to, he thought, for a number of reasons.

She inclined her head, shut the door quietly, and left him standing on the veranda wondering what to do next.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Sanctuary.

Brian stood in the doorway of the west terrace and studied his sister. She looked frail, he noted, skittish. Lost somehow, he thought, amid the sunlight and flowers. She still wore the baggy trousers and oversized lightweight sweater that she’d arrived in, and had added a pair of round wire-framed sunglasses. Brian imagined that Jo wore just such a uniform when she hunted her photographs, but at the moment it served only to add to the overall impression of an invalid.

Yet she’d always been the tough one, he remembered. Even as a child she’d insisted on doing everything herself, on finding the answers, solving the puzzles, fighting the fights. She’d been fearless, climbing higher in any tree, swimming farther beyond the waves, running faster through the forest. Just to prove she could, Brian mused. It seemed to him Jo Ellen had always had something to prove.

And after their mother had gone, Jo had seemed hell-bent on proving she needed no one and nothing but herself.

Well, Brian decided, she needed something now. He stepped out, saying nothing as she turned her head and looked at him from behind the tinted lenses. Then he sat down on the glider beside her and put the plate he’d brought out in her lap.

“Eat,” was all he said.

Jo looked down at the fried chicken, the fresh slaw, the golden biscuit. “Is this the lunch special?”

“Most of the guests went for the box lunch today. Too nice to eat inside.”

“Cousin Kate said you’ve been busy.”

“Busy enough.” Out of habit, he pushed off with his foot and set the glider in motion. “What are you doing here, Jo?”

“Seemed like the thing to do at the time.” She lifted a drumstick, bit in. Her stomach did a quick pitch and roll as if debating whether to accept food. Jo persisted and swallowed. “I’ll do my share, and I won’t get in your way.”

Brian listened to the squeak of the glider for a moment, thought about oiling the hinges. “I haven’t said you were in my way, as I recollect,” he said mildly.

“In Lexy’s way, then.” Jo took another bite of chicken, scowled at the soft-pink ivy geraniums spilling over the edges of a concrete jardiniere carved with chubby cherubs. “You can tell her I’m not here to cramp her style.”

“Tell her yourself.” Brian opened the thermos he’d brought along and poured freshly squeezed lemonade into the lid. “I’m not stepping between the two of you so I can get my ass kicked from both sides.”

“Fine, stay out of it, then.” Her head was beginning to ache, but she took the cup and sipped. “I don’t know why the hell she resents me so much.”

“Can’t imagine.” Brian drawled it before he lifted the thermos and drank straight from the lip. “You’re successful, famous, financially independent, a rising star in your field. All the things she wants for herself.” He picked up the biscuit and broke it in half, handing a portion to Jo as the steam burst out. “I can’t think why that’d put her nose out of joint.”

“I did it by myself for myself. I didn’t work my butt off to get to this point to show her up.”Without thinking, she stuffed a bite of biscuit in her mouth. “It’s not my fault she’s got some childish fantasy about seeing her name in lights and having people throw roses at her feet.”

“Your seeing it as childish doesn’t make the desire any less real for her.” He held up a hand before Jo could speak. “And I’m not getting in the middle. The two of you are welcome to rip the hide off each other in your own good time. But I’d say right now she could take you without breaking a sweat.”

“I don’t want to fight with her,” Jo said wearily. She could smell the wisteria that rioted over the nearby arched iron trellis — another vivid memory of childhood. “I didn’t come here to fight with anyone.”

“That’ll be a change.”

That lured a ghost of a smile to her lips. “Maybe I’ve mellowed.”

“Miracles happen. Eat your slaw.”

“I don’t remember you being so bossy.”

“I’ve cut back on mellow.”

With what passed as a chuckle, Jo picked up her fork and poked at the slaw. “Tell me what’s new around here, Bri, and what’s the same.” Bring me home, she thought, but couldn’t say it. Bring me back.

“Let’s see, Giff Verdon built on another room to the Verdon cottage.”

“Stop the presses.” Then Jo’s brow furrowed. “Young Giff, the scrawny kid with the cowlick. The one who was always mooning over Lex?”

“That’s the one. Filled out some, Giff has, and he’s right handy with a hammer and saw. Does all our repair work now. Still moons over Lexy, but I’d say he knows what he wants to do about it now.”

Jo snorted and, without thinking, shoveled in more slaw.

“She’ll eat him alive.”

Brian shrugged. “Maybe, but I think she’ll find him tougher to chew up than she might expect. The Sanders girl, Rachel, she got herself engaged to some college boy in Atlanta. Going to move there come September.”

“Rachel Sanders.” Jo tried to conjure up a mental image. “Was she the one with the lisp or the one with the giggle?”

“The giggle—sharp enough to make the ears bleed.” Satisfied that Jo was eating, Brian stretched an arm over the back of the glider and relaxed. “Old Mrs. Fitzsimmons passed on more than a year back.”

“Old Mrs. Fitzsimmons,” Jo murmured. “She used to shuck oysters on her porch, with that lazy hound of hers sleeping at her feet beside the rocker.”

“The hound passed, too, right after. Guess he didn’t see much point in living without her.”

“She let me take pictures of her,” Jo remembered. “When I was a kid, just learning. I still have them. A couple weren’t bad. Mr. David helped me develop them. I must have been such a pest, but she just sat there in her rocker and let me practice on her.”

Sitting back, Jo fell into the rhythm of the glider, as slow and monotonous as the rhythm of the island. “I hope it was quick and painless.”

“She died in her sleep at the ripe old age of ninety-six. Can’t do much better than that.”

“No.” Jo closed her eyes, the food forgotten. “What was done with her cottage?”

“Passed down. The Pendletons bought most of the Fitzsimmons land back in 1923, but she owned her house and the little spit of land it sits on. Went to her granddaughter.”

Brian lifted the thermos again, drank deeply this time. “A doctor. She’s set up a practice here on the island.”

“We have a doctor on Desire?” Jo opened her eyes, lifted her brows. “Well, well. How civilized. Are people actually going to her?”

“Seems they are, little by little, anyway. She’s dug her toes in.”

“She must be the first new permanent resident here in what, ten years?”

“Thereabouts.”

“I can’t imagine why . . .” Jo trailed off as it struck her. “It’s not Kirby, is it? Kirby Fitzsimmons? She spent summers here a couple of years running when we were kids.”

“I guess she liked it well enough to come back.”

“I’ll be damned. Kirby Fitzsimmons, and a doctor, of all things.” Pleasure bloomed, a surprising sensation she nearly didn’t recognize. “We used to pal around together some. I remember the summer Mr. David came to take photographs of the island and brought his family.”

It cheered her to think of it, the young friend with the quick northern voice, the adventures they’d shared or imagined together. “You would run off with his boys and wouldn’t give me the time of day,” Jo continued. “When I wasn’t pestering Mr. David to let me take pictures with his camera, I’d go off with Kirby and look for trouble. Christ, that was twenty years ago if it was a day. It was the summer that . . .”

Brian nodded, then finished the thought. “The summer that Mama left.”

“It’s all out of focus,” Jo murmured, and the pleasure died out of her voice. “Hot sun, long days, steamy nights so full of sound. All the faces.” She slipped her fingers under her glasses to rub at her eyes. “Getting up at sunrise so I could follow Mr. David around. Bolting down cold ham sandwiches and cooling off in the river. Mama dug out that old camera for me—that ancient box Brownie—and I would run over to the Fitzsimmons cottage and take pictures until Mrs. Fitzsimmons told Kirby and me to scoot. There were hours and hours, so many hours, until the sun went down and Mama called us home for supper.”

She closed her eyes tight. “So much, so many images, yet I can’t bring any one of them really clear. Then she was gone. One morning I woke up ready to do all the things a long summer day called for, and she was just gone. And there was nothing to do at all.”

“Summer was over,” Brian said quietly. “For all of us.”

“Yeah.” Her hands had gone trembly again. Jo reached in her pockets for cigarettes. “Do you ever think about her?”

“Why would I?”

“Don’t you ever wonder where she went? What she did?” Jo took a jerky drag. In her mind she saw long-lidded eyes empty of life. “Or why?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with me.” Brian rose, took the plate. “Or you. Or any of us anymore. It’s twenty years past that summer, Jo Ellen, and a little late to worry about it now.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again when Brian turned and walked back into the house. But she was worried about it, she thought. And she was terrified.

LEXY was still steaming as she climbed over the dunes toward the beach. Jo had come back, she was sure, to flaunt her success and her snazzy life. And the fact that she’d arrived at Sanctuary hard on
the heels of Lexy’s own failure didn’t strike Lexy as coincidence. Jo would flap her wings and crow in triumph, while Lexy would have to settle for eating crow. The thought of it made her blood boil as she raced along the tramped-down sand through the dunes, sending sand flying from her sandals. Not this time, she promised herself. This time she would hold her head up, refuse to be cast as inferior in the face of Jo’s latest triumph, latest trip, latest wonder. She wasn’t going to play the hotshot’s baby sister any longer. She’d outgrown that role, Lexy assured herself. And it was high time everyone realized it.

There was a scattering of people on the wide crescent of beach. They had staked their claims with their blankets and colorful umbrellas. She noted several with the brightly striped box lunches from Sanctuary.

The scents of sea and lotions and fried chicken assaulted her nostrils. A toddler shoveled sand into a red bucket while his mother read a paperback novel in the shade of a portable awning. A man was slowly turning into a lobster under the merciless sun.

Two couples she had served that morning were sharing a picnic and laughing together over the clever voice of Annie Lennox on their portable stereo.

She didn’t want them—any of them—to be there. On her beach, in her personal crisis. To dismiss them, she turned and walked away from the temporary development, down the curve of beach.

She saw the figure out in the water, the gleam of tanned, wet shoulders, the glint of sun-bleached hair. Giff was a reliable creature of habit, she thought, and he was just exactly what the doctor called for. He invariably took a quick swim during his afternoon break. And, Lexy knew, he had his eye on her.
He hadn’t made a secret of it, she mused, and she wasn’t one to resent the attentions of an attractive man. Particularly when she needed her ego soothed. She thought a little flirtation, and the possibility of mindless sex, might put the day back on track.

People said her mother had been a flirt. Lexy hadn’t been old enough to remember anything more than vague images and soft scents when it came to Annabelle, but she believed she’d come by her skill at flirtation naturally. Her mother had enjoyed looking her best, smiling at men. And if the theory of a secret lover was fact, Annabelle had done more than smile at at least one man.

In any case, that’s what the police had concluded after months of investigation.

Lexy thought she was good at sex; she had been told so often enough to consider it a fine personal skill. As far as she was concerned, there was little else that compared to it for shouldering
away tension and being the focus of someone’s complete attention.

And she liked it, all the hot, slick sensations that went with it. It hardly mattered that most men didn’t have a clue whether a woman was thinking about them or the latest Hollywood pretty boy while it was going on. As long as she performed well and remembered the right lines. Lexy considered herself born to perform. And she decided it was time to open that velvet curtain for Giff Verdon.

She dropped the towel she’d brought with her onto the packed sand. She didn’t have a doubt that he was watching her. Men did. As if onstage, Lexy put her heart into the performance. Standing near the edge of the water, she slipped off her sunglasses, let them fall heedlessly onto the towel. Slowly, she stepped out of her sandals, then, taking the hem of the shortskirted sundress she wore, she lifted it, making the movements a lazy striptease. The bikini underneath covered little more than a stripper’s G-string and pasties would have.

Dropping the thin cotton, she shook her head, skimmed her hair back with both hands, then walked with a siren’s swagger of hips into the sea.

Giff let the next wave roll over him. He knew that every movement, every gesture Lexy made was deliberate. It didn’t seem to make any difference. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, couldn’t prevent his body from going tight and hard and needy as she stood there, all luscious curves and pale gold skin, with her hair spiraling down like sun-kissed flames.

As she walked into the water, and it moved up her body, he imagined what it would be like to rock himself inside her to the rhythm of the waves. She was watching him too, he noted, her eyes picking up the green of the sea, and laughing.

She dipped down, rose up again with her hair shiny and wet, water sliding off her skin. And she laughed out loud.

“Water’s cold today,” she called out. “And a little rough.”

“You don’t usually come in till June.”

“Maybe I wanted it cold today.” She let the wave carry her closer. “And rough.”

“It’ll be colder and rougher tomorrow,” he told her. “Rain’s coming.”

“Mmm.” She floated on her back a moment, studying the pale blue sky. “Maybe I’ll come back.” Letting her feet sink, she began to tread water as she watched him. She’d grown accustomed to his dark brown eyes watching her like a puppy when they were teenagers. They were the same age, had grown up all but shoulder to shoulder, but she noticed there had been a few changes in him during her year in New York. His face had fined down, and his mouth seemed firmer and more confident. The long lashes that had caused the boys to tease him mercilessly in his youth no longer seemed feminine. His light brown hair was needle-straight and streaked from the sun. When he smiled at her, dimples—another curse of his youth—dented his cheeks.

“See something interesting?” he asked her.

“I might.” His voice matched his face, she decided. All grownup and male. The flutter in her stomach was satisfying, and unexpectedly strong. “I just might.”

“I figure you had a reason for swimming out here mostly naked. Not that I didn’t enjoy the view, but you want to tell me what it is? Or do you want me to guess?”

She laughed, kicking against the current to keep a teasing distance between them. “Maybe I just wanted to cool off.”

“I imagine so.” He smiled back, satisfied that he understood her better than she could ever imagine. “I heard Jo came in on the morning ferry.”

The smile slid away from her face and left her eyes cold. “So what?”

“So, you want to blow off some steam? Want to use me to do it?” When she hissed at him and started to kick out to swim back to shore, he merely nipped her by the waist. “I’ll oblige you,” he said as she tried to wiggle free. “I’ve been wanting to anyway.”

“Get your hands—” The end of her demand was lost in a surprised grunt against his mouth. She’d never expected reliable Giff Verdon to move so quickly, or so decisively. She hadn’t realized his hands were so big, or so hard, or that his mouth would be so . . . sexy as it crushed down on hers with the
cool tang of the sea clinging to it. For form’s sake she shoved against him, but ruined it with a throaty little moan as her lips parted and invited more.

She tasted exactly as he’d imagined—hot and ready, the sex kitten mouth slippery and wet. The fantasies he’d woven for over ten years simply fell apart and reformed in fresh, wild colors threaded with helpless love and desperate need.

When she wrapped her legs around his waist, rocked her body against his, he was lost.

“I want you.” He tore his mouth from hers to race it along her throat while the waves tossed them about and into a tangle of limbs. “Damn you, Lex, you know I’ve always wanted you.”

Water flowed over her head, filled it with roaring. The sea sucked her down, made her giddy. Then she was in the dazzling sunlight again with his mouth fused to hers.

“Now, then. Right now.” She panted it out, amazed at how real the need was, that tight, hot little ball of it. “Right here.”

He’d wanted her like this as long as he could remember. Ready and willing and eager. His body pulsed toward pain with the need to be in her, and of her. And he knew if he let that need rule, he would take her and lose her in one flash.

Instead he slid his hands down from her waist to cup and knead her bottom, used his thumbs to torment her until her eyes went dark and blind. “I’ve waited, Lex.” And let her go. “So can you.”

She struggled to stay above the waves, sputtered out water as she gaped at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m not interested in scratching your itch and then watching you walk off purring.” He lifted a hand to push back his dripping hair. “When you’re ready for more than that, you know where to find me.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“You go work off your mad, honey. We’ll talk when you’ve had time to think it through calm.” His hand shot out, grabbed her arm. “When I make love with you, that’s going to be it for both of us. You’ll want to think about that too.”

She shoved his hand away. “Don’t you touch me again, Giff Verdon.”

“I’m going to do more than touch you,” he told her as she dove under to swim toward shore. “I’m going to marry you,” he said, only loud enough for his own ears. He let out a long breath as he watched her stride out of the water. “Unless I kill myself first.”

To ease the throbbing in his system, he sank under the water. But as the taste of her continued to cling to his mouth, he decided he was either the smartest man on Desire or the stupidest.

JO had just drummed up the energy to take a walk and had reached the edges of the garden when Lexy stormed up the path.

She hadn’t bothered to towel off, so the little sundress was plastered against her like skin. Jo straightened her shoulders, lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, how’s the water?”

“Go to hell.” Breath heaving, humiliation still stinging, Lexy planted her feet. “Just go straight to hell.”

“I’m beginning to think I’ve already arrived. And so far my welcome’s been pretty much as expected.”

“Why should you expect anything? This place means nothing to you and neither do we.”

“How do you know what means anything to me, Lexy?”

“I don’t see you changing sheets, clearing tables. When’s the last time you scrubbed a toilet or mopped a damn floor?”

“Is that what you’ve been doing this afternoon?” Jo skimmed her gaze up Lexy’s damp and sandy legs to her dripping hair. “Must have been some toilet.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Same goes, Lex.” When Jo started to move past, Lexy grabbed her arm and jerked.

“Why did you come back here?”

Weariness swamped her suddenly, made her want to weep. “I don’t know. But it wasn’t to hurt you. It wasn’t to hurt anybody. And I’m too tired to fight with you now.”

Baffled, Lexy stared at her. The sister she knew would have waded in with words, scraped flesh with sarcasm. She’d never known Jo to tremble and back off. “What happened to you?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Jo shook off the hand blocking her. “Leave me alone, and I’ll do the same for you.”

She walked quickly down the path, took its curve toward the sea. She barely glanced at the dune swale with its glistening grasses, never looked up to follow the flight of the gull that called stridently. She needed to think, she told herself. Just an hour or two of quiet thought. She would figure out what to do, how to tell them. If she should tell them at all.

Could she tell them about her breakdown? Could she tell anyone that she’d spent two weeks in the hospital because her nerves had snapped and something in her mind had tilted? Would they be sympathetic, ambivalent, or hostile?

And what did it matter?

How could she tell them about the photograph? No matter how often she was at sword’s point with them, they were her family. How could she put them through that, dredging up the pain and the past? And if any of them demanded to see it, she would have to tell them it was gone. Just like Annabelle.

Or it had never existed.

They would think her mad. Poor Jo Ellen, mad as a hatter.

Could she tell them she’d spent days trembling inside her apartment, doors locked, after she’d left the hospital? That she would catch herself searching mindlessly, frantically, for the print that would prove she wasn’t really ill?

And that she had come home, because she’d finally had to accept that she was ill. That if she had stayed locked in that apartment alone for another day, she would never have found the courage to leave it again.

Still, the print was so clear in her mind. The texture, the tones, the composition. Her mother had been young in the photograph. And wasn’t that the way Jo remembered her—young?

The long waving hair, the smooth skin? If she was going to hallucinate about her mother, wouldn’t she have snapped to just that age?

Nearly the same age she herself was now, Jo thought. That was probably another reason for all the dreams, the fears, the nerves. Had Annabelle been as restless and as edgy as her daughter was?

Had there been a lover after all? There had been whispers of that, even a child had been able to hear them. There’d been no hint of one, no suspicion of infidelity before the desertion. But afterward the rumors had been rife, and tongues had clucked and wagged.

But then, Annabelle would have been discreet, and clever. She had given no hint of her plans to leave, yet she had left.

Wouldn’t Daddy have known? Jo wondered. Surely a man knew if his wife was restless and dissatisfied and unhappy. She knew they had argued over the island. Had that been enough to do it, to make Annabelle so unhappy that she would turn her back on her home, her husband, her children? Hadn’t he seen it, or had he even then been oblivious to the feelings of the people around him?

It was so hard to remember if it had ever been different. But surely there had once been laughter in that house. Echoes of it still lingered in her mind. Quick snapshots of her parents embracing in the kitchen, of her mother laughing, of walking on the beach with her father’s hand holding hers. They were dim pictures, faded with time as if improperly fixed, but they were there. And they were real. If she had managed to block so many memories of her mother out of her mind, then she could also bring them back. And maybe she would begin to understand.

Then she would decide what to do.

The crunch of a footstep made her look up quickly. The sun was behind him, casting him in shadow. A cap shielded his eyes. His stride was loose and leggy. Another long-forgotten picture snapped into her mind. She saw herself as a little girl with flyaway hair racing down the path, giggling, calling, then leaping high. And his arms had reached out to catch her, to toss her high, then hug her close.

Jo blinked the picture away and the tears that wanted to come with it. He didn’t smile, and she knew that no matter how she worked to negate it, he saw Annabelle in her.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes. “Hello, Daddy.”

“Jo Ellen.” He stopped a foot away and took her measure. He saw that Kate had been right. The girl looked ill, pale, and strained. Because he didn’t know how to touch her, didn’t believe she would welcome the touch in any case, he dipped his hands into his pockets. “Kate told me you were here.”

“I came in on the morning ferry,” she said, knowing the information was unnecessary.

For a difficult moment they stood there, more awkward than strangers. Sam shifted his feet. “You in trouble?”

“I’m just taking some time off.”

“You look peaked.”

“I’ve been working too hard.”

Frowning, he looked deliberately at the camera hanging from a strap around her neck. “Doesn’t look like you’re taking time off to me.” In an absent gesture, she cupped a hand under the camera.

“Old habits are hard to break.”

“They are that.” He huffed out a breath. “There’s a pretty light on the water today, and the waves are up. Guess it’d make a nice picture.”

“I’ll check it out. Thanks.”

“Take a hat next time. You’ll likely burn.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’ll remember.”

He could think of nothing else, so he nodded and started up the path, moving past her. “Mind the sun.”

“I will.” She turned away quickly, walking blindly now because she had smelled the island on him, the rich, dark scent of it, and it broke her heart.

MILES away in the hot red glow of the darkroom light, he slipped paper, emulsion side up, into a tray of developing fluid. It pleased him to re-create the moment from so many years before, to watch it form on the paper, shadow by shadow and line by line.

He was nearly done with this phase and wanted to linger, to draw out all the pleasure before he moved on.

He had driven her back to Sanctuary. The idea made him chuckle and preen. Nothing could have been more perfect. It was there that he wanted her. Otherwise he would have taken her before, half a dozen times before. But it had to be perfect. He knew the beauty of perfection and the satisfaction of working carefully toward creating it.

Not Annabelle, but Annabelle’s daughter. A perfect circle closing.

She would be his triumph, his masterpiece.

Claiming her, taking her, killing her.

And every stage of it would be captured on film. Oh, how Jo would appreciate that. He could barely wait to explain it all to her, the one person he was certain would understand his ambition and his art.

Her work drew him, and his understanding of it made him feel intimate with her already. And they would become more intimate yet.

Smiling, he shifted the print from the developing tray to the stop bath, swishing it through before lifting it into the fixer. Carefully, he checked the temperature of the wash, waiting patiently until the timer rang and he could switch on the white light and examine the print.

Beautiful, just beautiful. Lovely composition. Dramatic lighting—such a perfect halo over the hair, such lovely shadows to outline the body and highlight skin tones. And the subject, he thought. Perfection.

When the print was fully fixed, he lifted it out of the tray and into the running water of the wash. Now he could allow himself to dream of what was to come.

He was closer to her than ever, linked to her through the photographs that reflected each of their lives. He could barely wait to send her the next. But he knew he must choose the time with great care.

On the worktable beside him a battered journal lay open, its precisely written words faded from time. The decisive moment is the ultimate goal in my work. Capturing that short, passing event where all the elements, all the dynamics of a subject reach a peak. What more decisive moment can there be than death? And how much more control can the photographer have over this moment, over the capturing of it on film, than to plan and stage and cause that death? That single act joins subject and artist, makes him part of the art, and the image created.

Since I will kill only one woman, manipulate only one decisive moment, I have chosen her with great care.

Her name is Annabelle.

With a quiet sigh, he hung the print to dry and turned on the white light to better study it.

“Annabelle,” he murmured. “So beautiful. And your daughter is the image of you.”

He left Annabelle there, staring, staring, and went out to complete his plans for his stay on Desire.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Sanctuary.

Jo stood at the window in the bedroom of her childhood. The view was the same. Pretty gardens patiently waiting to be weeded and fed. Mounds of alyssum were already golden and bluebells were waving. Violas were sunning their sassy little faces, guarded by the tall spears of purple iris and cheerful yellow tulips. Impatiens and dianthus bloomed reliably.

There were the palms, cabbage and saw, and beyond them the shady oaks where lacy ferns and indifferent wildflowers thrived.

The light was so lovely, gilded and pearly as the clouds drifted, casting soft shadows. The image was one of peace, solitude, and storybook perfection. If she’d had the energy, she’d have gone out now, captured it on film and made it her own.

She’d missed it. How odd, she thought, to realize only now that she’d missed the view from the window of the room where she’d spent nearly every night of the first eighteen years of her life. She’d whiled away many hours gardening with her mother, learning the names of the flowers, their needs and habits, enjoying the feel of soil under her fingers and the sun on her back. Birds and butterflies, the tinkle of wind chimes, the drift of puffy clouds overhead in a soft blue sky were treasured memories from her early childhood.

Apparently she’d forgotten to hold on to them, Jo decided, as she turned wearily from the window. Any pictures she’d taken of the scene, with her mind or with her camera, had been tucked away for a very long time.

Her room had changed little as well. The family wing in Sanctuary still glowed with Annabelle’s style and taste. For her older daughter she’d chosen a gleaming brass half-tester bed with a lacy canopy and a complex and fluid design of cornices and knobs. The spread was antique Irish lace, a Pendleton heirloom that Jo had always loved because of its pattern and texture. And because it seemed so sturdy and ageless.

On the wallpaper, bluebells bloomed in cheerful riot over the ivory background, and the trim was honey-toned and warm. Annabelle had selected the antiques—the globe lamps and maple tables, the dainty chairs and vases that had always held fresh flowers. She’d wanted her children to learn early to live with the precious and care for it. On the mantel over the little marble fireplace were candles and seashells. On the shelves on the opposite wall were books rather than dolls. Even as a child, Jo had had little use for dolls.

Annabelle was dead. No matter how much of her stubbornly remained in this room, in this house, on this island, she was dead. Sometime in the last twenty years she had died, made her desertion complete and irrevocable.

Dear God, why had someone immortalized that death on film? Jo wondered, as she buried her face in her hands. And why had they sent that immortalization to Annabelle’s daughter?

DEATH OF AN ANGEL

Those words had been printed on the back of the photograph. Jo remembered them vividly. Now she rubbed the heel of her hand hard between her breasts to try to calm her heart. What kind of sickness was that? she asked herself. What kind of threat? And how much of it was aimed at herself?

It had been there, it had been real. It didn’t matter that when she got out of the hospital and returned to her apartment, the print was gone. She couldn’t let it matter. If she admitted she’d imagined it, that she’d been hallucinating, she would have to admit that she’d lost her mind. How could she face that?

But the print hadn’t been there when she returned. All the others were, all those everyday images of herself, still scattered on the darkroom floor where she’d dropped them in shock and panic. But though she searched, spent hours going over every inch of the apartment, she didn’t find the print that had broken her. If it had never been there . . . Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead on the window glass. If she’d fabricated it, if she’d somehow wanted that terrible image to be fact, for her mother to be exposed that way, and dead—what did that make her?

Which could she accept? Her own mental instability, or her mother’s death?

Don’t think about it now. She pressed a hand to her mouth as her breath began to catch in her throat. Put it away, just like you put the photographs away. Lock it up until you’re stronger.

Don’t break down again, Jo Ellen, she ordered herself. You’ll end up back in the hospital, with doctors poking into both body and mind.

Handle it. She drew a deep, steadying breath. Handle it until you can ask whatever questions have to be asked, find whatever answers there are to be found.

She would do something practical, she decided, something ordinary, attempt the pretense, at least, of a normal visit home.

She’d already lowered the front of the slant-top desk and set one of her cameras on it. But as she stared at it she realized that was as much unpacking as she could handle. Jo looked at the suitcases lying on the lovely bedspread. The thought of opening them, of taking clothes out and hanging them in the armoire, folding them into drawers was simply overwhelming. Instead she sat down in a chair and closed her eyes.

What she needed to do was think and plan. She worked best with a list of goals and tasks, recorded in the order that would be the most practical and efficient. Coming home had been the only solution, so it was practical and efficient. It was, she promised herself, the first step. She just had to clear her mind, somehow—clear it and latch on to the next step.

But she drifted, nearly dreaming.

It seemed like only seconds had passed when someone knocked, but Jo found herself jerked awake and disoriented. She sprang to her feet, feeling ridiculously embarrassed to have nearly been caught napping in the middle of the day. Before she could reach the door, it opened and Cousin Kate poked her head in.

“Well, there you are. Goodness, Jo, you look like three days of death. Sit down and drink this tea and tell me what’s going on with you.”

It was so Kate, Jo thought, that frank, no-nonsense, bossy attitude. She found herself smiling as she watched Kate march in with the tea tray. “You look wonderful.”

“I take care of myself.” Kate set the tray on the low table in the sitting area and waved one hand at a chair. “Which, from the looks of you, you haven’t been doing. You’re too thin, too pale, and your hair’s a disaster of major proportions. But we’ll fix that.”

Briskly she poured tea from a porcelain teapot decked with sprigs of ivy into two matching cups. “Now, then.” She sat back, sipped, then angled her head.

“I’m taking some time off,” Jo told her. She’d driven down from Charlotte for the express purpose of giving herself time to rehearse her reasons and excuses for coming home. “A few weeks.”

“Jo Ellen, you can’t snow me.”

They’d never been able to, Jo thought, not any of them, not from the moment Kate had set foot in Sanctuary. She’d come days after Annabelle’s desertion to spend a week and was still there twenty years later.

They’d needed her, God knew, Jo thought, as she tried to calculate just how little she could get away with telling Katherine Pendleton. She sipped her tea, stalling. Kate was Annabelle’s cousin, and the family resemblance was marked in the eyes, the coloring, the physical build. But where Annabelle, in Jo’s memory, had always seemed soft and innately feminine, Kate was sharp-angled and precise.

Yes, Kate did take care of herself, Jo agreed. She wore her hair boyishly short, a russet cap that suited her fox-at-alert face and practical style. Her wardrobe leaned toward the casual but never the sloppy. Jeans were always pressed, cotton shirts crisp. Her nails were neat and short and never without three coats of clear polish. Though she was fifty, she kept herself trim and from the back could have been mistaken for a teenage boy.

She had come into their lives at their lowest ebb and had never faltered. Had simply been there, managing details, pushing each of them to do whatever needed to be done next, and, in her no-nonsense way, bullying and loving them into at least an illusion of normality.

“I’ve missed you, Kate,” Jo murmured. “I really have.”

Kate stared at her a moment, and something flickered over her face. “You won’t soften me up, Jo Ellen. You’re in trouble, and you can choose to tell me or you can make me pry it out of you. Either way, I’ll have it.”

“I needed some time off.”

That, Kate mused, was undoubtedly true; she could tell just from the looks of the girl. Knowing Jo, she doubted very much if it was a man who’d put that wounded look in her eyes. So that left work. Work that took Jo to strange and faraway places, Kate thought. Often dangerous places of war and disaster. Work that she knew her young cousin had deliberately put ahead of a life and a family.

Little girl, Kate thought, my poor, sweet little girl. What have you done to yourself?

Kate tightened her fingers on the handle of her cup to keep them from trembling. “Were you hurt?”

“No. No,” Jo repeated and set her tea down to press her fingers to her aching eyes. “Just overwork, stress. I guess I overextended myself in the last couple of months. The pressure, that’s all.”

The photographs. Mama.

Kate drew her brows together. The line that formed between them was known, not so affectionately, as the Pendleton Fault Line. “What kind of pressure eats the weight off of you, Jo Ellen, and makes your hands shake?”

Defensively, Jo clasped those unsteady hands together in her lap. “I guess you could say I haven’t been taking care of myself.”

Jo smiled a little. “I’m going to do better.”

Tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair, Kate studied Jo’s face. The trouble there went too deep to be only professional concerns. “Have you been sick?”

“No.” The lie slid off her tongue nearly as smoothly as planned. Very deliberately she blocked out the thought of a hospital room, almost certain that Kate would be able to see it in her mind. “Just a little run-down. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.” Edgy under Kate’s steady gaze, Jo rose to dig cigarettes out of the pocket of the jacket she’d tossed over a chair. “I’ve got that book deal—I wrote you about it. I guess it’s got me stressed out.” She flicked on her lighter. “It’s new territory for me.”

“You should be proud of yourself, not making yourself sick over it.”

“You’re right. Absolutely.” Jo blew out smoke and fought back the image of Annabelle, the photographs. “I’m taking some time off.”

It wasn’t all, Kate calculated, but it was enough for now. “It’s good you’ve come home. A couple of weeks of Brian’s cooking will put some meat on you again. And God knows we could use some help around here. Most of the rooms, and the cottages, are booked straight through the summer.”

“So business is good?” Jo asked without much interest.

“People need to get away from their own routines and pick up someone else’s. Most that come here are looking for quiet and solitude or they’d be in Hilton Head or on Jekyll. Still, they want clean linen and fresh towels.”

Kate tapped her fingers, thinking briefly of the work stretched out before her that afternoon. “Lexy’s been lending a hand,” she continued, “but she’s no more dependable than she ever was. Just as likely to run off for the day as to do what chores need doing. She’s dealing with some disappointments herself, and some growing-up pains.”

“Lex is twenty-four, Kate. She should be grown up by now.”

“Some take longer than others. It’s not a fault, it’s a fact.” Kate rose, always ready to defend one of her chicks, even if it was against the pecks of another.

“And some never learn to face reality,” Jo put in. “And spend their lives blaming everyone else for their failures and disappointments.”

“Alexa is not a failure. You were never patient enough with her—any more than she was with you. That’s a fact as well.”

“I never asked her to be patient with me.” Old resentments surfaced like hot grease on tainted water. “I never asked her, or any of them, for anything.”

“No, you never asked, Jo,” Kate said evenly. “You might have to give something back if you ask. You might have to admit you need them if you let them need you. Well, it’s time you all faced up to a few things. It’s been two years since the three of you have been in this house together.”

“I know how long it’s been,” Jo said bitterly. “And I didn’t get any more of a welcome from Brian and Lexy than I’d expected.”

“Maybe you’d have gotten more if you’d expected more.”

Kate set her jaw. “You haven’t even asked about your father.”

Annoyed, Jo stabbed out her cigarette. “What would you like me to ask?”

“Don’t take that snippy tone with me, young lady. If you’re going to be under this roof, you’ll show some respect for those who provide it. And you’ll do your part while you’re here. Your brother’s had too much of the running of this place on his shoulders these last few years. It’s time the family pitched in. It’s time you were a family.”

“I’m not an innkeeper, Kate, and I can’t imagine that Brian wants me poking my fingers into his business.”

“You don’t have to be an innkeeper to do laundry or polish furniture or sweep the sand off the veranda.”

At the ice in her tone, Jo responded in defense and defiance.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do my part, I just meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant, and I’m telling you, young lady, I’m sick to death of that kind of attitude. Every one of you children would rather sink over your heads in the marsh than ask one of your siblings for a helping hand. And you’d strangle on your tongue before you asked your daddy. I don’t know whether you’re competing or just being ornery, but I want you to put it aside while you’re here. This is home. By God, it’s time it felt like one.”

“Kate,” Jo began as Kate headed for the door.

“No, I’m too mad to talk to you now.”

“I only meant . . .” When the door shut smartly, Jo let the air out of her lungs on a long sigh.

Her head was achy, her stomach knotted, and guilt was smothering her like a soaked blanket.

Kate was wrong, she decided. It felt exactly like home.

From the fringes of the marsh, Sam Hathaway watched a hawk soar over its hunting ground. Sam had hiked over to the landward side of the island that morning, leaving the house just before dawn. He knew Brian had gone out at nearly the same hour, but they hadn’t spoken. Each had his own way, and his own route. Sometimes Sam took a Jeep, but more often he walked. Some days he would head to the dunes and watch the sun rise over the water, turning it bloody red, then golden, then blue. When the beach was all space and light and brilliance, he might walk for miles, his eyes keenly judging erosion, looking for any fresh buildup of sand.

He left shells where the water had tossed them. He rarely ventured onto the interdune meadows. They were fragile, and every footfall caused damage and change. Sam fought bitterly against change.

There were days he preferred to wander to the edge of the forest, behind the dunes, where the lakes and sloughs were full of life and music. There were mornings he needed the stillness and dim light there rather than the thunder of waves and the rising sun. He could, like the patient heron waiting for a careless fish, stand motionless as minutes ticked by.

There were times among the ponds and stands of willow and thick film of duckweed that he could forget that any world existed beyond this, his own. Here, the alligator hidden in the reeds while it digested its last meal and the turtle sunning on the log, likely to become gator bait itself, were more real to him than people. But it was a rare, rare thing for Sam to go beyond the ponds and into the shadows of the forest. Annabelle had loved the forest best.

Other days he was drawn here, to the marsh and its mysteries. Here was a cycle he could understand—growth and decay, life and death. This was nature and could be accepted. No man caused this or—as long as Sam was in control—would interfere with it.

At the edges he could watch the fiddler crabs scurrying, so busy in the mud that they made quiet popping sounds, like soapsuds.

Sam knew that when he left, raccoons and other predators would creep along the mud, scrape out those busy crabs, and feast.

That was all part of the cycle.

Now, as spring came brilliantly into its own, the waving cordgrass was turning from tawny gold to green and the turf was beginning to bloom with the colors of sea lavender and oxeye. He had seen more than thirty springs come to Desire, and he never tired of it.

The land had been his wife’s, passed through her family from generation to generation. But it had become his the moment he’d set foot on it. Just as Annabelle had become his the moment he’d set eyes on her.

He hadn’t kept the woman, but through her desertion he had kept the land. Sam was a fatalist—or had become one. There was no avoiding destiny.

The land had come to him from Annabelle, and he tended it carefully, protected it fiercely, and left it never.

Though it had been years since he’d turned in the night reaching out for the ghost of his wife, he could find her anywhere and everywhere he looked on Desire. It was both his pain and his comfort.

Sam could see the exposed roots of trees where the river was eating away at the fringe of the marsh. Some said it was best to take steps to protect those fringes. But Sam believed that nature found its way. If man, whether with good intent or ill, set his own hand to changing that river’s course, what repercussions would it have in other areas?

No, he would leave it be and let the land and the sea, the wind and the rain fight it out.

From a few feet away, Kate studied him. He was a tall, wiry man with skin tanned and ruddy and dark hair silvering. His firm mouth was slow to smile, and slower yet were those changeable hazel eyes. Lines fanned out from those eyes, deeply scored and, in that oddity of masculinity, only enhancing his face. He had large hands and feet, both of which he’d passed on to his son. Yet Kate knew Sam could move with an uncanny and soundless grace that no city dweller could ever master.

In twenty years he had never welcomed her nor expected her to leave. She had simply come and stayed and fulfilled a purpose.

In weak moments, Kate allowed herself to wonder what he would think or do or say if she simply packed up and left.

But she didn’t leave, doubted she ever would.

She’d been in love with Sam Hathaway nearly every moment of those twenty years.

Kate squared her shoulders, set her chin. Though she suspected he already knew she was there, she knew he wouldn’t speak to her unless she spoke first.

“Jo Ellen came in on the morning ferry.”

Sam continued to watch the hawk circle. Yes, he’d known Kate was there, just as he’d known she had some reason she thought important that would have brought her to the marsh. Kate wasn’t one for mud and gators.

“Why?” was all he said, and extracted an impatient sigh from Kate.

“It’s her home, isn’t it?”

His voice was slow, as if the words were formed reluctantly. “Don’t figure she thinks of it that way. Hasn’t for a long time.”

“Whatever she thinks, it is her home. You’re her father and you’ll want to welcome her back.”

He got a picture of his older daughter in his mind. And saw his wife with a clarity that brought both despair and outrage. But only disinterest showed in his voice. “I’ll be up to the house later on.”

“It’s been nearly two years since she’s been home, Sam. For Lord’s sake, go see your daughter.”

He shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. Kate had a way of drawing out those reactions in him. “There’s time, unless she’s planning on taking the ferry back to the mainland this afternoon. Never could stay in one place for long, as I recall. And she couldn’t wait to get shed of Desire.”

“Going off to college and making a career and a life for herself isn’t desertion.”

Though he didn’t move or make a sound, Kate knew the shaft had hit home, and was sorry she’d felt it necessary to hurl it.

“She’s back now, Sam. I don’t think she’s up to going anywhere for a while, and that’s not the point.”

Kate marched up, took a firm hold on his arm, and turned him to face her. There were times you had to shove an obvious point in Sam’s face to make him see it, she thought. And that was just what she intended to do now.

“She’s hurting. She doesn’t look well, Sam. She’s lost weight and she’s pale as a sheet. She says she hasn’t been ill, but she’s lying. She looks like you could knock her down with a hard thought.”

For the first time a shadow of worry moved into his eyes.

“Did she get hurt on her job?”

There, finally, Kate thought, but was careful not to show the satisfaction. “It’s not that kind of hurt,” she said more gently.

“It’s an inside hurt. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there. She needs her home, her family. She needs her father.”

“If Jo’s got a problem, she’ll deal with it. She always has.”

“You mean she’s always had to,” Kate tossed back. She wanted to shake him until she’d loosened the lock he had snapped on his heart. “Damn it, Sam, be there for her.”

He looked beyond Kate, to the marshes. “She’s past the point where she needs me to bandage up her bumps and scratches.”

“No, she’s not.” Kate dropped her hand from his arm. “She’s still your daughter. She always will be. Belle wasn’t the only one who went away, Sam.” She watched his face close in as she said it and shook her head fiercely. “Brian and Jo and Lexy lost her, too. But they shouldn’t have had to lose you.”

His chest had tightened, and he turned away to stare out over the marsh, knowing that the pressure inside him would ease again if he was left alone. “I said I’d be up to the house later on. Jo Ellen has something to say to me, she can say it then.”

“One of these days you’re going to realize you’ve got something to say to her, to all of them.”

She left him alone, hoping he would realize it soon.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Sanctuary.

At first light the air was misty, like a dream just about to vanish. Beams of light stabbed through the canopy of live oaks and glittered on the dew. The warblers and buntings that nested in the sprays of moss were waking, chirping out a morning song. A cock cardinal, a red bullet of color, shot through the trees without a sound.

It was his favorite time of day. At dawn, when the demands on his time and energy were still to come, he could be alone, he could think his thoughts. Or simply be.

Brian Hathaway had never lived anywhere but Desire. He’d never wanted to. He’d seen the mainland and visited big cities. He’d even taken an impulsive vacation to Mexico once, so it could be said he’d visited a foreign land.

But Desire, with all its virtues and flaws, was his. He’d been born there on a gale-tossed night in September thirty years before. Born in the big oak tester bed he now slept in, delivered by his own father and an old black woman who had smoked a corncob pipe and whose parents had been house slaves, owned by his ancestors.

The old woman’s name was Miss Effie, and when he was very young she often told him the story of his birth. How the wind had howled and the seas had tossed, and inside the great house, in that grand bed, his mother had borne down like a warrior and shot him out of her womb and into his father’s waiting arms with a laugh.

It was a good story. Brian had once been able to imagine his mother laughing and his father waiting, wanting to catch him.

Now his mother was long gone and old Miss Effie long dead. It had been a long, long time since his father had wanted to catch him.

Brian walked through the thinning mists, through huge trees with lichen vivid in pinks and red on their trunks, through the cool, shady light that fostered the ferns and shrubby palmettos. He was a tall, lanky man, very much his father’s son in build. His hair was dark and shaggy, his skin tawny, and his eyes cool blue. He had a long face that women found melancholy and appealing. His mouth was firm and tended to brood more than smile. That was something else women found appealing—the challenge of making those lips curve.

The slight change of light signaled him that it was time to start back to Sanctuary. He had to prepare the morning meal for the guests.

Brian was as contented in the kitchen as he was in the forest. That was something else his father found odd about him. And Brian knew—with some amusement—that Sam Hathaway wondered if his son might be gay. After all, if a man liked to cook for a living, there must be something wrong with him.

If they’d been the type to discuss such matters openly, Brian would have told him that he could enjoy creating a perfect meringue and still prefer women for sex. He simply wasn’t inclined toward intimacy.

And wasn’t that tendency toward distance from others a Hathaway family trait?

Brian moved through the forest, as quietly as the deer that walked there. Suiting himself, he took the long way around, detouring by Half Moon Creek, where the mists were rising up from the water like white smoke and a trio of does sipped contentedly in the shimmering and utter silence.

There was time yet, Brian thought. There was always time on Desire. He indulged himself by taking a seat on a fallen log to watch the morning bloom.

The island was only two miles across at its widest, less than thirteen from point to point. Brian knew every inch of it, the sun-bleached sand of the beaches, the cool, shady marshes with their ancient and patient alligators. He loved the dune swales, the wonderful wet, undulating grassy meadows banked by young pines and majestic live oaks.

But most of all, he loved the forest, with its dark pockets and its mysteries.

He knew the history of his home, that once cotton and indigo had been grown there, worked by slaves. Fortunes had been reaped by his ancestors. The rich had come to play in this isolated little paradise, hunting the deer and the feral hogs, gathering shells, fishing both river and surf.

They’d held lively dances in the ballroom under the candle glow of crystal chandeliers, gambled carelessly at cards in the game room while drinking good southern bourbon and smoking fat Cuban cigars. They had lazed on the veranda on hot summer afternoons while slaves brought them cold glasses of lemonade.

Sanctuary had been an enclave for privilege, and a testament to a way of life that was doomed to failure.

More fortunes still had gone in and out of the hands of the steel and shipping magnate who had turned Sanctuary into his private retreat. Though the money wasn’t what it had been, Sanctuary still stood. And the island was still in the hands of the descendants of those cotton kings and emperors of steel. The cottages that were scattered over it, rising up behind the dunes, tucked into the shade of the trees, facing the wide swath of Pelican Sound, passed from generation to generation, ensuring that only a handful of families could claim Desire as home.

So it would remain.

His father fought developers and environmentalists with equal fervor. There would be no resorts on Desire, and no wellmeaning government would convince Sam Hathaway to make his island a national preserve.

It was, Brian thought, his father’s monument to a faithless wife. His blessing and his curse. Visitors came now, despite the solitude, or perhaps because of it. To keep the house, the island, the trust, the Hathaways had turned part of their home into an inn. Brian knew Sam detested it, resented every footfall on the island from an outsider. It was the only thing he could remember his parents arguing over. Annabelle had wanted to open the island to more tourists, to draw people to it, to establish the kind of social whirl her ancestors had once enjoyed. Sam had insisted on keeping it unchanged, untouched, monitoring the number of visitors and overnight guests like a miser doling out pennies. It was, in the end, what Brian believed had driven his mother away—that need for people, for faces, for voices.

But however much his father tried, he couldn’t hold off change any more than the island could hold back the sea.

Adjustments, Brian thought as the deer turned as a unit and bounded into the concealing trees. He didn’t care for adjustments himself, but in the case of the inn they had been necessary. And the fact was, he enjoyed the running of it, the planning, the implementing, the routine. He liked the visitors, the voices of strangers, observing their varying habits and expectations, listening to the occasional stories of their worlds.

He didn’t mind people in his life—as long as they didn’t intend to stay. In any case, he didn’t believe people stayed in the long run.

Annabelle hadn’t.

Brian rose, vaguely irritated that a twenty-year-old scar had unexpectedly throbbed. Ignoring it, he turned away and took the winding upward path toward Sanctuary.

When he came out of the trees, the light was dazzling. It struck the spray of a fountain and turned each individual drop into a rainbow. He looked at the back end of the garden. The tulips were rioting dependably. The sea pinks looked a little shaggy, and the . . . what the hell was that purple thing anyway? he asked himself. He was a mediocre gardener at best, struggling constantly to keep up the grounds. Paying guests expected tended gardens as much as they expected gleaming antiques and fine meals.

Sanctuary had to be kept in tip-top shape to lure them, and that meant endless hours of work. Without paying guests, there would be no means for upkeep on Sanctuary at all. So, Brian thought, scowling down at the flowers, it was an endless cycle, a snake swallowing its own tail. A trap without a key.

“Ageratum.”

Brian’s head came up. He had to squint against the sunlight to bring the woman into focus. But he recognized the voice. It irritated him that she’d been able to walk up behind him that way. Then again, he always viewed Dr. Kirby Fitzsimmons as a minor irritation.

“Ageratum,” she repeated, and smiled. She knew she annoyed him, and considered it progress. It had taken nearly a year before she’d been able to get even that much of a reaction from him.

“The flower you’re glaring at. Your gardens need some work, Brian.”

“I’ll get to it,” he said and fell back on his best weapon. Silence. He never felt completely easy around Kirby. It wasn’t just her looks, though she was attractive enough if you went for the delicate blond type. Brian figured it was her manner, which was the direct opposite of delicate. She was efficient, competent, and seemed to know a little about every damn thing.

Her voice carried what he thought of as high-society New England. Or, when he was feeling less charitable, damn Yankee. She had those Yankee cheekbones, too. They set off sea-green eyes and a slightly turned-up nose. Her mouth was full—not too wide, not too small. It was just one more irritatingly perfect thing about her.

He kept expecting to hear that she’d gone back to the mainland, closed up the little cottage she’d inherited from her granny and given up on the notion of running a clinic on the island. But month after month she stayed, slowly weaving herself into the fabric of the place.

And getting under his skin.

She kept smiling at him, with that mocking look in her eyes, as she pushed back a soft wave of the wheat-colored hair that fell smoothly to her shoulders. “Beautiful morning.”

“It’s early.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. He never knew quite what to do with them around her.

“Not too early for you.” She angled her head. Lord, he was fun to look at. She’d been hoping to do more than look for months, but Brian Hathaway was one of the natives of this little spit of land that she was having trouble winning over. “I guess breakfast isn’t ready yet.”

“We don’t serve till eight.” He figured she knew that as well as he did. She came around often enough.

“I suppose I can wait. What’s the special this morning?”

“Haven’t decided.” Since there was no shaking her off, he resigned himself when she fell into step beside him.

“My vote’s for your cinnamon waffles. I could eat a dozen.” She stretched, linking her fingers as she lifted her arms overhead. He did his best not to notice the way her cotton shirt strained over small, firm breasts. Not noticing Kirby Fitzsimmons had become a full-time job.

He wound around the side of the house, through the spring blooms that lined the path of crushed shells.

“You can wait in the guest parlor, or the dining room.”

“I’d rather sit in the kitchen. I like watching you cook.”

Before he could think of a way around it, she’d stepped up into the rear screened porch and through the kitchen door. As usual, it was neat as a pin. Kirby appreciated tidiness in a man, the same way she appreciated good muscle tone and a wellexercised brain. Brian had all three qualities, which was why she was interested in what kind of lover he’d make. She figured she would find out eventually. Kirby always worked her way toward a goal. All she had to do was keep chipping away at that armor of his.

It wasn’t disinterest. She’d seen the way he watched her on the rare occasions when his guard was down. It was sheer stubbornness. She appreciated that as well. And the contrasts of him were such fun.

She knew as she settled on a stool at the breakfast bar that he would have little to say unless she prodded. That was the distance he kept between himself and others. And she knew he would pour her a cup of his really remarkable coffee, and remember that she drank it light. That was his innate hospitality.

Kirby let him have his quiet for a moment as she sipped the coffee from the steaming mug he’d set before her. She hadn’t been teasing when she’d said she liked to watch him cook.

A kitchen might have been a traditionally female domain, but this kitchen was all male. Just like its overseer, Kirby thought, with his big hands, shaggy hair, and tough face.

She knew—because there was little that one person on the island didn’t know about the others—that Brian had had the kitchen redone about eight years before. And he’d created the design, chosen the colors and materials. Had made it a working man’s room, with long granite-colored counters and glittering stainless steel.

There were three wide windows, framed only by curved and carved wood trim. A banquette in smoky gray was tucked under them for family meals, though, as far as she knew, the Hathaways rarely ate as a family. The floor was creamy white tile, the walls white and unadorned. No fancy work for Brian.

Yet there were homey touches in the gleam of copper pots that hung from hooks, the hanks of dried peppers and garlic, the shelf holding antique kitchen tools. She imagined he thought of them as practical rather than homey, but they warmed the room. He’d left the old brick hearth alone, and it brought back reminders of a time when the kitchen had been the core of this house, a place for gathering, for lingering. She liked it in the winter when he lighted a fire there and the scent of wood burning mixed pleasurably with that of spicy stews or soups bubbling.

To her, the huge commercial range looked like something that required an engineering degree to operate. Then again, her idea of cooking was taking a package from the freezer and nuking it in the microwave.

“I love this room,” she said. He was whipping something in a large blue bowl and only grunted. Taking that as a response, Kirby slid off the stool to help herself to a second cup of coffee.

She leaned in, just brushing his arm, and grinned at the batter in the bowl. “Waffles?”

He shifted slightly. Her scent was in his way. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Lifting her cup, she smiled at him over the rim. “It’s nice to get what you want. Don’t you think?”

She had the damnedest eyes, he thought. He’d believed in mermaids as a child. All of them had had eyes like Kirby’s. “It’s easy enough to get it if all you want is waffles.”

He stepped back, around her, and took a waffle iron out of a lower cabinet. After he’d plugged it in, he turned, and bumped into her. Automatically he lifted a hand to her arm to steady her. And left it there.

“You’re underfoot.”

She eased forward, just a little, pleased by the quick flutter in her stomach. “I thought I could help.”

“With what?”

She smiled, let her gaze wander down to his mouth, then back. “With whatever.” What the hell, she thought, and laid her free hand on his chest. “Need anything?”

His blood began to pump faster. His fingers tightened on her arm before he could prevent it. He thought about it, oh, he thought about it. What would it be like to push her back against the counter and take what she kept insisting on putting under his nose? That would wipe the smirk off her face.

“You’re in my way, Kirby.”

He had yet to let her go. That, she thought, was definite progress. Beneath her hand his heartbeat was accelerated. “I’ve been in your way the best part of a year, Brian. When are you going to do something about it?”

She saw his eyes flicker before they narrowed. Her breathing took on an anticipatory hitch. Finally, she thought and leaned toward him.

He dropped her arm and stepped back, the move so unexpected and abrupt that this time she did nearly stumble. “Drink your coffee,” he said. “I’ve got work to do here.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing that he’d pushed one of her buttons for a change. The smirk was gone, all right. Her delicate brows were knit, and under them her eyes had gone dark and hot.

“Damn it, Brian. What’s the problem?”

Deftly, he ladled batter onto the heated waffle iron. “I don’t have a problem.” He slanted a look at her as he closed the lid. Her color was up and her mouth was thinned. Spitting mad, he thought. Good.

“What do I have to do?” She slammed her coffee cup down, sloshing the hot liquid onto his spotless counter. “Do I have to stroll in here naked?”

His lips twitched. “Well, now, that’s a thought, isn’t it? I could raise the rates around here after that.” He cocked his head. “That is, if you look good naked.”

“I look great naked, and I’ve given you numerous opportunities to find that out for yourself.”

“I guess I like to make my own opportunities.” He opened the refrigerator. “You want eggs with those waffles?”

Kirby clenched her fists, reminded herself that she’d taken a vow to heal, not harm, then spun on her heel. “Oh, stuff your waffles,” she muttered and stalked out the back door.

Brian waited until he heard the door slam before he grinned. He figured he had come out on top of that little tussle of wills and decided to treat himself to her waffles. He was just flipping them onto a plate when the door swung open.

Lexy posed for a moment, which both she and Brian knew was out of habit rather than an attempt to impress her brother. Her hair was a tousled mass of spiraling curls that flowed over her shoulders in her current favorite shade, Renaissance Red. She liked the Titian influence and considered it an improvement over the Bombshell Blonde she’d worn the last few years. That was, she’d discovered, a bitch to maintain.

The color was only a few shades lighter and brighter than what God had given her, and it suited her skin tones, which were milky with a hint of rose beneath. She’d inherited her father’s changeable hazel eyes. This morning they were heavy, the color of cloudy seas, and already carefully accented with mascara and liner.

“Waffles,” she said. Her voice was a feline purr she’d practiced religiously and made her own. “Yum.”

Unimpressed, Brian cut the first bite as he stood, and shoveled it into his mouth. “Mine.”

Lexy tossed back her gypsy mane of hair, strolled over to the breakfast bar and pouted prettily. She fluttered her lashes and smiled when Brian set the plate in front of her. “Thanks, sweetie.” She laid a hand on his cheek and kissed the other.

Lexy had the very un-Hathaway-like habit of touching, kissing, hugging. Brian remembered that after their mother had left, Lexy had been like a puppy, always leaping into someone’s arms, looking for a snuggle. Hell, he thought, she’d only been four. He gave her hair a tug and handed her the syrup.

“Anyone else up?”

“Mmm. The couple in the blue room are stirring. Cousin Kate was in the shower.”

“I thought you were handling the breakfast shift this morning.”

“I am,” she told him with her mouth full.

He lifted a brow, skimmed his gaze over her short, thin, wildly patterned robe. “Is that your new waitress uniform?”

She crossed long legs and slipped another bite of waffle between her lips. “Like it?”

“You’ll be able to retire on the tips.”

“Yeah.” She gave a half laugh and pushed at the waffles on her plate. “That’s been my lifelong dream—serving food to strangers and clearing away their dirty plates, saving the pocket change they give me so I can retire in splendor.”

“We all have our little fantasies,” Brian said lightly and set a cup of coffee, loaded with cream and sugar, beside her. He
understood her bitterness and disappointment, even if he didn’t agree with it. Because he loved her, he cocked his head and said,

“Want to hear mine?”

“Probably has something to do with winning the Betty Crocker recipe contest.”

“Hey, it could happen.”

“I was going to be somebody, Bri.”

“You are somebody. Alexa Hathaway, Island Princess.”

She rolled her eyes before she picked up her coffee. “I didn’t last a year in New York. Not a damn year.”

“Who wants to?” The very idea gave him the creeps. Crowded streets, crowded smells, crowded air.

“It’s a little tough to be an actress on Desire.”

“Honey, you ask me, you’re doing a hell of a job of it. And if you’re going to sulk, take the waffles up to your room. You’re spoiling my mood.”

“It’s easy for you.” She shoved the waffles away. Brian nabbed the plate before it slid off the counter. “You’ve got what you want. Living in nowhere day after day, year after year. Doing the same thing over and over again. Daddy’s practically given the house over to you so he can tromp around the island all day to make sure nobody moves so much as one grain of his precious sand.”

She pushed herself up from the stool, flung out her arms.

“And Jo’s got what she wants. Big-fucking-deal photographer, traveling all over the world to snap her pictures. But what do I have? Just what do I have? A pathetic résumé with a couple of commercials, a handful of walk-ons, and a lead in a three-act play that closed in Pittsburgh on opening night. Now I’m stuck here again, waiting tables, changing other people’s sheets. And I hate it.”

He waited a moment, then applauded. “Hell of a speech, Lex. And you know just what words to punch. You might want to work on the staging, though. The gestures lean toward grandiose.”

Her lips trembled, then firmed. “Damn you, Bri.” She jerked her chin up before stalking out.

Brian picked up her fork. Looked like he was two for two that morning, he thought, and decided to finish off her breakfast as well.

WITHIN an hour Lexy was all smiles and southern sugared charm. She was a skilled waitress—which had saved her from total poverty during her stint in New York—and served her tables with every appearance of pleasure and unhurried grace.

She wore a trim skirt just short enough to irritate Brian, which had been her intention, and a cap-sleeved sweater that she thought showed off her figure to best advantage. She had a good one and worked hard to keep it that way. It was a tool of the trade whether waitressing or acting. As was her quick, sunny smile.

“Why don’t I warm that coffee up for you, Mr. Benson? How’s your omelette? Brian’s an absolute wonder in the kitchen, isn’t he?”

Since Mr. Benson seemed so appreciative of her breasts, she leaned over a bit further to give him full bang for his buck before moving to the next table.

“You’re leaving us today, aren’t you?” She beamed at the newlyweds cuddling at a corner table. “I hope y’all come back and see us again.”

She sailed through the room, gauging when a customer wanted to chat, when another wanted to be left alone. As usual on a weekday morning, business was light and she had plenty of opportunity to play the room.

What she wanted to play was packed houses, those grand theaters of New York. Instead, she thought, keeping that summer-sun smile firmly in place, she was cast in the role of waitress in a house that never changed, on an island that never changed.

It had all been the same for hundreds of years, she thought. Lexy wasn’t a woman who appreciated history. As far as she was concerned, the past was boring and as tediously carved in stone as Desire and its scattering of families. Pendletons married Fitzsimmonses or Brodies or Verdons. The island’s Main Four. Occasionally one of the sons or daughters took a detour and married a mainlander. Some even moved away, but almost invariably they remained, living in the same cottages generation after generation, sprinkling a few more names among the permanent residents. It was all so . . . predictable, she thought, as she flipped her order pad brightly and beamed down at her next table.

Her mother had married a mainlander, and now the Hathaways reigned over Sanctuary. It was the Hathaways who had lived there, worked there, sweated time and blood over the keeping of the house and the protection of the island for more than thirty years now.

But Sanctuary still was, and always would be, the Pendleton house, high on the hill. And there seemed to be no escaping from it.

She stuffed tips into her pocket and carried dirty plates away. The minute she stepped into the kitchen, her eyes went frigid. She shed her charm like a snake sheds its skin. It only infuriated her more that Brian was impervious to the cold shoulder she jammed in his face.

She dumped the dishes, snagged the fresh pot of coffee, then swung back into the dining room.

For two hours she served and cleared and replaced setups— and dreamed of where she wanted to be.

Broadway. She’d been so sure she could make it. Everyone had told her she had a natural talent. Of course, that was before she went to New York and found herself up against hundreds of other young women who’d been told the same thing.

She wanted to be a serious actress, not some airheaded bimbo who posed for lingerie ads and billed herself as an actress-model.

She’d fully expected to start at the top. After all, she had brains and looks and talent.

Her first sight of Manhattan had filled her with a sense of purpose and energy. It was as if it had been waiting for her, she thought, as she calculated the tab for table six. All those people, and that noise and vitality. And, oh, the stores with those gorgeous clothes, the sophisticated restaurants, and the overwhelming sense that everyone had something to do, somewhere to go in a hurry.

She had something to do and somewhere to go too. Of course, she’d rented an apartment that had cost far too much. But she hadn’t been willing to settle for some cramped little room. She treated herself to new clothes at Bendel’s, and a full day at Elizabeth Arden. That ate a large chunk out of her budget, but she considered it an investment. She wanted to look her best when she answered casting calls.

Her first month was one rude awakening after another. She’d never expected so much competition, or such desperation on the faces of those who lined up with her to audition for part after part.

And she did get a few offers—but most of them involved her auditioning on her back. She had too much pride and too much self-confidence for that.

Now that pride and self-confidence and, she was forced to admit, her own naïveté, had brought her full circle. But it was only temporary, Lexy reminded herself. In a little less than a year she would turn twenty-five and then she’d come into her inheritance. What there was of it. She was going to take it back to New York, and this time she’d be smarter, more cautious, and more clever.

She wasn’t beaten, she decided. She was taking a sabbatical. One day she would stand onstage and feel all that love and admiration from the audience roll over her. Then she would be someone. Someone other than Annabelle’s younger daughter.

She carried the last of the plates into the kitchen. Brian was already putting the place back into shape. No dirty pots and pans
cluttered his sink, no spills and smears spoiled his counter. Knowing it was nasty, Lexy turned her wrist so that the cup stacked on top of the plates tipped, spilling the dregs of coffee before it shattered on the tile.

“Oops,” she said and grinned wickedly when Brian turned his head.

“You must enjoy being a fool, Lex,” he said coolly. “You’re so good at it.”

“Really?” Before she could stop herself, she let the rest of the dishes drop. They hit with a crash, scattering food and fragments of stoneware all over. “How’s that?”

“Goddamn it, what are you trying to prove? That you’re as destructive as ever? That somebody will always come behind you to clean up your mess?” He stomped to a closet, pulled out a broom. “Do it yourself.” He shoved the broom at her.

“I won’t.” Though she already regretted the impulsive act, she shoved the broom back at him. The colorful Fiestaware was like a ruined carnival at their feet. “They’re your precious dishes. You clean them up.”

“You’re going to clean it up, or I swear I’ll use this broom on your backside.”

“Just try it, Bri.” She went toe-to-toe with him. Knowing she’d been wrong was only a catalyst for standing her ground.

“Just try it and I’ll scratch your damn eyes out. I’m sick to death of you telling me what to do. This is my house as much as it is yours.”

“Well, I see nothing’s changed around here.”

Their faces still dark with temper, both Brian and Lexy turned—and stared. Jo stood at the back door, her two suitcases at her feet and exhaustion in her eyes.

“I knew I was home when I heard the crash followed by the happy voices.”

In an abrupt and deliberate shift of mood, Lexy slid her arm through Brian’s, uniting them. “Look here, Brian, another prodigal’s returned. I hope we have some of that fatted calf left.”

“I’ll settle for coffee,” Jo said, and closed the door behind her.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Sanctuary.

SHE dreamed of Sanctuary. The great house gleamed bridewhite in the moonlight, as majestic a force breasting the slope that reigned over eastern dunes and western marsh as a queen upon her throne. The house stood as it had for more than a century, a grand tribute to man’s vanity and brilliance, near the dark shadows of the forest of live oaks, where the river flowed in murky silence.

Within the shelter of trees, fireflies blinked gold, and night creatures stirred, braced to hunt or be hunted. Wild things bred there in shadows, in secret.

There were no lights to brighten the tall, narrow windows of Sanctuary. No lights to spread welcome over its graceful porches, its grand doors. Night was deep, and the breath of it moist from
the sea. The only sound to disturb it was of wind rustling through the leaves of the great oaks and the dry clicking—like bony fingers—of the palm fronds. The white columns stood like soldiers guarding the wide veranda, but no one opened the enormous ront door to greet her.

As she walked closer, she could hear the crunch of sand and shells on the road under her feet. Wind chimes tinkled, little notes of song. The porch swing creaked on its chain, but no one lazed upon it to enjoy the moon and the night.

The smell of jasmine and musk roses played on the air, underscored by the salty scent of the sea. She began to hear that too, the low and steady thunder of water spilling over sand and sucking
back into its own heart.

The beat of it, that steady and patient pulse, reminded all who inhabited the island of Lost Desire that the sea could reclaim the land and all on it at its whim.

Still, her mood lifted at the sound of it, the music of home and childhood. Once she had run as free and wild through that forest as a deer, had scouted its marshes, raced along its sandy beaches with the careless privilege of youth.

Now, no longer a child, she was home again.

She walked quickly, hurrying up the steps, across the veranda, closing her hand over the big brass handle that glinted like a lost treasure.

The door was locked.

She twisted it right, then left, shoved against the thick mahogany panel. Let me in, she thought as her heart began to thud in her chest. I’ve come home. I’ve come back.

But the door remained shut and locked. When she pressed her face against the glass of the tall windows flanking it, she could see nothing but darkness within. And was afraid.

She ran now, around the side of the house, over the terrace, where flowers streamed out of pots and lilies danced in chorus lines of bright color. The music of the wind chimes became harsh and discordant, the fluttering of fronds was a hiss of warning. She struggled with the next door, weeping as she beat her fists against it.

Please, please, don’t shut me out. I want to come home. She sobbed as she stumbled down the garden path. She would go to the back, in through the screened porch. It was never locked—Mama said a kitchen should always be open to company.

But she couldn’t find it. The trees sprang up, thick and close, the branches and draping moss barred her way.

She was lost, tripping over roots in her confusion, fighting to see through the dark as the canopy of trees closed out the moon.

The wind rose up and howled and slapped at her in flat-handed, punishing blows. Spears of saw palms struck out like swords. She turned, but where the path had been was now the river, cutting her off from Sanctuary. The high grass along its slippery banks waved madly.

It was then she saw herself, standing alone and weeping on the other bank. It was then she knew she was dead.

JO fought her way out of the dream, all but felt the sharp edges of it scraping her skin as she dragged herself to the surface of the tunnel of sleep. Her lungs burned, and her face was wet with sweat and tears. With a trembling hand, she fumbled for the bedside lamp, knocking both a book and an overfilled ashtray to the floor in her hurry to break out of the dark.

When the light shot on, she drew her knees up close to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and rocked herself calm.

It was just a dream, she told herself. Just a bad dream.

She was home, in her own bed, in her apartment and miles from the island where Sanctuary stood. A grown woman of twenty-seven had no business being spooked by a silly dream.

But she was still shaking when she reached for a cigarette. It took her three tries to manage to light a match.

Three-fifteen, she noted by the clock on the nightstand. That was becoming typical. There was nothing worse than the three A.M. jitters. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and bent down to pick up the overturned ashtray. She told herself she’d clean up the mess in the morning. She sat there, her oversized T-shirt bunched over her thighs, and ordered herself to get a grip.

She didn’t know why her dreams were taking her back to the island of Lost Desire and the home she’d escaped from at eighteen. But Jo figured any first-year psych student could translate the rest of the symbolism. The house was locked because she doubted anyone would welcome her if she did return home. Just lately, she’d given some thought to it but had wondered if she’d lost the way back.

And she was nearing the age her mother had been when she had left the island. Disappeared, abandoning her husband and three children without a second glance. Had Annabelle ever dreamed of coming home, Jo wondered, and dreamed the door was locked to her?

She didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to remember the woman who had broken her heart twenty years before. Jo reminded herself that she should be long over such things by now. She’d lived without her mother, and without Sanctuary and her family. She had even thrived—at least professionally.

Tapping her cigarette absently, Jo glanced around the bedroom. She kept it simple, practical. Though she’d traveled widely, there were few mementos. Except the photographs. She’d matted and framed the black-and-white prints, choosing the ones among her work that she found the most restful to decorate the walls of the room where she slept.

There, an empty park bench, the black wrought iron all fluid curves. And there, a single willow, its lacy leaves dipping low over a small, glassy pool. A moonlit garden was a study in shadow and texture and contrasting shapes. The lonely beach with the sun just breaking the horizon tempted the viewer to step inside the photo and feel the sand rough underfoot.

She’d hung that seascape only the week before, after returning from an assignment on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Perhaps that was one reason she’d begun to think about home, Jo decided. She’d been very close. She could have traveled a bit south down to Georgia and ferried from the mainland to the island.

There were no roads to Desire, no bridges spanning its sound. But she hadn’t gone south. She’d completed her assignment and come back to Charlotte to bury herself in her work. And her nightmares.

She crushed out the cigarette and stood. There would be no more sleep, she knew, so she pulled on a pair of sweatpants. She would do some darkroom work, take her mind off things.

It was probably the book deal that was making her nervous, she decided, as she padded out of the bedroom. It was a huge step in her career. Though she knew her work was good, the offer from a major publishing house to create an art book from a collection of her photographs had been unexpected and thrilling.

Natural Studies, by Jo Ellen Hathaway, she thought as she turned into the small galley kitchen to make coffee. No, that sounded like a science project. Glimpses of Life? Pompous.

She smiled a little, pushing back her smoky red hair and yawning. She should just take the pictures and leave the title selection to the experts.

She knew when to step back and when to take a stand, after all. She’d been doing one or the other most of her life. Maybe she would send a copy of the book home. What would her family think of it? Would it end up gracing one of the coffee tables where an overnight guest could page through it and wonder if Jo Ellen Hathaway was related to the Hathaways who ran the Inn at Sanctuary?
Would her father even open it at all and see what she had learned to do? Or would he simply shrug, leave it untouched, and go out to walk his island? Annabelle’s island.

It was doubtful he would take an interest in his oldest daughter now. And it was foolish for that daughter to care. Jo shrugged the thought away, took a plain blue mug from a hook. While she waited for the coffee to brew, she leaned on the counter and looked out her tiny window.

There were some advantages to being up and awake at three in the morning, she decided. The phone wouldn’t ring. No one would call or fax or expect anything of her. For a few hours she didn’t have to be anyone, or do anything. If her stomach was jittery and her head ached, no one knew the weakness but herself.

Below her kitchen window, the streets were dark and empty, slicked by late-winter rain. A streetlamp spread a small pool of light—lonely light, Jo thought. There was no one to bask in it.

Aloneness had such mystery, she mused. Such endless possibilities. It pulled at her, as such scenes often did, and she found herself leaving the scent of coffee, grabbing her Nikon, and rushing out barefoot into the chilly night to photograph the deserted street. It soothed her as nothing else could. With a camera in her hand and an image in her mind, she could forget everything else.

Her long feet splashed through chilly puddles as she experimented with angles. With absent annoyance she flicked at her hair. It wouldn’t be falling in her face if she’d had it trimmed. But she’d had no time, so it swung heavily forward in a tousled wave and made her wish for an elastic band.

She took nearly a dozen shots before she was satisfied. When she turned, her gaze was drawn upward. She’d left the lights on, she mused. She hadn’t even been aware she’d turned on so many on the trip from bedroom to kitchen.

Lips pursed, she crossed the street and focused her camera again. Calculating, she crouched, shot at an upward angle, and captured those lighted windows in the dark building. Den of the Insomniac, she decided. Then with a half laugh that echoed eerily enough to make her shudder, she lowered the camera again.

God, maybe she was losing her mind. Would a sane woman be out at three in the morning, half dressed and shivering, while she took pictures of her own windows?

She pressed her fingers against her eyes and wished more than anything else for the single thing that had always seemed to elude her. Normality.

You needed sleep to be normal, she thought. She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in more than a month. You needed regular meals. She’d lost ten pounds in the last few weeks and had watched her long, rangy frame go bony. You needed peace of mind. She couldn’t remember if she had ever laid claim to that.

Friends? Certainly she had friends, but no one close enough to call in the middle of the night to console her. Family. Well, she had family, of sorts. A brother and sister whose lives no longer marched with hers. A father who was almost a stranger. A mother she hadn’t seen or heard from in twenty years.

Not my fault, Jo reminded herself as she started back across the street. It was Annabelle’s fault. Everything had changed when Annabelle had run from Sanctuary and left her baffled family crushed and heartbroken. The trouble, as Jo saw it, was that the rest of them hadn’t gotten over it. She had.

She hadn’t stayed on the island guarding every grain of sand like her father did. She hadn’t dedicated her life to running and caring for Sanctuary like her brother, Brian. And she hadn’t escaped into foolish fantasies or the next thrill the way her sister, Lexy, had.

Instead she had studied, and she had worked, and she had made a life for herself. If she was a little shaky just now, it was only because she’d overextended, was letting the pressure get to her. She was a little run-down, that was all. She’d just add some vitamins to her regimen and get back in shape.

She might even take a vacation, Jo mused as she dug her keys out of her pocket. It had been three years—no, four—since she had last taken a trip without a specific assignment. Maybe Mexico, the West Indies. Someplace where the pace was slow and the sun hot. Slowing down and clearing her mind. That was the way to get past this little blip in her life.

As she stepped back into the apartment, she kicked a small, square manila envelope that lay on the floor. For a moment she simply stood, one hand on the door, the other holding her camera, and stared at it.

Had it been there when she left? Why was it there in the first place? The first one had come a month before, had been waiting in her stack of mail, with only her name carefully printed across it.

Her hands began to shake again as she ordered herself to close the door, to lock it. Her breath hitched, but she leaned over, picked it up. Carefully, she set the camera aside, then unsealed the flap.

When she tapped out the contents, the sound she made was a long, low moan. The photograph was very professionally done, perfectly cropped. Just as the other three had been. A woman’s eyes, heavy-lidded, almond-shaped, with thick lashes and delicately arched brows. Jo knew their color would be blue, deep blue, because the eyes were her own. In them was stark terror.

When was it taken? How and why? She pressed a hand to her mouth, staring down at the photo, knowing her eyes mirrored the shot perfectly. Terror swept through her, had her rushing through the apartment into the small second bedroom she’d converted to a darkroom. Frantically she yanked open a drawer, pawed through the contents, and found the envelopes she’d buried there. In each was another black-and-white photo, cropped to two by six inches.

Her heartbeat was thundering in her ears as she lined them up. In the first the eyes were closed, as if she’d been photographed while sleeping. The others followed the waking process. Lashes barely lifted, showing only a hint of iris. In the third the eyes were open but unfocused and clouded with confusion.

They had disturbed her, yes, unsettled her, certainly, when she found them tucked in her mail. But they hadn’t frightened her.

Now the last shot, centered on her eyes, fully awake and bright with fear.

Stepping back, shivering, Jo struggled to be calm. Why onlythe eyes? she asked herself. How had someone gotten close enough to take these pictures without her being aware of it?

Now, whoever it was had been as close as the other side of her front door.

Propelled by fresh panic, she ran into the living room, and frantically checked the locks. Her heart was battering against her ribs when she fell back against the door. Then the anger kicked in.

Bastard, she thought. He wanted her to be terrorized. He wanted her to hide inside those rooms, jumping at shadows, afraid to step outside for fear he’d be there watching. She who had always been fearless was playing right into his hands.

She had wandered alone through foreign cities, walked mean streets and empty ones, she’d climbed mountains and hacked through jungles. With the camera as her shield, she’d never given a thought to fear. And now, because of a handful of photos, her legs were jellied with it.

The fear had been building, she admitted now. Growing and spiking over the weeks, level by level. It made her feel helpless, so exposed, so brutally alone.

Jo pushed herself away from the door. She couldn’t and wouldn’t live this way. She would ignore it, put it aside. Bury it deep. God knew she was an expert at burying traumas, small and large. This was just one more.

She was going to drink her coffee and go to work. BY eight she had come full circle—sliding through fatigue, arcing through nervous energy, creative calm, then back to fatigue.

She couldn’t work mechanically, not even on the most basic aspect of darkroom chores. She insisted on giving every step her full attention. To do so, she’d had to calm down, ditch both the anger and the fear. Over her first cup of coffee, she’d convinced herself she had figured out the reasoning behind the photos she’d been receiving. Someone admired her work and was trying to get her attention, engage her influence for their own.

That made sense.

Occasionally she lectured or gave workshops. In addition, she’d had three major shows in the last three years. It wasn’t that difficult or that extraordinary for someone to have taken her picture—several pictures, for that matter. That was certainly reasonable.

Whoever it was had gotten creative, that was all. They’d enlarged the eye area, cropped it, and were sending the photos to her in a kind of series. Though the photos appeared to have been printed recently, there was no telling when or where they’d been taken. The negatives might be a year old. Or two. Or five.

They had certainly gotten her attention, but she’d overreacted, taken it too personally. Over the last couple of years, she had received samples of work from admirers of hers. Usually there was a letter attached, praising her own photographs before the sender went into a pitch about wanting her advice or her help, or in a few cases, suggesting that they collaborate on a project.

The success she was enjoying professionally was still relatively new. She wasn’t yet used to the pressures that went along with commercial success, or the expectations, which could become burdensome.

And, Jo admitted as she ignored her unsteady stomach and sipped coffee that had gone stone cold, she wasn’t handling that success as well as she might.

She would handle it better, she thought, rolling her aching head on her aching shoulders, if everyone would just leave her alone to do what she did best.

Completed prints hung drying on the wet side of her darkroom. Her last batch of negatives had been developed and, sitting on a stool at her work counter, she slid a contact sheet onto her light board, then studied it, frame by frame, through her loupe. For a moment she felt a flash of panic and despair. Every print she looked at was out of focus, blurry. Goddamn it, goddamn it, how could that be? Was it the whole roll? She shifted, blinked, and watched the magnified image of rising dunes and oat grass pop clear.

With a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh she sat back, rolled her tensed shoulders. “It’s not the prints that are blurry and out of focus, you idiot,” she muttered aloud. “It’s you.”

She set the loupe aside and closed her eyes to rest them. She lacked the energy to get up and make more coffee. She knew she should go eat, get something solid into her system. And she knew she should sleep. Stretch out on the bed, close everything off and crash. But she was afraid to. In sleep she would lose even this shaky control.

She was beginning to think she should see a doctor, get something for her nerves before they frayed beyond repair. But that idea made her think of psychiatrists. Undoubtedly they would want to poke and pry inside her brain and dig up matters she was determined to forget.

She would handle it. She was good at handling herself. Or, as Brian had always said, she was good at elbowing everyone out of her way so she could handle everything herself.

What choice had she had—had any of them had when they’d been left alone to flounder on that damned spit of land miles from nowhere?

The rage that erupted inside her jolted her, it was so sudden, so powerful. She trembled with it, clenched her fists in her lap, and had to bite back the hot words she wanted to spit out at the brother who wasn’t even there. Tired, she told herself. She was just tired, that was all. She needed to put work aside, take one of those over-the-counter sleeping aids she’d bought and had yet to try, turn off the phone and get some sleep. She would be steadier then, stronger.

When a hand fell on her shoulder, she ripped off a scream and sent her coffee mug flying.

“Jesus! Jesus, Jo!” Bobby Banes scrambled back, scattering the mail he carried on the floor.

“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?” She bolted off the stool and sent it crashing, as he gaped at her.

“I—you said you wanted to get started at eight. I’m only a few minutes late.”

Jo fought for breath, gripped the edge of her worktable to keep herself upright. “Eight?”

Her student assistant nodded cautiously. He swallowed hard and kept his distance. To his eye she still looked wild and ready to attack. It was his second semester working with her, and he thought he’d learned how to anticipate her orders, gauge her moods, and avoid her temper. But he didn’t have a clue how to handle that hot fear in her eyes.

“Why the hell didn’t you knock?” she snapped at him.

“I did. When you didn’t answer, I figured you must be in here, so I used the key you gave me when you went on the last assignment.”

“Give it back. Now.”

“Sure. Okay, Jo.” Keeping his eyes on hers, he dug into the front pocket of his fashionably faded jeans. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

Jo bit down on control and took the key he held out. There was as much embarrassment now, she realized, as fear. To give herself a moment, she bent down and righted her stool. “Sorry, Bobby. You did spook me. I didn’t hear you knock.”

“It’s okay. Want me to get you another cup of coffee?”

She shook her head and gave in to her knocking knees. As she slid onto the stool, she worked up a smile for him. He was a good student, she thought—a little pompous about his work yet, but he was only twenty-one.

She thought he was going for the artist-as-college-student look, with his dark blond hair in a shoulder-length ponytail, the single gold hoop earring accenting his long, narrow face. His teeth were perfect. His parents had believed in braces, she thought, running her tongue over her own slight overbite.

He had a good eye, she mused. And a great deal of potential. That was why he was here, after all. Jo was always willing to pay back what had been given to her.

Because his big brown eyes were still watching her warily, she put more effort into the smile. “I had a rough night.”

“You look like it.” He tried a smile of his own when she lifted a brow. “The art is in seeing what’s really there, right? And you look whipped. Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

Vain was one thing Jo wasn’t. She shrugged her shoulders and rubbed her tired eyes. “Not much.”

“You ought to try that melatonin. My mother swears by it.”

He crouched to pick up the broken shards of the mug. “And maybe you could cut back on the coffee.”

He glanced up but saw she wasn’t listening. She’d gone on a side trip again, Bobby thought. A new habit of hers. He’d just about given up on getting his mentor into a healthier lifestyle.

But he decided to give it one more shot.

“You’ve been living on coffee and cigarettes again.”

“Yeah.” She was drifting, half asleep where she sat.

“That stuff’ll kill you. And you need an exercise program. You’ve dropped about ten pounds in the last few weeks. With your height you need to carry more weight. And you’ve got small bones—you’re courting osteoporosis. Gotta build up those bones and muscles.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You ought to see a doctor. You ask me, you’re anemic. You got no color, and you could pack half your equipment in the bags under your eyes.”

“So nice of you to notice.”

He scooped up the biggest shards, dumped them in her waste can. Of course he’d noticed. She had a face that drew attention. It didn’t matter that she seemed to work overtime to fade into the background. He’d never seen her wear makeup, and she kept her hair pulled back, but anyone with an eye could see it should be framing that oval face with its delicate bones and exotic eyes and sexy mouth.

Bobby caught himself, felt heat rise to his cheeks. She would laugh at him if she knew he’d had a little crush on her when she first took him on. That, he figured, had been as much professional admiration as physical attraction. And he’d gotten over the attraction part. Mostly.

But there was no doubt that if she would do the minimum to enhance that magnolia skin, dab some color on that top-heavy mouth and smudge up those long-lidded eyes, she’d be a knockout.

“I could fix you breakfast,” he began. “If you’ve got something besides candy bars and moldy bread.”

Taking a long breath, Jo tuned in. “No, that’s okay. Maybe we’ll stop somewhere and grab something. I’m already running behind.”

She slid off the stool and crouched to pick up the mail.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to take a few days off, focus on yourself. My mom goes to this spa down in Miami.”

His words were only a buzzing in her ear now. She picked up the manila envelope with her name printed neatly on it in block letters. She had to wipe a film of sweat from her brow. In the pit of her stomach was a sick ball that went beyond dread into fear.

The envelope was thicker than the others had been, weightier.

Throw it away, her mind screamed out. Don’t open it. Don’t look inside.

But her fingers were already scraping along the flap. Low whimpering sounds escaped her as she tore at the little metal clasp. This time an avalanche of photos spilled out onto the floor.

She snatched one up. It was a well-produced five-by-seven blackand-white.

Not just her eyes this time, but all of her. She recognized the background—a park near her building where she often walked. Another was of her in downtown Charlotte, standing on a curb with her camera bag over her shoulder.

“Hey, that’s a pretty good shot of you.”

As Bobby leaned down to select one of the prints, she slapped at his hand and snarled at him, “Keep away. Keep back. Don’t touch me.”

“Jo, I . . .”

“Stay the hell away from me.” Panting, she dropped on all fours to paw frantically through the prints. There was picture after picture of her doing ordinary, everyday things. Coming out of the market with a bag of groceries, getting in or out of her car. He’s everywhere, he’s watching me. Wherever I go, whatever I do. He’s hunting me, she thought, as her teeth began to chatter. He’s hunting me and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing, until . . .

Then everything inside her clicked off. The photograph in her hand shook as if a brisk breeze had kicked up inside the room. She couldn’t scream. There seemed to be no air inside her. She simply couldn’t feel her body any longer.

The photograph was brilliantly produced, the lighting and use of shadows and textures masterful. She was naked, her skin glowing eerily. Her body was arranged in a restful pose, the fragile chin dipped down, the head gently angled. One arm draped across her midriff, the other was flung up over her head in a position of dreaming sleep.

But the eyes were open and staring. A doll’s eyes. Dead eyes. For a moment, she was thrown helplessly back into her nightmare, staring at herself and unable to fight her way out of the dark.

But even through terror she could see the differences. The woman in the photo had a waving mass of hair that fanned out from her face. And the face was softer, the body riper than her own.

“Mama?” she whispered and gripped the picture with both hands. “Mama?”

“What is it, Jo?” Shaken, Bobby listened to his own voice hitch and dip as he stared into Jo’s glazed eyes. “What the hell is it?”

“Where are her clothes?” Jo tilted her head, began to rock herself. Her head was full of sounds, rushing, thundering sounds.

“Where is she?”

“Take it easy.” Bobby took a step forward, started to reach down to take the photo from her.

Her head snapped up. “Stay away.” The color flashed back into her cheeks, riding high. Something not quite sane danced in her eyes.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch her.”

Frightened, baffled, he straightened again, held both hands palms out. “Okay. Okay, Jo.”

“I don’t want you to touch her.” She was cold, so cold. She looked down at the photo again. It was Annabelle. Young, eerily beautiful, and cold as death. “She shouldn’t have left us. She shouldn’t have gone away. Why did she go?”

“Maybe she had to,” Bobby said quietly.

“No, she belonged with us. We needed her, but she didn’t want us. She’s so pretty.” Tears rolled down Jo’s cheeks, and the picture trembled in her hand. “She’s so beautiful. Like a fairy princess. I used to think she was a princess. She left us. She left us and went away. Now she’s dead.”

Her vision wavered, her skin went hot. Pressing the photo against her breasts, Jo curled into a ball and wept.

“Come on, Jo.” Gently, Bobby reached down. “Come on with me now. We’ll get some help.”

“I’m so tired,” she murmured, letting him pick her up as if she were a child. “I want to go home.”

“Okay. Just close your eyes now.”

The photo fluttered silently to the floor, facedown atop all the other faces. She saw writing on the back. Large bold letters.

DEATH OF AN ANGEL

Her last thought, as the dark closed in, was Sanctuary.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Montana Sky.

From Tess Mercy’s journal:

After two days of life on the ranch, I’ve decided I hate Montana, I hate cows, horses, cowboys, and most particularly chickens. I’ve been assigned the chicken coop by Bess Pringle, the scrawny despot who runs the house where I’m being held prisoner. I learned of this new career move after dinner last night. A dinner, I might add, of roast hunk of bear. It seems Danielle Boone went up in the hills and shot herself a grizzly. It was yummy.

I’m going to try to think of it as an adventure.

Tess didn’t mind rising early. She was invariably up by six in any case. An hour at the gym, perhaps a breakfast meeting, then she would hunker over her work until two. Then she’d take a dip in the pool, or take another meeting, perhaps do a little shopping. Maybe she’d have a date or maybe she wouldn’t, but her life was hers and ran just as she liked.

Rising early to deal with a bunch of chickens had an entirely different flavor. The chicken house was big, and certainly looked clean.

To Tess’s untrained eye, the fifty hens Mercy boasted seemed a legion of beady-eyed, ominously humming predators. She dumped the feed as Bess had instructed, dealt with the water, then dusted off her hands and eyed the first roosting hen.

‘‘I’m supposed to get the eggs. I believe you may be sitting on one, so if you don’t mind . . .’’ Gingerly she reached out, her eyes locked on the hens. It was immediately apparent who was in charge. Yelping as beak nipped flesh, Tess jumped back.

‘‘Look, sister, I’ve got my orders.’’

It was an ugly battle. Feathers flew, tempers snapped. The henhouse erupted with clucking and squawking as neighboring hens joined the fray. Tess managed to get her hand around a nice warm egg, wrenched it clear, then stepped back red-faced and panting.

‘‘That’s quite a technique you got there.’’

At the voice behind her, Tess let loose of the egg. It spurted out of her fingers and fell splat on the floor. ‘‘Goddamn it! After all that.’’

‘‘I spooked you.’’ The commotion inside the henhouse had lured Nate. Instead of heading on to see Willa, he’d detoured and found the California connection — in her designer jeans and shiny new boots — battling chickens. He could only think she made a picture.

‘‘Looking for breakfast?’’

‘‘More or less.’’ She pushed her hair back from her face.

‘‘What are you looking for?’’

‘‘I’ve got some business with Will. Your hand’s bleeding,’’ he added.

‘‘I know it.’’ In a bad temper, she sucked on the wounds on the back of her hand. ‘‘That vicious birdbrain attacked me.’’

‘‘You’re just not going about it right.’’ He offered her a bandanna to wrap around her hand, then stepped up to the next roost. And managed, Tess noted, to look graceful despite the necessity of stooping and bending to keep from bashing his head on the ceiling. ‘‘You’ve just got to go in like it’s natural. Make it quick but not abrupt.’’ He demonstrated, slipping a hand under the roosting hen and pulling it out with an egg. Not a feather stirred.

‘‘It’s my first day on the job.’’ Pouting only a little, she held up the bucket. ‘‘I like to find my chicken in the freezer section, wrapped in cellophane.’’ As he walked along, gathering eggs, she followed behind. ‘‘I suppose you keep chickens.’’

‘‘Used to. I don’t bother with them now.’’

‘‘Cattle?’’

‘‘Nope.’’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Sheep? Isn’t that a risk? I’ve seen all those western movies, the range wars.’’

‘‘I don’t raise sheep either.’’ He settled an egg in the bucket. ‘‘Just horses. Quarter horses. You ride, Miz Mercy?’’

‘‘No.’’ She tossed her hair back with a shrug. ‘‘Though I’m told I’d better learn. And I suppose it would give me something to do around here.’’

‘‘Adam would teach you. Or I could.’’

‘‘Really?’’ She smiled slowly with a flutter of lashes. ‘‘And why would you do that, Mr. Torrence?’’

‘‘Just being neighborly.’’ She sure had a nice smell about her, he thought. Something just a little dark, just a little dangerous. And all female. He set another egg inside the bucket. ‘‘It’s Nate.’’

‘‘All right.’’ Her voice warmed to a purr, and her eyes slanted up a sly look under thick, spiky lashes. ‘‘Are we neighbors, Nate?’’

‘‘In a manner of speaking. My place is east of here. You smell good, Miz Mercy, for someone who’s been fighting with chickens.’’

‘‘It’s Tess. Are you flirting with me, Nate?’’

‘‘Just flirting back.’’ His smile was slow and easy. ‘‘That’s what you were doing, wasn’t it?’’

‘‘In a manner of speaking. Habit.’’

‘‘Well, if you want advice—’’

‘‘And lawyers are full of it,’’ she interrupted.

‘‘We are. My advice would be to tone down the power. The boys around here aren’t used to women with as much style as you’ve got.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ She wasn’t sure if she’d been complimented or insulted, but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘‘And are you used to women with style?’’

‘‘Can’t say I am.’’ He gave her a long, thoughtful look out of quiet blue eyes. ‘‘But I recognize one. You’ll have them crazy and thinking of killing each other within a week.’’

Now that, she decided, was a compliment. ‘‘That ought to liven things up.’’

‘‘From what I hear, they’ve been lively enough.’’

‘‘Dead cats and cows.’’ She grimaced. ‘‘A nasty business. I’m glad I missed it.’’

‘‘You’re here now. That seems to be the lot,’’ he added, and she looked down in the bucket.

‘‘Plenty of them. And Christ, they’re filthy.’’ It was liable to put her off omelets for quite a while.

‘‘They’ll wash.’’ He took the bucket from her and started out. ‘‘You settling in?’’

‘‘As best I can. It’s not my milieu — my usual environment.’’ He tucked his tongue in his cheek.

‘‘Folks from your — what was it? — milieu come out here all the time. Not that they stay.’’ Automatically he ducked down to avoid rapping his head on the low doorway of the henhouse. ‘‘Those Hollywooders come charging out, buying up land, plunking down houses that cost the earth and more. Think they’re going to raise buffalo or save the mustangs or God knows what.’’

‘‘You don’t like Californians?’’

‘‘Californians don’t belong in Montana. As a rule. They go running back to their restaurants and nightclubs soon enough.’’ He turned, studied her. ‘‘That’s what you’ll do when your year’s up.’’

‘‘You bet your ass. You can keep your wide-open spaces, pal. I’ll take Beverly Hills.’’

‘‘And smog, mudslides, earthquakes.’’

She only smiled. ‘‘Please, you’re making me homesick.’’

She figured she had his number. Montana-born and-bred, a slow, thorough thinker who liked his beer cold and his women modest. The sort who would have kissed his horse at the end of the last reel in any B western. But my, oh my, he was cute.

‘‘Why the law, Nate? Somebody sue your horses?’’

‘‘Not lately.’’ He continued to walk, shortening his stride to let her keep pace. ‘‘It interested me. The system. And it helps keep the ranch going. Takes time and money to build up a solid herd and a reputation.’’

‘‘So you went to law school to supplement your ranch income. Where? University of Montana?’’ Her mouth was smug and amused. ‘‘There is a university in Montana, isn’t there?’’

‘‘I’ve heard there is.’’ Recognizing the sarcasm, he slid his gaze down to hers. ‘‘No, I went to Yale.’’

‘‘To—’’ As she’d stopped dead, he was well ahead of her before she recovered. She had to scramble to catch up.

‘‘Yale? You went to Yale and came back here to play range lawyer for a bunch of cowboys and ranch hands?’’

‘‘I don’t play at the law.’’ He tipped his hat in good-bye and circled around to a corral beside the pole barn.

‘‘Yale.’’ She said it again, shook her head. Fascinated now, she shifted the bucket he’d handed back to her and scurried after him. ‘‘Hey, listen. Nate—’’

She stopped. There was a great deal of activity in the corral. Two men and Willa were doing something to a small cow. Something the cow didn’t appear to appreciate. Tess wondered if they were branding, and thought she’d like to see how that little trick was done. Besides, she wanted to talk to Nate again, and he was moving to the action.

She hefted her bucket, strode up to the gate and through it. No one bothered to look at her. They were focused on their work and the cow had all their attention. Lips pursed, Tess stepped closer, leaned forward to check out the activity over Willa’s shoulder.

When she saw Jim Brewster quickly, neatly, and efficiently castrate the calf, her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted dead away, with barely a sound. It was the crash of the bucket and breaking eggs that made Willa glance around.

‘‘Well, Jesus Christ, will you look at that?’’

‘‘She’s done passed out cold, Will,’’ Jim informed her, and earned a bland scowl.

‘‘I can see that. Deal with the calf.’’ She straightened, but Nate was already lifting Tess into his arms. ‘‘Looks like a handful.’’

‘‘She’s not a featherweight.’’ He grinned. ‘‘Your sister’s built just fine, Will.’’

‘‘You can enjoy that little benefit while you haul her into the house. Damn it.’’ She scooped up the bucket. ‘‘She busted damn near every egg. Bess’ll have a fit.’’ Disgusted, she looked back at Jim and Pickles. ‘‘You two keep at it. I’m going to have to see to her first. As if I’ve got nothing better to do than find smelling salts for some brainless city girl.’’

‘‘You shouldn’t be so hard on her, Will,’’ Nate began as he carried Tess across the road toward the ranch house. His lips twitched. ‘‘She’s out of her milieu.’’

‘‘I wish to hell she’d get back in it and out of mine. I’ve got this one fainting on me, and the other one tiptoeing around as if I’d shoot her between the eyes if she looked at me.’’

‘‘You’re a scary woman, Will.’’ He glanced down as Tess stirred in his arms. ‘‘I think she’s coming around.’’

‘‘Dump her somewhere,’’ Willa suggested, pulling open the door of the house. ‘‘I’ll get some water.’’

He had to admit Tess was an interesting armful. Not one of the bony, pencil-thin California types but a soft, round woman who had her weight distributed just where it belonged.

She groaned, and her lashes fluttered as he carried her toward a sofa. Her eyes, blue as cornflowers, stared blankly into his.

‘‘What?’’ was the best she could manage.

‘‘Take it easy, honey. You just had yourself a swoon, that’s all.’’

‘‘A swoon?’’ It took a moment for her brain to get around to the word and its meaning. ‘‘I fainted? That’s ridiculous!’’

‘‘Went down real graceful too.’’ She’d toppled like a tree, he remembered, but didn’t think she’d appreciate the analogy.

‘‘Didn’t hurt your head, did you?’’

‘‘My head?’’ Still dazed, she lifted a hand to it. ‘‘I don’t think so. I . . .’’ And then she remembered. ‘‘Oh, God, that cow. What they were doing to that cow. What are you grinning at?’’

‘‘I’m imagining what it was like for you to see a bull turned into a steer for the first time. Guess you don’t see much of that in Beverly Hills.’’

‘‘We keep all our cattle in the guest house.’’

He nodded appreciatively. ‘‘There now, you’re coming around.’’

She was, indeed. Enough to realize she was being cradled against his chest like a baby. ‘‘Why are you carrying me?’’

‘‘Well, it didn’t seem neighborly to drag you by the hair. Your color’s coming back.’’

‘‘Haven’t you put her down yet?’’ Willa demanded as she strode back into the room holding a glass of water.

‘‘I like it this way. She smells pretty.’’

The exaggerated drawl made Willa chuckle and shake her head. ‘‘Stop playing with her, Nate, and dump her. I’ve got work to do.’’

‘‘Can’t I keep her, Will? I don’t have me a female out on the ranch. Gets lonely.’’

‘‘You two are a riot.’’ Striving to restore some dignity, Tess swiped the hair out of her eyes. ‘‘Put me down, you idiot beanpole.’’

‘‘Yes’m.’’ From a considerable height, he dropped her onto the leather couch. She bounced once, scowled, and pushed herself up.

‘‘Drink this.’’ With little sympathy, Willa thrust the glass of water into Tess’s hand. ‘‘And stay away from the corrals.’’

‘‘You can be sure I will.’’ Furious with herself, and the fact that she was still shaky, Tess drank. ‘‘What you were doing out there was revolting, barbaric, and cruel. If mutilating a helpless animal isn’t illegal, it should be.’’ She set her teeth when Nate beamed at her. ‘‘And stop grinning at me, you fool. I don’t imagine you’d appreciate having your balls snipped off with pruning shears.’’

He felt them draw up, cleared his throat. ‘‘No, ma’am, I can’t say I would.’’

‘‘We don’t castrate the men around here till we’re through with them,’’ Willa said dryly. ‘‘Look, Hollywood, weaning and castration are part of ranch life. Just what do you think would happen if we left every cow with his works? We’d have bulls humping everything.’’

‘‘Cattle orgies every night,’’ Nate put in, then backed off at the searing looks delivered by both women.

‘‘I don’t have time to explain the facts of life to you,’’ Willa continued. ‘‘Just get over it and stay away from the corral for the next couple of days. Bess’ll find work for you inside the house.’’

‘‘Oh, joy.’’

‘‘I don’t see what else you’re good for. You can’t even gather eggs without breaking the lot of them.’’ When Tess hissed at her, she turned to Nate. ‘‘You wanted to talk to me?’’

‘‘Yeah, I did.’’ He hadn’t expected quite so much entertainment. ‘‘First, I wanted to see if you were all right. I heard about the trouble you’ve been having.’’

‘‘I’m all right enough.’’ Willa took the glass of water out of Tess’s hand and drank the rest of it down herself. ‘‘There doesn’t seem to be a lot I can do about it. The men are a little spooked, and they’re keeping their eyes out.’’ She set the empty glass down, pushed her hat back. ‘‘You haven’t heard about this sort of thing happening to anyone else?’’

‘‘No.’’ And it worried him. ‘‘I don’t know what I can do to help, but if there is anything, just ask.’’

‘‘I appreciate it.’’ Willa took his hand and squeezed it, a gesture that caused Tess to purse her lips thoughtfully. ‘‘Were you able to deal with that other business we talked about?’’

Her will, he thought, naming Adam as beneficiary. And the papers transferring his house, the horses, and half of her interest in Mercy to him at the end of the year. ‘‘Yeah, I’ll have a draft to you on all of it by the end of the week.’’

‘‘Thanks.’’ She released his hand, adjusted her hat. ‘‘You can talk to her if you’ve got time to waste on it.’’ She sent Tess a wicked smile. ‘‘I’ve got cows to castrate.’’

As Willa strode out, Tess folded her arms and tried to settle her temper. ‘‘I could learn to hate her. It wouldn’t take any effort at all.’’

‘‘You just don’t know her.’’

‘‘I know she’s cold, rude, unfriendly, and riding on a power trip. That’s more than enough for me.’’ No, she realized as she got to her feet, the temper wasn’t going to settle. ‘‘I haven’t done a damn thing to deserve that attitude from her. I didn’t ask to be stuck out here, and I sure as hell didn’t ask to be related to that gnat-assed witch.’’

‘‘She didn’t ask for it either.’’ Nate sat on the arm of a chair, methodically rolled a cigarette. He had a little time and thought there were things that needed to be said. ‘‘Let me ask you something. How would you feel if you suddenly found out your home could be taken away? Your home, your life, everything you’ve ever loved?’’

His eyes were mild as he struck a match, held it to the tip of the cigarette. ‘‘To keep it, you have to rely on strangers, and even if you manage to hold on, you won’t keep it all. Good chunks of it are going to belong to those strangers. People you don’t know, never had the opportunity to know, are living in your house with as much legal right as you. There’s nothing you can do about it. Added to that, you’ve got all the responsibility, because these strangers don’t know squat about ranching. It’s up to you to hold it together. All they have to do is wait, and if they wait, they’ll get as much as you, even though you were the one to work, to sweat, to worry.’’

Tess opened her mouth, closed it again. Put that simply, it changed the hue. ‘‘I’m not to blame for it,’’ she said quietly.

‘‘No, you’re not. But neither is she.’’ He turned his head, studied the portrait of Jack Mercy above the fireplace. ‘‘And you didn’t have to live with him.’’

‘‘What was he—’’ She broke off, cursed herself. She didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to know.

‘‘What was he like?’’ Nate blew out smoke. ‘‘I’ll tell you. He was hard, cold, selfish. He knew how to run a ranch, better than anyone I know. But he didn’t know how to raise a child.’’ Remembering that, thinking of that, fired him up. Now his voice was clipped. ‘‘He never gave her an ounce of affection or, as far as I know, one single word of praise, no matter how she worked her skin off for him. She was
never good enough, or fast enough, or smart enough to suit him.’’

Guilt wasn’t going to work, Tess told herself. He wasn’t going to make her feel guilt or sympathy. ‘‘She could have left.’’

‘‘Yeah, she could have left. But she loved this place. And she loved him. You don’t have to grieve for your father, Tess. You lost him years ago. But Willa’s grieving. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t want her any more than he wanted you, or Lily, but she wasn’t lucky enough to have a mother.’’

All right, guilt was going to work. A little. ‘‘I’m sorry about that. But it doesn’t have anything to do with me.’’

He took a slow drag on his cigarette, then crushed it out carefully as he rose. ‘‘It has everything to do with you.’’

He studied her, and his eyes were suddenly cool and detached and uncomfortably lawyerlike. ‘‘If you don’t understand that, you’ve got too much of Jack Mercy in you. I’ll be going.’’ He touched the brim of his hat in farewell and walked out.

For a long time, Tess stood where she was, staring up at the portrait of the man who’d been her father. Miles away on three rocks land, jesse cooke whistled between his teeth as he changed the points and plugs in an old Ford pickup. He was feeling fine, pumped up from the conversation over breakfast about the animal mutilations at Mercy. What was more rewarding, what was so damn perfect, was that Lily had come across that headless cat.

He only wished he could have seen it.

But Legs Monroe had it straight from Wood Book over at Mercy that the little city woman with the black eye had screamed her head off. Oh, that was sweet.

Jesse whistled a country tune as his clever fingers made adjustments. He’d always hated country music, the whiny women sobbing over their men, dickless men moaning over their women. But he was adjusting. Every damn one of his bunkhouse mates was a fan, and it was all anyone listened to. He could handle it. In fact, he was beginning to think Montana was the place for him.

It was a land for real men, he’d decided. Men who knew how to handle themselves and keep their women in line. After he’d taught Lily a proper lesson, they’d settle down here. She was going to be rich.

The thought of that had him chuckling and tapping his foot to his own tune. Imagine dumb-ass Lily inheriting a third of one of the top ranches in the state. Worth a fucking fortune, too. All it was going to take was a year.

Jesse pulled his head out from under the hood and looked around. The mountains, the land, the sky—they were all hard. Hard and strong, like him. So this was his place, and Lily was going to learn that her place was with him. Divorce didn’t mean shit in Jesse Cooke’s book. The woman belonged to him, and if he had to use his fists to remind her of that from time to time, well, that was his right.

All he had to do was be patient. That was the hard part, he admitted, wiping a greasy hand over his cheek. If she found out he was close, she’d run. He couldn’t afford to let her run until the year was up.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep his eye on her, no, indeedy. He was going to keep watch over his useless stick of a wife.

It was easy enough to make friends with a couple of the asshole hands over at Mercy. Drink a few beers, play some cards, and pump them for information. He could wander over to the neighboring ranch at will, as long as he didn’t let Lily see him.

And the day Jesse Cooke, ex-Marine, let a woman outwit him was the day they’d eat cherry Popsicles in hell.

Ducking under the hood again, he got back to work. And reviewed his plans for his next visit to Mercy.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Montana Sky.

Ben rolled, gained his feet. This time, as Willa ran behind him she could admire the speed with which he could move. The screams were still echoing when he wrenched open the front door.

‘‘Christ.’’ He muttered it even as he stepped over the bloody mess on the porch and gathered Lily in his arms.

‘‘It’s all right, honey.’’ Automatically he shifted so that he blocked her view and, with his hands stroking easy down her back, looked over her head into Willa’s eyes.

The shock was there, but it wasn’t the quaking, glassyeyed horror of the woman he held. This one was fragile, he thought, whereas Willa would always be sturdy.

‘‘You ought to get her inside,’’ he said to Willa. But Willa was shaking her head, staring down now at the mangled and bloody mess at her feet. ‘‘Must be one of the barn cats.’’ Or it had been, she thought grimly, before someone had decapitated it and cut its guts open and left it like a gory gift at her front door.

‘‘Take her inside, Will,’’ Ben repeated.

The screams had brought others running. Adam was the first to reach the porch. The first thing he saw was Lily weeping in Ben’s arms. The quick hitch in his gut had almost as much to do with that as what he saw spread on the porch.

Instinctively he stepped up, laid a hand on her arm, soothing when she jerked. ‘‘It’s all right, Lily.’’

‘‘Adam, I saw . . .’’ Nausea churned a storm in her stomach.

‘‘I know. You go on inside now. Look at me,’’ he murmured, carefully easing her away from Ben and leading her around and toward the door. ‘‘Willa’s going to take you inside.’’

‘‘Look, I’ve got—’’

‘‘Take care of your sister, Will,’’ Adam interrupted, and taking her hand, placed it firmly over Lily’s.
Willa lost the battle when Lily’s hand trembled under hers. With a mumbled oath she tugged. ‘‘Come on. You need to sit down.’’

‘‘I saw—’’

‘‘Yeah, I know what you saw. Forget it.’’ Willa closed the door with a decisive click, leaving the men to ponder the headless corpse on the porch.

‘‘Christ, Adam, is that a cat?’’ Jim Brewster swiped a hand over his mouth. ‘‘Somebody sure did a number on it.’’

Adam glanced back, studying each man in turn: Jim, face pale, Adam’s apple bobbing; Ham tight-lipped; Pickles with a rifle over his shoulder. There was Billy Vincent, barely eighteen and all eager eyes, and Wood Book, stroking his silky black beard.

It was Wood who spoke, his voice calm. ‘‘Where’s the head? Don’t see it there.’’ He stepped closer. It was Wood who oversaw the planting, tending, and harvesting of grain, and his wife, Nell, who cooked for the ranch hands. He smelled of Old Spice and peppermint candy. Adam knew him to be a steady man, as implacable as the Rock of Gibraltar.

‘‘Whoever did this might like trophies.’’ Adam’s words stopped the murmurs. Only Billy continued to babble.

‘‘Jee-sus Christ, you ever seen anything like that? Spread the guts all over hell and back, didn’t he? Now who’d do that to some stupid cat? What do you think—’’

‘‘Shut the hell up, Billy, you asshole.’’ The weary order came from Ham. He sighed once, took out his pack of smokes. ‘‘Get on back to supper, all of you. Nothing for you to do here now but gawk like a bunch of old ladies at a fashion show.’’

‘‘Don’t have much appetite,’’ Jim murmured, but he and the others drifted back.

‘‘Sure is a sorry mess,’’ Ham commented. ‘‘Guess a kid might do this. Wood’s boys are a little wild, but they’re not mean. You ask me, it takes mean to do this. But I’ll talk to them.’’

‘‘Ham, mind if I ask if you know what the men have been up to for the past hour?’’

Ham studied Ben through a haze of smoke. ‘‘Been here and there, washing up for supper and the like. I haven’t had my eye on them, if that’s what you’re asking. The men that work here don’t go cutting up a cat for frolic.’’

Ben merely nodded. It wasn’t his place to ask more, and they both knew it. ‘‘It had to have happened in the last hour. I’ve been here awhile, and this wasn’t here before.’’

Ham sucked in more smoke, nodded. ‘‘I’ll talk to Wood’s boys.’’ He gave one last look at what lay on the porch.

‘‘Sure is a sorry mess,’’ he repeated, then walked away.

‘‘You’ve had two animals torn up in a week, Adam.’’

Adam crouched down, laid his fingertip on the bloody fur. ‘‘His name was Mike. He was old, mostly blind in one eye, and should have died in his sleep.’’

‘‘I’m sorry about that.’’ Ben understood the affection, even the intimacy, with animals well and dropped a hand on Adam’s shoulder. ‘‘I think you’ve got a real problem here.’’

‘‘Yeah. Wood’s boys didn’t do this. They’ve got no harm in them. And they weren’t up in the hills slaughtering a steer either.’’

‘‘No, I wouldn’t say they were. How well do you know your men?’’

Adam lifted his gaze. Whatever the grief, it was hard, direct. ‘‘The men aren’t my territory. The horses are.’’ Still warm, he thought as he stroked the matted fur. Cooling fast, but still warm. ‘‘I know them well enough. All but Billy have been here for years, and he signed on last summer. You’d have to ask Willa, she’d know more.’’ He looked down again and grieved for an old half-blind tom who had still liked to hunt. ‘‘Lily shouldn’t have seen this.’’

‘‘No, she shouldn’t have.’’ Ben sighed and wondered how close she’d come to seeing who it was. ‘‘I’ll help you bury him.’’

Inside, Willa paced the living room. How the hell was she supposed to take care of the woman? And why had Adam pushed such a useless task on her? All Lily did was cower in the corner of the sofa and shake.

She’d given Lily whiskey, hadn’t she? She’d even patted her head for lack of anything better. She had a problem on her hands, for God’s sake, and she didn’t need some weakstomached Easterner to add to it.

‘‘I’m sorry.’’ Those were the first words she’d managed since she’d come inside. Taking a deep breath, Lily tried them again. ‘‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have screamed that way. I’ve never seen anything . . . I’d been with Adam, helping with the horses, and then I . . . I just—’’

‘‘Drink the damn whiskey, would you?’’ Willa snapped, then cursed herself as Lily cringed and obediently lifted the glass to her lips. Disgusted with herself, Willa rubbed her hands over her face. ‘‘I expect anybody would have screamed coming across something like that. I’m not mad at you.’’

Lily hated whiskey, the burn of it, the smell. Jesse had favored Seagram’s. And as the level in the bottle dropped, his temper rose. Always. But now she pretended to drink.

‘‘Was it a cat? I thought it was a cat.’’ Lily bit down hard on her lip to keep her voice steady. ‘‘Was it your cat?’’

‘‘The cats are Adam’s. And the dogs. And the horses. But they did it to me. They didn’t leave it on Adam’s porch. They did it to me.’’

‘‘Like—like the steer.’’

Willa stopped pacing, glanced over her shoulder. ‘‘Yes. Like the steer.’’

‘‘Here’s a nice pot of tea.’’ Bess hurried in, carrying a tray. The minute she set it down, she began fussing.

‘‘Will, what are you thinking of, giving the poor thing whiskey? It’s just going to upset her stomach is all.’’ Gently, Bess took the glass from Lily and set it aside. ‘‘You drink some tea, honey, and rest yourself. You’ve had a bad shock. Will, stop that pacing and sit down.’’

‘‘You take care of her. I’m going out.’’

Though she poured the tea with a steady hand, Bess gave Willa’s retreating back a hard look. ‘‘That girl never listens.’’

‘‘She’s upset.’’

‘‘Aren’t we all.’’

Lily lifted the cup with both hands, felt the warmth spread at the first sip. ‘‘She takes it deeper. It’s her ranch.’’

Bess cocked her head. ‘‘Yours too.’’

‘‘No.’’ Lily drank again, gradually grew calmer. ‘‘It’ll always be hers.’’

The cat was gone, but there was still blood pooled over the wood. Willa went back for a bucket of soapy water, a scrub brush. Bess would have done it, she knew, but it wasn’t something she would ask of another.

On her hands and knees, in the glow of the porch light she washed away the signs of violence. Death happened. She had believed she accepted and understood that. Cattle were raised for their meat, and a chicken who stopped laying ended up in the pot. Deer and elk were hunted and set on the table.

That was the way of things. People lived, and died.

Even violence wasn’t a stranger to her. She had sent a bullet into living flesh and dressed game with her own hands. Her father had insisted on that, had ordered her to learn to hunt, to watch a buck go down bleeding. That she could live with.

But this cruelty, this waste, this viciousness that had been laid at her door wasn’t part of the cycle. She erased it, every drop. And with the bloody bucket beside her, she sat back on her heels and stared up into the sky. A star died, even as she watched, blazing its white trail across the night and falling into oblivion.

From somewhere near an owl hooted, and she knew prey would be scrambling for cover. For tonight there was a hunter’s moon, full and bright. Tonight there would be death—in the forest, in the hills, in the grass. There was no denying it.

It should not have made her want to weep.

She heard the footsteps and hastily composed herself. She was getting to her feet as Ben and Adam came around the side of the house.

‘‘I would have done that, Will.’’ Adam took the bucket from her. ‘‘There was no need for you to do this.’’

‘‘It’s done.’’ She reached out, touched his face. ‘‘I’m sorry, Adam, about Mike.’’

‘‘He used to like to sun himself on the rock behind the pole barn. We buried him there.’’ He glanced toward the window. ‘‘Lily?’’

‘‘Bess is with her. She’ll do her more good than I would.’’

‘‘I’ll get rid of this, then check on her.’’

‘‘All right.’’ But she kept her hand on his cheek another moment, murmured something in the language of their mother.

It made him smile, not the comforting words as much as the tongue. She rarely used it, and only when it mattered most. He stepped away and left her with Ben.

‘‘You’ve got a problem on your hands, Will.’’

‘‘I’ve got several of them.’’

‘‘Whoever did that did it while we were inside.’’ Wrestling, he thought, like a couple of idiot children. ‘‘Ham’s going to talk to Wood’s kids.’’

‘‘Joe and Pete?’’ Will snorted, then rocked on her heels to comfort herself. ‘‘No way in hell and back, Ben. Those boys like to run wild around here and regularly beat the hell out of each other, but they aren’t going to torture some old cat.’’

He rubbed the scar on his chin. ‘‘Saw that, did you?’’

‘‘I’ve got eyes, don’t I?’’ She had to take a steadying breath as her stomach tipped again. ‘‘Cut little pieces off of him, and it looked like burns, probably from a cigarette on the fur. It wasn’t Wood’s boys. Adam gave them a couple of kittens last spring. They spoil those cats like babies.’’

‘‘Adam piss anybody off lately?’’

She didn’t look down at him. ‘‘They didn’t do it to Adam. They did it to me.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ Because he saw it the same way, he nodded. And he worried. ‘‘You piss anybody off lately?’’

‘‘Besides you?’’

He smiled a little, climbed up a step until they were eye to eye. ‘‘You’ve been pissing me off all your life. Hardly counts. I mean it, Willa.’’ He closed a hand over hers, linked fingers. ‘‘Is there anybody you can think of who’d want to hurt you?’’

Baffled by the link, she stared down at their joined hands.

‘‘No. Pickles and Wood, they might have their noses a little out of joint now that I’m in charge. Pickles especially. It’s the female thing. But they haven’t got anything against me personally.’’

‘‘Pickles was up in high country,’’ Ben pointed out.

‘‘Would he do something like this to get at you? Scare the female?’’

She sneered out her pride. ‘‘Do I look scared?’’

‘‘I’d feel better if you did.’’ But he shrugged. ‘‘Would he do it?’’

‘‘A couple of hours ago I’d have said no. Now I can’t be sure.’’ That was the worst of it, she realized. Not being sure who to trust, or how much to trust them. ‘‘I wouldn’t think so. He’s got a temper and he likes to bitch and stew, but I can’t see him killing things for no reason.’’

‘‘I’d say there’s a reason here. That’s what we have to figure out.’’

She angled her chin. ‘‘Do we?’’

‘‘Your land marches with mine, Will. And for the next year you’re part of my responsibilities.’’ He only tightened his grip when she tugged at her hand. ‘‘That’s a fact, and I imagine we’ll both get used to it. I aim to keep my eye on you, and yours.’’

‘‘You keep it too close, Ben, it’s liable to get blackened.’’

‘‘I’ll take that chance.’’ But just in case, he took her other hand, held them both at her sides. ‘‘I have a feeling I’m going to find the next year interesting. All around interesting. I haven’t wrestled with you in . . . must be twenty years. You filled out nice.’’

Knowing she was outweighed and outmuscled, she stood still. ‘‘You’ve got a real way with words, Ben. Like poetry. You should feel my heart thudding.’’

‘‘Honey, I’d love to, but you’d just try to deck me.’’

She smiled and felt better for it. ‘‘No, Ben. I would deck you. Now go away. I’m tired and I want my supper.’’

‘‘I’m going.’’ But not quite yet, he thought. He slid his hands up to her wrists and was intrigued to find her pulse hammering there. You wouldn’t have known it from her eyes, so cool and dark. You wouldn’t know a lot, he decided from just a quick look at Willa Mercy. ‘‘Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?’’

‘‘I’d just spoil you for all those other women you like to play with.’’

‘‘I’d take my chances on that, too.’’ But he backed off.

It wasn’t the time, or the place. Still, he had a feeling he’d be looking for both very soon. ‘‘I’ll be back.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ She dipped her hands into her pockets as he climbed into his rig. Her pulse was still drumming. ‘‘I know.’’

She waited until his taillights disappeared down the long dirt road. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the house, at the lights. She wanted that hot bath, that hot meal, and a long night’s sleep. But all of that would have to wait. Mercy Ranch was hers, and she had to talk to her men.

As operator, she tried to stay away from the bunkhouse. She believed the men were entitled to their privacy, and this wood-framed building with its rocking chairs on the porch was their home. Here they slept and ate, read their books if reading was what pleased them. They played cards and argued over them, watched television and complained about the boss.

Nell would cook the meals in the bungalow she shared with Wood and their sons, then cart the food over. She didn’t serve the men, and one of them was assigned cleanup duty every week. That way they could eat as they pleased.

They might eat dusty from work, or in their underwear. They could lie about women or the size of their cocks. It was, after all, their home.

So she knocked and waited to be hailed inside. They were all there but Wood, who was eating his supper at home with his family. The men ranged around the table, Ham at the head, his chair tipped back since he’d just finished his meal.

Billy and Jim continued to shovel in chicken and dumplings like a pair of wolves vying for meat. Pickles washed his back with beer and scowled.

‘‘I’m sorry to interrupt your meal.’’

‘‘We’re about done here,’’ Ham told her. ‘‘Billy, get to the dishes. You eat any more, you’ll bust. You want some coffee, Will?’’

‘‘I wouldn’t mind.’’ She walked to the stove herself, poured a cup, and left it black. She understood that this was a delicate matter and she’d have to be both tactful and direct.

‘‘I can’t figure who would slice up that old cat.’’ She sipped, let it stew. ‘‘Anybody have an idea?’’

‘‘I checked on Wood’s boys.’’ Ham rose to pour coffee for himself. ‘‘Nell says they were in the house with her most of the evening. Now they both have pocketknives, and Nell had them fetch them to show me. They were clean.’’

He grimaced as he drank. ‘‘The younger one, Pete, he busted out crying when he heard about old Mike. Tall boy, Pete. You forget he’s only eight.’’

‘‘I heard about kids doing shit like that.’’ Pickles sulked in his beer. ‘‘Grow up to be serial killers.’’

Willa spared him a glance. If anybody found a way to make things worse, it was Pickles. ‘‘I don’t think Wood’s boys are John Wayne Gacys in training.’’

‘‘Coulda been McKinnon.’’ Billy clattered dishes in the sink and hoped Willa would notice him. He was always hoping she’d notice him; his crush on her was as wide as Montana. ‘‘He was here.’’ He jerked his head to flop his straw-colored hair out of his eyes. Scrubbed harder than necessary at dishes so the muscles on his arms would flex.

‘‘And his men were up in the hills when the steer got laid open.’’

‘‘You ought to think before you start flapping your lips, you asshole.’’ Ham made the statement without heat. Anyone under thirty, in his mind, had the potential to be an asshole. Billy, with his eager eyes and imagination, had more potential than most. ‘‘McKinnon isn’t a man who’d cut up some damn cat.’’

‘‘Well, he was here,’’ Billy said stubbornly, and slanted his eyes sideways to see if Willa was listening.

‘‘He was here,’’ she agreed. ‘‘And he was inside with me. I let him into the house myself, and there wasn’t anything on the porch then.’’

‘‘Nothing like this happened when the old man was around.’’ Pickles tipped back his beer again and flicked a glance at Willa.

‘‘Come on, Pickles.’’ Uncomfortable, Jim shifted in his creaking chair. ‘‘You can’t blame Will for something like this.’’

‘‘Just stating fact.’’

‘‘That’s right.’’ Willa nodded equably. ‘‘Nothing like this happened when the old man was around. But he’s dead, and I’m in charge now. And when I find out who did this, I’ll take care of them personally.’’ She set her cup down. ‘‘I’d like all of you to think about it, to see if you remember anything, or saw anything, anyone. If something comes to you, you know where to find me.’’

When the door closed behind her, Ham kicked at Pickles’s chair and nearly sent it out from under him. ‘‘Why do you have to be such a damn fool? That girl’s never done anything but her best.’’

‘‘She’s a female, ain’t she?’’ And that, he thought, was that. ‘‘You can’t trust them, and you sure as hell can’t depend on them. Who’s to say whoever cut up a cow and a cat won’t try it on a man next?’’ He swigged his beer while he let that little seed root. ‘‘Are you going to look to her to watch your back? I know I’m not.’’

Billy bobbled a dish. His eyes were huge and filled with glassy excitement. ‘‘You think somebody’d try to do that to one of us? Try to knife us?’’

‘‘Oh, shut the hell up.’’ Ham slammed down his cup.

‘‘Pickles is just trying to get everybody worked up ’cause his pecker’s in a twist at having a woman in charge. Killing cows and some old flea-bitten cat isn’t like doing a man.’’

‘‘Ham’s right.’’ But Jim had to swallow, and he wasn’t interested in the rest of the dumpling on his plate. ‘‘But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be careful for a while. There are two more women on the ranch now.’’ He pushed away his plate as he rose. ‘‘Maybe we should look after them.’’

‘‘I’ll look after Will,’’ Billy said quickly, and earned a quick cuff on the ear from Ham.

‘‘You’ll do your work like always. I’m not having a bunch of pussies jumping at shadows over a cat.’’ He topped off his coffee, picked up the cup again. ‘‘Pickles, if you haven’t got anything intelligent to say, keep your mouth shut. That goes for the rest of you too.’’ He took a moment to aim a beady eye at every man, then nodded, satisfied. ‘‘I’m going to watch Jeopardy.’’

‘‘I tell you this,’’ Pickles said under his breath. ‘‘I’m keeping my rifle close and a knife in my boot. If I see
anybody acting funny around here, I’ll take care of them. And I’ll take care of myself.’’ He took his beer and stalked outside.

Jim bypassed the coffeepot for a beer himself, glancing at Billy’s pale face along the way. Poor kid, he thought, he’ll be having nightmares for sure. ‘‘He’s just blowing it out his ass, Billy. You know how he is.’’

‘‘Yeah, but—’’ He wiped a hand over his mouth. It was just a cat, he reminded himself. Just an old, mangy cat.

‘‘Yeah, I know how he is.’’

Willa had nightmares. They woke her in a cold sweat with her heart pounding against her ribs and a scream locked in her throat. She fought her way out of the tangle of sheets, struggling for air. Alone and shivering, she sat in the center of the bed as the moonlight streamed through her windows and a fitful little breeze tapped slyly on the glass.

She couldn’t remember clearly what had haunted her sleep. Blood, fear, panic. Knives. A headless cat stalking her. She tried to laugh over it, dropped her head on her drawn-up knees, and tried hard to laugh at herself. It came perilously close to a sob.

Her legs threatened to buckle when she climbed out of bed, but she made herself walk into the bath, switched on the light, lowered her head over the sink, and ran the water icy cold into her cupped hands. It was better then, with the clammy sweat washed off. Lifting her head, she studied herself in the mirror.

It was still the same face. That hadn’t changed. Nothing had changed, really. It had simply been a hellish night.

Didn’t she have the right to be shaken, just a little, by all that was going on? Worry was like lead on her shoulders, and she had to carry it alone. There was no passing it off, no sharing the load.

The sisters were hers, and the ranch, and whatever was plaguing it. She would handle it all. And if there was a change inside her, something irksome, something she recognized as essentially female, she would handle that as well. She didn’t have the time or the temperament to play mating games with Ben McKinnon.

Oh, he was just trying to rile her anyway. She brushed the hair away from her damp cheeks, poured cold water into a glass. He’d never been interested in her. If he was now, it was only for the hell of it. Which was just like Ben. She nearly smiled as she let the water cool her throat.

She thought she might kiss him after all. Just to get it out of the way. A kind of test. She might sleep better for it.

That might chase him out of her dreams and nightmares.

And once she stopped wondering, stopped thinking about what kept stirring inside her, she would be able to concentrate more fully on the ranch.

She looked toward the bed, shuddered. She needed to sleep, but she didn’t want to see the blood again, to see the mangled bodies. So she wouldn’t.

She took a deep breath before climbing back into bed.

She’d will them away, think of something else. Of spring that was so far off. Of flowers blooming in meadows and warm breezes floating down from the hills.

But when she dreamed, she dreamed of blood and death and terror.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Montana Sky.

In dealings with her mother — and Tess always thought of contacts with Louella as dealings — Tess prepped herself with a dose of extra-strength Excedrin. There would be a headache, she knew, so why chase the pain?

She chose mid-morning, knowing it was the only time of day she would be likely to find Louella at home in her Bel Air condo. By noon she would be out and about, having her hair done, or her nails, indulging in a facial or a shopping spree.

By four, Louella would be at her club, Louella’s, joking with the bartender or regaling the waitresses with tales of her life and loves as a Vegas showgirl.

Tess did her very best to avoid Louella’s. Though the condo didn’t make her much happier.

It was a lovely little stucco in California Spanish with a tiled roof, graceful shrubbery. It could, and should, have been a small showplace. But as Tess had said on more than one occasion, Louella Mercy could make Buckingham Palace tacky.

When she arrived, promptly at eleven, she tried to ignore what Louella cheerfully called her lawn art. The lawn jockey with the big, stupid grin, the rearing plaster lions, the glowing blue moonball on its concrete pedestal, and the fountain of the serene-faced girl pouring water from the mouth of a rather startled-looking carp.

Flowers grew in profusion, in wild, clashing colors that seared the eyes. There was no rhyme or reason to the arrangement, no plot or plan. Whatever plants caught Louella’s eye had been plunked down wherever Louella’s whim had dictated. And, Tess mused, she had a lot of whims.

Standing amid a bed of scarlet and orange impatiens was the newest addition, the headless torso of the goddess Nike.

Tess shook her head and rang the bell that played the first bump-and-grind bars of ‘‘The Stripper.’’ Louella opened the door herself and enfolded her daughter in draping silks, heavy perfume, and the candy scent of discount cosmetics. Louella never stepped beyond her own bedroom door in less than full makeup.

She was a tall woman, lushly built, with mile-long legs that still could—and did—execute a high kick. The natural color of her hair had been forgotten long ago. It had been blond for years, as brassy a tone as Louella’s huge laugh, and worn big, in a teased and lacquered style admired by TV evangelists. She had a striking face despite the troweledon layers of base and powder and blush, with strong bones and full lips, slicked now with high-gloss red. Her eyes were baby blue, as was the shadow that decorated their lids, with the brows above them mercilessly plucked and stenciled into dark, thin brackets.

As always, Tess was struck with conflicting waves of love and puzzlement. ‘‘Mom.’’ Her lips curved as she returned the embrace, and her eyes rolled as the two yapping Pomeranians her mother adored set up an ear-piercing din in their excitement at having company.

‘‘Back from the Wild West, are you?’’ Louella’s East Texas twang had the resonance of plucked banjo strings. She kissed Tess on the cheek, then rubbed away the smear of lipstick with a spit-dampened finger. ‘‘Well, come tell me all about it. They sent the old bastard off in proper style, I hope.’’

‘‘It was . . . interesting.’’

‘‘I’ll bet. Let’s have us some coffee, honey. It’s Carmine’s morning off, so we’ll have to fend for ourselves.’’

‘‘I’ll make it.’’ She preferred brewing the coffee herself to facing her mother’s studly houseboy. Tess tried not to imagine what other services the man provided Louella. She moved through the living area, decorated in scarlets and golds, into a kitchen so white it was like being snowblinded. As usual, there wasn’t a crumb out of place. Whatever else Carmine did during his daily duties, he was tidy as a nun.

‘‘Got some coffee cake around here, too. I’m hungry as a bear.’’ With her dogs scrambling around her feet, Louella rummaged in cupboards, through the refrigerator. Within minutes there was chaos. Tess’s lips twitched again. Chaos followed her mother around as faithfully as the yapping Mimi and Maurice did.

‘‘You meet your kin out there?’’

‘‘If you mean the half sisters, yes.’’ With trepidation, Tess eyed the coffee cake her mother had unearthed. Louella was slicing it into huge slabs with a steak knife. Being transferred to a plate decorated with gargantuan roses were approximately ten billion calories.

‘‘Well, what are they like?’’ With the same generous hand, Louella cut a piece for her dogs, setting the china plate on the floor. The dogs bolted cake and snarled at each other.

‘‘The one from wife number two is quiet, nervous.’’

‘‘That’s the one with the ex who likes to use his fists.’’ Clucking her tongue, Louella slid her ample hips onto the counter stool. ‘‘Poor thing. One of my girls had that kind of trouble. Husband would as soon beat the shit out of her as wink. We finally got her into a shelter. She’s living up in Seattle now. Sends me a card now and again.’’

Tess made a small sound of interest. Her mother’s girls were anyone who worked for her, from the waitresses to the bartenders, the strippers to the kitchen help. Louella embraced them all, lending money, giving advice. Tess had always thought Louella’s was part club, part halfway house for topless dancers.

‘‘How about the other one?’’ Louella asked as she attacked her coffee cake. ‘‘The one that’s part Indian.’’

‘‘Oh, that one’s a real cowgirl. Tough as leather, striding around in dirty boots. I imagine she can punch cattle, literally.’’

Amused at the thought, Tess poured out coffee.

‘‘She didn’t trouble to hide the fact that she didn’t want either of us there.’’ With a shrug, she sat down and began to pick at her cake. ‘‘She’s got a half brother.’’

‘‘Yeah, I knew about that. I knew Mary Wolfchild—at least I’d seen her around. She was one beautiful woman, and that little boy of hers, sweet face. Angel face.’’

‘‘He’s grown up now, and he’s still got the angel face. He lives on the ranch, works with horses or something.’’

‘‘His father was a wrangler, as I recall.’’ Louella reached in the pocket of her scarlet robe, found a pack of Virginia Slims. ‘‘How about Bess?’’ She let out smoke and a big, lusty laugh. ‘‘Christ, that was a woman. Had to watch my p’s and q’s around her. Had to admire her—she ran thathouse like a top and didn’t take any crap off Jack either.’’

‘‘She’s still running the house, as far as I could tell.’’

‘‘Hell of a house. Hell of a ranch.’’ Louella’s bright-red lips curved at the memory. ‘‘Hell of a country. Though I can’t say I’m sorry I only spent one winter there. Goddamn snow up to your armpits.’’

‘‘Why did you marry him?’’ When Louella arched a brow, Tess shifted uncomfortably. ‘‘I know I never asked before, but I’m asking now. I’d like to know why.’’

‘‘It’s a simple question with a simple answer.’’ Louella poured an avalanche of sugar into her coffee. ‘‘He was the sexiest son of a bitch I’d ever seen. Those eyes of his, the way they could look right through you. The way he’d cock his head and smile like he knew just what he’d be up to later and wanted to take you along.’’

She remembered it all perfectly. The smells of sweat and whiskey, the lights dazzling her eyes. And the way Jack Mercy had swaggered into the nightclub when she’d been onstage in little more than feathers and a twenty-pound headdress. The way he’d puffed on a big cigar and watched her. Somehow she’d expected that he’d be waiting for her after the last show. And she’d gone with him without a thought, from casino to casino, drinking, gambling, wearing his Stetson perched on her head.

Within forty-eight hours, she’d stood with him in one of those assembly-line chapels with canned music and plastic flowers. And she’d had a gold ring on her finger.

It was hardly a surprise that the ring had stayed put for less than two years.

‘‘Trouble was, we didn’t know each other. It was hot pants and gambling fever.’’ Philosophically, Louella crushed out her cigarette on her empty plate. ‘‘I wasn’t cut out for life on a goddamn cattle ranch in Montana. Maybe I could’ve made a go of it—who knows? I loved him.’’

Tess swallowed cake before it stuck in her throat. ‘‘You loved him?’’

‘‘For a while I did.’’ With the ease of years and distance, Louella shrugged. ‘‘A woman couldn’t love Jack for long unless she was missing brain cells. But for a while, I loved him. And I got you out of it. And a hundred large. I wouldn’t have my girl, and I wouldn’t have my club if Jack Mercy hadn’t walked in that night and taken a shine to me. So I owe him.’’

‘‘You owe the man who kicked you, and his own daughter, out of his life? Cut you off with a lousy hundred thousand dollars?’’

‘‘A hundred K went a lot farther thirty years ago than it does today.’’ Louella had learned to be a mother and a businesswoman from the ground up. She was proud of both.

‘‘And from where I’m sitting, I got a pretty good deal.’’

‘‘Mercy Ranch is worth twenty million. Do you still think you got a good deal?’’

Louella pursed her lips. ‘‘It was his ranch, honey. I just visited there for a while.’’

‘‘Long enough to make a baby and get the boot.’’

‘‘I wanted the baby.’’

‘‘Mom.’’ Most of Tess’s anger faded at the words, but the injustice of it remained hot in her heart. ‘‘You had a right to more. I had a right to more.’’

‘‘Maybe, maybe not, but that was the deal at the time.’’ Louella lit another cigarette, decided to be late for her afternoon session at the beauty parlor. There was more here, she thought. ‘‘Time goes on. Jack ended up making three daughters, and now he’s dead. You want to tell me what he left you?’’

‘‘A problem.’’ Tess took the cigarette from Louella’s hand and indulged in a quick drag. Smoking was a habit she didn’t approve of — what sensible person did? But it was either that or the several million calories still on her plate.

‘‘I get a third of the ranch.’’

‘‘A third of the—Good Jesus and little fishes, Tess, honey, that’s a fortune.’’ Louella bounced up. She might have been five ten and a generous one-fifty, but she’d been trained as a dancer and could move when she had to. She moved now, skimming around the counter to crush her daughter’s ribs in an enthusiastic hug. ‘‘What are we doing sitting here drinking coffee? We need ourselves some French champagne. Carmine’s got some stashed somewhere.’’

‘‘Wait. Mom, wait.’’ As Louella tore into the fridge again, Tess tugged on her robe. ‘‘It’s not that simple.’’

‘‘My daughter the millionaire. The cattle baron.’’ Louella popped the cork, spewing champagne. ‘‘Fucking A.’’

‘‘I have to live there for a year.’’ Tess blew out a breath as Louella cheerfully clamped her mouth over the lip of the bottle and sucked up bubbles. ‘‘All three of us have to live there for a year, together. Or we don’t get zip.’’

Louella licked champagne from her lips. ‘‘You have to live in Montana for a year? On the ranch?’’ Her voice began to shake. ‘‘With the cows? You, with the cows.’’

‘‘That’s the deal. Me, and the other two. Together.’’ One hand still holding the bottle, the other braced on the counter, Louella began to laugh. She laughed so hard, so long that tears streamed down her face, running with Maybelline mascara and L’Ore´al ivory base.

‘‘Jesus H. Christ, the son of a bitch always could make me laugh.’’

‘‘I’m glad you think it’s so funny.’’ Tess’s voice cracked like ice. ‘‘You can chuckle over it nightly while I’m out in bumfuck watching the grass grow.’’

With a flourish, Louella poured champagne into the coffee cups. ‘‘Honey, you can always spit in his eye and go on just as you are.’’

‘‘And give up several million in assets? I don’t think so.’’

‘‘No.’’ Louella sobered as she studied her daughter, this mystery she had somehow given birth to. So pretty, she mused, so cool, so sure of herself. ‘‘No, you wouldn’t. You’re too much your father’s daughter for that. You’ll do the time, Tess.’’

And she wondered if her daughter would get more out of it than a third interest in a cattle ranch. Would the year soften the edges, Louella wondered, or hone them?

She lifted both cups, handed one to Tess. ‘‘When do you leave?’’

‘‘First thing in the morning.’’ She sighed loud and long.

‘‘I’ve got to go buy some goddamn boots,’’ she muttered, then with a small smile toasted herself. ‘‘What the hell. It’s only a year.’’

While Tess was drinking champagne in her mother’s kitchen, Lily was standing at the edge of a pasture, watching horses graze. She’d never seen anything more beautiful than the way the wind blew through their manes, the way the mountains rose behind, all blue and white.

For the first time in months, she had slept through the night, without pills, without nightmares, lulled by the quiet.

It was quiet now. She could hear the grind of machinery in the distance. Just a hum in the air. She’d heard Willa talking to someone that morning about harvesting grain, but she had wanted to stay out of the way. She could be alone here with the horses, bothering no one, with no one bothering her.

For three days she’d been left to her own devices. No one said anything when she wandered the house, or went out to explore the ranch. The men would tip their hats to her if they passed by, and she imagined there were comments and murmurings. But she didn’t care about that.

The air here was sweet to the taste. Wherever she stood, it seemed, she could see something beautiful—water rushing over rocks in a stream, the flash of a bird in the forest, deer bounding across the road. She thought a year of this would be paradise.

Adam stood for a moment, the bucket in his hand, watching her. She came out here every day, he knew. He’d seen her wander away from the house, the barn, the paddocks, and head for this pasture. She would stand by the fence, very still, very quiet. Very alone.

He’d waited, believing she needed to be alone. Healing was often a solitary matter. But he also believed she needed a friend. So now he walked toward her, careful to make enough noise so that she wouldn’t be startled. When she turned, her smile came slow and hesitant, but it came.

‘‘I’m sorry. I’m not in the way here, am I?’’

‘‘You’re not in anyone’s way.’’

Because she was already learning to be relaxed around him, she shifted her gaze back to the horses. ‘‘I love looking at them.’’

‘‘You can have a closer look.’’ He didn’t need the bucket of grain to lure any of the horses to the fence. Any of them would come for him at a quiet call. He handed the bucket to Lily. ‘‘Just give it a shake.’’

She did, then watched, delighted, as several pairs of ears perked up. Horses trotted over to crowd at the fence. Without thinking, she dipped a hand into the grain and fed a pretty buckskin mare.

‘‘You’ve been around horses before.’’

At Adam’s comment, she pulled her hand back. ‘‘I’m sorry. I should have asked before I fed her.’’

‘‘It’s all right.’’ He was sorry to have startled that smile away from her face. That quick light that had come into eyes that were somewhere between gray and blue. Like lake water, he thought, caught in the shadows of sunset.

‘‘Come along, Molly.’’

At her name, the roan mare pranced along the fence toward the gate. Adam led her into a corral and slipped a bridle over her head.

Self-conscious again, Lily wiped grain dust on her jeans, took one hesitant step closer. ‘‘Her name’s Molly?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ He kept his eyes on the horse, giving Lily a chance to settle again.

‘‘She’s pretty.’’

‘‘She’s a good saddle horse. Kind. Her gait’s a bit rough, but she tries. Don’t you, girl? Can you ride Western, Lily?’’

‘‘I—what?’’

‘‘You probably learned on English.’’ Keeping it light, Adam spread the blanket he’d brought along over Molly’s back. ‘‘Nate keeps some English tack if you’d rather. We can borrow a saddle from him.’’

Her hands reached for each other, as they did when her nerves jittered. ‘‘I don’t understand.’’

‘‘You want to ride, don’t you?’’ He slid one of Willa’s old saddles onto Molly’s back. ‘‘I thought we’d go up in the hills a little way. Might see some elk.’’

She found herself caught between yearning and fear. ‘‘I haven’t ridden in—It’s been a long time.’’

‘‘You don’t forget how.’’ Adam estimated the length of her legs and adjusted the stirrups accordingly. ‘‘You can go alone once you know your way around.’’ He turned then, noting the way she kept glancing back toward the ranch house. As if gauging the distance. ‘‘You don’t have to be afraid of me.’’

She believed him. That was what she was afraid of—that it was so easy to believe him. How often had she believed Jesse?

But that was done, she reminded herself. That was over. Her life could begin again, if she’d let it.

‘‘I’d like to go, for a little while, if you’re sure it’s all right.’’

‘‘Why wouldn’t it be?’’ He moved toward her, stopping instinctively before she shied again. ‘‘You don’t have to worry about Willa. She has a good heart, and a generous one. It’s just hurting right now.’’

‘‘I know she’s upset. She has every right to be.’’ Unable to resist, Lily lifted a hand to stroke Molly’s cheek.

‘‘Even more upset since they found that poor cow. I don’t understand who would do something like that. She’s so angry. And she’s so busy. She’s always got something to do, and I’m, well, I’m just here.’’

‘‘Do you want something to do?’’

With the horse between them, it was easy to smile. ‘‘Not if it involves castrating cows. I could hear them this morning.’’

She shuddered, then managed to laugh at herself. ‘‘I got out of the house before Bess could make me eat breakfast. I don’t think I’d have held it down for long.’’

‘‘It’s just one of the things you get used to.’’

‘‘I don’t think so.’’ Lily exhaled, barely noticing how close her hand was to Adam’s on the mare’s head. ‘‘Willa’s natural with all of it. She’s so sure and confident. I envy that, that knowing just who you are. To her I’m just a nuisance, which is why I haven’t been able to work up the courage to talk to her, to ask if there’s something I could do around here to help.’’

‘‘You don’t have to be afraid of her, either.’’ He brushed his fingertips against hers, continuing to stroke the mare even when Lily’s hand slid out of reach. ‘‘But meanwhile, you could ask me. I can use some help. With the horses,’’ he added, when she only stared at him.

‘‘You want me to help you with the horses?’’

‘‘It’s a lot of work, more when winter gets here.’’ Knowing he’d planted the seed, he stepped back. ‘‘Think about it.’’ Then he cupped his hands, smiled again. ‘‘I’ll give you a leg up. You can walk her around the corral, get acquainted, while I saddle up.’’

Her throat was closed so that she had to swallow hard to clear it. ‘‘You don’t even know me.’’

‘‘I figure we’ll get acquainted too.’’ He stood as he was, hands linked in a cup, his eyes patient on hers. ‘‘You just have to put your foot in my hands, Lily, not your life.’’

Feeling foolish, she grabbed the saddle horn and let him boost her into the saddle. She looked down at him, her eyes solemn in her battered face. ‘‘Adam, my life is a mess.’’

He only nodded as he checked her stirrups. ‘‘You’ll have to start tidying it up.’’ He rested a hand on her ankle a moment, wanting her to grow easy to his touch. ‘‘But today, you just have to take a ride into the hills.’’

The little bitch, letting that half-breed paw her.

Sniveling little whore thought she could get rid of Jesse Cooke, figured she could run and he wouldn’t catch her. Put the cops on his ass. She was going to pay for that.

Jesse stared through the field glasses while little bubbles of fury burst in his blood. He wondered if the half-breed horse wrangler had already gotten Lily on her back. Well, the bastard would pay too. Lily was Jesse Cooke’s wife, and he was going to be reminding her of that soon enough. Stupid little cunt thought she was real clever hightailing it to Montana. But the day Jesse Cooke couldn’t outwit a woman was the day the sun didn’t rise in the east.

He’d known she wouldn’t make a move without contacting her dear old mama. So he’d just camped himself within sight of the pretty house in Virginia. And every morning he’d gotten to the mail and checked through it for a letter from Lily.

Persistence had paid off. The letter had come, as he’d known it would. He’d taken it back to the motel room, steamed it open. Oh, Jesse Cooke was nobody’s fool. He’d read it, seen where she was going, what she was up to. Going to cash in on an inheritance, he thought bitterly.

And cut her own husband out of his share of the pie. Not in this lifetime, Jesse mused. The minute the letter had been resealed and put back in the box, he’d headed for Montana. And had gotten there, he thought now, two full days before his idiot wife. Long enough for a man as smart as Jesse Cooke to get the lay of the land and get himself a job on Three Rocks.

A miserable fucking job, he thought now, keeping machines in repair. Well, he knew his way around engines, and there was always a rig that needed fine-tuning. When he wasn’t doing that, they had him out checking fences day and night.

But that came in handy, damn handy, like now. A man out riding in a four-wheel to check fences could take a little detour and check out what else was going on.

And he saw plenty.

Jesse rubbed his fingers over the moustache he’d grown and dyed like his hair, medium brown. Just a precaution, he thought, just a temporary disguise, in case Lily blabbed about him. If she did, they’d have their eye out for a cleanshaven man with blond hair. He had let his hair grow too and would keep on letting it grow. Like a fucking pansy, he thought, resenting the necessity of giving up his severe Marine Corps crew cut.

It would all be worth it in the end. When he had Lily back, when he reminded her who was boss. Who was in charge.

Until that happy day he would stay close. And he would watch.

‘‘You have a good time, bitch,’’ Jesse muttered, his eyes narrowing behind the high-powered lenses as Lily walked her mount beside Adam’s. ‘‘Payback time’s coming.’’

Most of the day had died out of the sky by the time Willa got back to the ranch house. Dehorning and castrating cattle was a messy, miserable job, and a tedious one.

She knew she was pushing herself, and knew she would continue to push. She wanted the men to see her at every angle, at every job. Shifting operators under the best of circumstances could be a rough transition. And these were far from the best of circumstances.

Which is why she’d been on hand when a herd of elk had trampled through a fence, creating havoc. And why she’d personally headed the crew to chase them off again, to repair the fence.

Now with the work done for the day and the hands settling down for supper and cards in the bunkhouse, she wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a hot meal. She was halfway up the steps to get the first when the knock sounded on the door. Knowing that Bess was likely in the kitchen, Willa stomped back down to answer. She greeted Ben with a scowl. ‘‘What do you want?’’

‘‘A cold beer would go down good.’’

‘‘This isn’t a saloon.’’ But she swung away from the door and into the living room to the cold box behind the bar.

‘‘Make it fast, Ben. I haven’t had my supper.’’

‘‘Neither have I.’’ He took the bottle she handed him.

‘‘But I don’t expect I’m going to get an invitation.’’

‘‘I’m not in the mood for company.’’

‘‘I’ve never known you to be in the mood for company.’’ He tipped back the beer and drank deep. ‘‘I haven’t seen you since we were up in the high country. Thought I should let you know I didn’t find anything. Trail died out on me. I’d have to say whoever was up there knew his way around tracking.’’

She took a beer for herself, and since her feet were aching, dropped down beside Ben on the sofa. ‘‘Pickles thinks it was kids. Doped up and crazy.’’

‘‘And you?’’

‘‘I didn’t.’’ She moved a shoulder. ‘‘Now that sounds like the best explanation.’’

‘‘Maybe. There’s not much use going back up. We’ve got the cattle down. Is your sister back from LA?’’

Willa stopped rolling her head to loosen her shoulders and frowned at him. ‘‘You’re awfully interested in Mercy business, McKinnon.’’

‘‘That’s part of my job now.’’ He liked reminding her of it, just as he liked looking at her, with her hair falling out of her braid and her boots propped beside his. ‘‘Have you heard from her?’’

‘‘She’ll be here tomorrow, so if that concludes your prying into my business, you can—’’

‘‘Going to introduce me?’’ To please himself he reached out to toy with her hair. ‘‘Maybe I’ll take a shine to her and keep her occupied and out of your way for a while.’’

She knocked his hand aside, but he only brought it back.

‘‘Do women always fall at your feet?’’

‘‘All but you, darling. And that’s just because I haven’t found the right way to tip your balance.’’ He skimmed a fingertip down her cheek, watched her eyes narrow. ‘‘But I’m working on it. What about the other one?’’

‘‘The other what?’’ Willa wanted to shift over a couple of inches, but she knew it would make her look like a fool.

‘‘The other sister.’’

‘‘She’s around. Somewhere.’’

He smiled, slowly. ‘‘I’m making you nervous. Isn’t that interesting?’’

‘‘Your ego needs pruning again.’’ But she started to rise. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

‘‘Well, well,’’ he murmured, feeling her vibrate under his hand. ‘‘It looks like I haven’t been paying close enough attention. Come here.’’

She concentrated on evening her breathing, slowly changed her grip on the beer she held. Oh, he looks so arrogant, she thought. So cocky. So sure I’ll melt if he bothers to push the right button.

‘‘You want me to come there,’’ she purred, watching his eyes widen slightly in surprise at the warm tone. ‘‘And what’ll happen if I do?’’

He might have called himself a fool—if there’d been any blood left in his head to allow him to think. But all he could do at that moment was feel the gradual simmer of lust set off by that husky voice.

‘‘I’d say it’s long past time we found out.’’ He curled his fingers into her shirt, tightened his grip, and pulled her against him. If his gaze hadn’t drifted down from hers to lock onto her mouth, he would have seen it coming. Instead he found himself an inch away from that mouth and soaked from the beer she dumped over his head.

‘‘You’re such a jerk, Ben.’’ Pleased with herself, she leaned forward to set the empty bottle on the table. ‘‘You think I could live on a ranch surrounded by randy men all my life and not see a move like that a mile off?’’

Slowly, he dragged a hand through his wet hair. ‘‘Guess not. But then again—’’

He moved fast. When she found herself trapped under him, Willa thought, even a snake rattles before he strikes.

Now she could only be disgusted with herself for being pressed into the couch by a wiry male with blood in his eye.

‘‘You didn’t see that coming.’’ He handcuffed her wrists, hauled her arms over her head. Her face was flushed, but he didn’t think it was only temper. Temper didn’t make her tremble, didn’t put that sudden female awareness in her eyes. ‘‘Are you afraid to let me kiss you, Willa? Afraid you’ll like it?’’

Her heart was beating too fast, felt as though it would shatter through her ribs. Her lips were tingling, as if the nerves centered there were revving up for action. ‘‘If I want your mouth on me, I’ll tell you.’’

He only smiled, leaned down closer to her face. ‘‘Why don’t you tell me you don’t? Go ahead, tell me.’’ His voice thickened as he nipped lightly at her jaw. ‘‘Tell me you don’t want me to taste you. Just once.’’

She couldn’t. It would have been a lie, but lying didn’t worry her. She simply couldn’t get a word through her dry throat. So she took the other option, and brought her knee up, fast and hard.

She had the pleasure of seeing him go dead pale before he collapsed on her.

‘‘Get off me. Get off, you goddamn idiot. You’re crushing my lungs.’’ Desperate for air, she arched, bucked, making him moan. She managed to gasp in a breath before she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked.

They rolled off the couch and crashed to the floor. She saw stars as her elbow hit the edge of the table. It was pain and fury that had her tearing into him. Something shattered on the floor as they wrestled over it, grunting and cursing.

He was trying to defend himself, but she was obviously out for blood. And proved it by biting his arm just under the shoulder. Yelping, certain that she was going to take a chunk out of him, he managed to get a grip on her jaw and squeeze. Under the pressure the tear of her teeth loosened.

They rolled, boots clattering and digging for purchase, elbows jabbing, hands grappling. Willa didn’t realize she was laughing until he had her pinned. She kept right on laughing, helpless even to stop for breath as he stared down at her.

‘‘You think it’s funny?’’ He had to squint, then huff out a breath to get the hair out of his eyes. But all in all, he was grateful she hadn’t managed to tear it out of his head by the handful. ‘‘You bit me.’’

‘‘I know.’’ Her voice hitched as she ran a tongue over her teeth. ‘‘I think I’ve got some of your shirt in my mouth. Turn me loose, Ben.’’

‘‘So you can bite me again, or try to kick my balls into my throat?’’ Since they were still aching—more than a little—he narrowed his eyes, sneered. ‘‘You fight like a girl.’’

‘‘So what? It works.’’

His mood was shifting again. He could feel that hot, slick transition from temper to lust, from insult to interest. The way they’d ended up, her breasts were pressed nicely against his chest, and her legs were spread with his snugged between them.

‘‘Yeah, it does. You being female seems to suit the situation.’’

She saw the change in his eyes, teetered between panic and longing. ‘‘Don’t.’’ His mouth was barely an inch from hers now, and her breath was gone again.

‘‘Why not? It’s not going to hurt anybody.’’

‘‘I don’t want your mouth on me.’’

He lifted a brow, and he smiled. ‘‘Liar.’’

And she shuddered. ‘‘Yeah.’’

His mouth was only a whisper from hers when she heard the first piercing screams.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Montana Sky.

‘‘The son of a bitch.’’ Ben leaned on his saddle horn, shaking his head at Nate. His eyes, shielded by the wide brim of a dark gray hat, glittered cold green. ‘‘I’m sorry I missed his funeral. My folks said it was quite the social event.’’

‘‘It was that.’’ Nate slapped a hand absently against the black gelding’s flanks. He’d caught Ben minutes before his friend was taking off for the high country. In Nate’s opinion, Three Rocks was one of the prettiest spreads in Montana. The main house itself was a fine example of both efficiency and aesthetics. It wasn’t a palace like Mercy, but an attractive timber-framed dwelling with a sandstone foundation and varying rooflines that added interest, with plenty of porches and decks for sitting and contemplating the hills. The McKinnons ran a tidy place, busy but without clutter. He could hear the bovine protests from a corral. Calves being separated from their mamas for weaning didn’t go happily. The males’ll be unhappier yet, Nate mused, when they’re castrated and dehorned. It was one of the reasons he preferred working horses.

‘‘I know you’ve got work to see to,’’ Nate continued. ‘‘I don’t want to hold you up, but I figured I should come by and let you know where we stand.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Ben did have work on his mind. October bumped into November, and that shaky border before winter didn’t last long. Right now the sun was shining over Three Rocks like an angel. Horses were cropping in the near pasture, and the men were going about their duties in shirtsleeves. But drift fences needed to be checked, small grains harvested. The cattle that weren’t to be wintered over had
to be culled out and shipped.

But his gaze skimmed over paddocks and pastures to the rise, toward Mercy land. He imagined Willa Mercy had more than work on her mind this morning. ‘‘Nothing against your lawyering skills, Nate, but that legal bullshit isn’t going to hold up, is it?’’

‘‘The terms of the will are clear, and very precise.’’

‘‘It’s still lawyer crap.’’

They’d known each other too long for Nate to take offense.

‘‘She can fight it, but it’ll be uphill and rough all the way.’’

Ben looked southwest again, pictured Willa Mercy, shook his head. He sat as comfortably in the saddle as another man would in an easy chair. After thirty years of ranch life, it was more his natural milieu. He didn’t have Nate’s height, but stood a level six feet, his wiry build ropey with muscle. His hair was a golden brown, gilded by hours in the sun and left long enough to tease the collar of his chambray
shirt. His eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s and often just as cold in a face that had the weathered, craggy good looks of a man comfortable in the out-of-doors. A horizontal scar marred his chin, a souvenir of his youth and a slip of the hand when he’d been playing mumblety-peg with his
brother.

Ben ran his hand over the scar now, an absentminded, habitual gesture. He’d been amused when Nate had first informed him of the will. Now that it was coming into effect, it didn’t seem quite so funny.

‘‘How’s she taking it?’’

‘‘Hard.’’

‘‘Shit. I’m sorry for that. She loved that old bastard, Christ knows why.’’ He took off his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, adjusted it again. ‘‘And it’s got to stick in her craw that it’s me.’’

Nate grinned. ‘‘Well, yeah, but I think it’d sit about the same with anybody.’’

No, Ben mused, not quite. He wondered if Willa knew that her father had once offered him ten thousand acres of prime bottomland to marry his daughter. Like some sort of fucking king, Ben thought now, trying to merge kingdoms.

Mercy would give it away, he thought, squinting into the sun. He’d give it away rather than ease his hold on the reins.

‘‘She doesn’t need either one of us to run Mercy,’’ Ben said. ‘‘But I’ll do what it says to do. And hell . . .’’ His grin spread slow, arrogant, and shifted the planes on his face.

‘‘It’ll be entertaining to have her butting heads with me every five minutes. What are the other two like?’’

‘‘Different.’’ Thoughtful, Nate leaned back on the fender of his Range Rover. ‘‘The middle one—that’s Lily—she spooks easy. Looks like she’d jump out of her skin if you made a quick move. Her face was all bruised up.’’

‘‘She have an accident?’’

‘‘Looked like she’d accidentally run into somebody’s fists. She’s got an ex-husband. And she’s got a restraining order on him. He’s been yanked in a few times for wife battering.’’

‘‘Fucker.’’ If there was one thing worse than a man who abused his horse, it was a man who abused a woman.

‘‘She jumped on staying,’’ Nate continued, and in his quiet, methodical way began to roll a cigarette. ‘‘I have to figure she’s looking at it as a good place to hide out. The older one, she’s slicker. Hails out of LA, Italian suit, gold watch.’’ He slipped the pouch of Drum back in his pocket, struck a match. ‘‘She writes movies and is royally pissed at the idea of being stuck out in the wilderness for a year. But she wants the money it’ll bring her. She’s on her way back
to California to pack up.’’

‘‘She and Will ought to get along like a couple of shecats.’’

‘‘They’ve already been at each other.’’ Nate blew out smoke contemplatively. ‘‘Have to admit, it was entertaining to watch. Adam simmered them down.’’

‘‘He’s about the only one who can simmer Willa down.’’ With a creak of leather, Ben shifted in the saddle. Spook was growing restless under him, signaling his wishes to be off with quick head tosses. ‘‘I’ll be talking to her. I’ve got to check on a crew we sent up to the high country. We’re getting some storms. Mom’s got coffee on at the main house.’’

‘‘Thanks, but I’ve got to get back. I’ve got work of my own. See you in a day or two.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Ben called to his dog, watching as Nate climbed into his Range Rover. ‘‘Nate—we’re not going to let her lose that ranch.’’

Nate adjusted his hat, reached for his keys. ‘‘No, Ben. We’re not going to let her lose it.’’

It was a good ride across the valley and up into the foothills. Ben took it at an easy pace, scanning the land as he went. The cattle were fat; they’d be cutting out some of the Angus for finishing in feedlots before winter. Others they would rotate from pasture to pasture, hold over for another year. The choices, and the selling, had been his province for nearly five years, as his parents were gradually turning over the operation of Three Rocks to their sons. The grass was high and still green, glowing against the paintbrush backdrop of trees. He heard the drone overhead and looked up with a grin. His brother, Zack, was doing a flyover. Ben lifted the hat off his head, waved it. Charlie, the long-haired Border collie, raced in barking circles. The little plane tilted its wings in a salute. It was still hard for him to think of his baby brother as a husband and a father. But there you were. Zack had taken one look at Shelly Peterson and had fallen spurs over Stetson. Less than two years later, they’d made him an uncle. And, Ben thought, made him feel incredibly old. It was beginning to feel as though there were thirty rather than three years separating him and Zack.

He adjusted his hat and guided his horse uphill through a stand of yellow pine. The air freshened and cooled. He saw signs of deer, and another time might have given in to the urge to follow the tracks, to bring fresh venison home to his mother. Charlie was sniffing hopefully at the ground, glancing back now and then for permission to flush game.

But Ben wasn’t in the mood for a hunt. He could smell snow. He was still far below the snow line, but he could smell it teasing the air. Already he’d seen flocks of Canadian geese heading south. Winter was coming early, and he thought it would come hard. Even the rush of water from the creek spurting downhill sounded cold.

As the trees thickened, the ground roughened, he followed the water. The forest was as familiar to him as his own barnyard. There, the dead larch where he and Zack had once dug for buried treasure. And there, in that little clearing, he had brought down his first buck, with his father standing beside him. They’d fished here, plucking trout from the water as easily as plucking berries from a bush.

On those rocks he’d once written the name of his love in flint. The words had faded and washed away with the years. And pretty Susie Boline had run off to Helena with a guitar player, breaking Ben’s eighteen-year-old heart.

The recollection still brought him a tug, though he’d have suffered torments of hell before admitting he was a sentimental man. He rode past the rocks, and the memories, and climbed, keeping to the beaten path through trees as lively with color as women at a Saturday night dance.

As the air thinned and chilled and the scent of snow grew stronger, he whistled between his teeth. His time in Bozeman had been productive, but it had made him yearn for this. The space, the solitude, the land. Though he’d told himself he’d brought a bedroll only as a precaution, he was already planning on camping for a night. Maybe two.

He could shoot himself a rabbit, fry up some fish, maybe hang with the crew for the night. Or camp apart. They’d drive the cattle down to the low country. This much snow in the air could mean an early blizzard, and disaster for a herd grazing in the high mountain meadows. But Ben thought they had time yet.

He paused a moment, just to look out over a pretty ridgetop meadow dotted with cows, bordered by a tumbling river, to enjoy the wave of autumn wildflowers, the call of birds.

He wondered how anyone could prefer the choked streets of a city, the buildings crowded with people and problems, to this.

The crack of gunfire made his horse shy and cleared his own mind of dreamy thoughts. Though it was a country where the snap of a bullet usually meant game coming down, his eyes narrowed. At the next shot, he automatically turned his horse in the direction of the sound and kicked him into a trot.

He saw the horse first. Will’s Appaloosa was still quivering, her reins looped over a branch. Blood had a high, sweet smell, and scenting it, Ben felt his stomach clutch. Then he saw her, holding the shotgun in her hands not ten feet away from a downed grizzly. A growl in his throat, the dog streaked ahead, coming to a quivering halt at Ben’s sharp order.

Ben waited until she’d glanced over her shoulder at him before he slid out of the saddle. Her face was pale, he noted, her eyes dark. ‘‘Is he all the way dead?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ She swallowed hard. She hated to kill, hated to see blood spilled. Even seeing a hen plucked for dinner could cause her gorge to rise. ‘‘I didn’t have any choice. He charged.’’

Ben merely nodded and, taking his rifle out of its sheath, approached. ‘‘Big bastard.’’ He didn’t want to think what would have happened if her aim had been off, what a bear that size could have done to a horse and rider. ‘‘She-bear,’’ he said, keeping his voice mild. ‘‘Probably has cubs around here.’’

Willa slapped her shotgun back in its holder. ‘‘I figured that out for myself.’’

‘‘Want me to dress her out?’’

‘‘I know how to dress game.’’

Ben merely nodded and went back for his knife. ‘‘I’ll give you a hand anyway. It’s a big bear. Sorry about your father, Willa.’’

She took out her own knife, the keen-edged Bowie a near mate to Ben’s. ‘‘You hated him.’’

‘‘You didn’t, so I’m sorry.’’ He went to work on the bear, avoiding the blood and gore when he could, accepting it when he couldn’t.

‘‘Nate stopped by this morning.’’

‘‘I bet he did.’’

Blood steamed in the chilly air. Charlie snacked delicately on entrails and thumped his tail. Ben looked over the carcass of the bear and into her eyes. ‘‘You want to be pissed at me, go ahead. I didn’t write the damn will, but I’ll do what has to be done. First thing is I’m going to ask you what you’re doing riding up here alone.’’

‘‘Same thing as you, I imagine. I’ve got men up in the high country and cattle that need to come down. I can run my business as well as you can run yours, Ben.’’

He waited a moment, hoping she’d say more. He’d always been fascinated by her voice. It was rusty, always sounding as though it needed the sleep cleared out of it.

More than once Ben had thought it a damn shame that such a contrary woman had that straight sex voice in her.

‘‘Well, we’ve got a year to find that out, don’t we?’’

When that didn’t jiggle a response out of her, he ran his tongue over his teeth. ‘‘You going to mount this head?’’

‘‘No. Men need trophies they can point to and brag on. I don’t.’’

He grinned then. ‘‘We sure do like them. You might make a nice trophy yourself. You’re a pretty thing, Willa. I believe that’s the first time I’ve said that to a woman over bear guts.’’

She recognized his warped way of being charming and refused to be drawn in. Over the last couple of years, refusing to be drawn to Ben McKinnon had taken on the proportions of a second career. ‘‘I don’t need your help with the bear or the ranch.’’

‘‘You’ve got it, on both counts. We can do it peaceable, or we can do it adversarial.’’ He gave Charlie an absent pat when the dog sat down beside him. ‘‘Don’t matter much to me either way.’’

There were shadows under her eyes, he noted. Like smudged fingerprints against the golden skin. And her mouth, which he’d always found particularly appealing, was set in a hard, thin line. He preferred it snarling—and figured he knew how to bring that about.

‘‘Are your sisters as pretty as you?’’ When she didn’t answer, his lips twitched. ‘‘Bet they’re friendlier. I’ll have to come calling, see for myself. Why don’t you invite me to supper, Will, and we can sit ourselves down and discuss plans for the ranch.’’ Now her eyes flashed up to his, and he grinned hugely. ‘‘Thought that would do it. Christ Almighty, you’ve got a face, and nothing suits it better than
pure orneriness.’’

She didn’t want him to tell her she was pretty, if that’s what he was doing. It always made her insides fumble around. ‘‘Why don’t you save your breath for getting this carcass up to bleed out?’’

Rocking back on his heels, he studied her. ‘‘We can get this whole thing over quick. Just get ourselves married and be done with it.’’

Though her hand clenched on the bloody knife, she took three slow, easy breaths. Oh, he was riding her, and she knew he’d like nothing better than to watch her scream and shout and stomp her feet. Instead she angled her head, and her voice was as cool as the water in the nearby stream.

‘‘There’s about as much chance of that as there is of what’s left of this bear rearing up and biting you on the ass.’’

He rose as she did, circled her wrist with his fingers, and ignored her quick jolt of protest. ‘‘I don’t want you any more than you want me. I just thought it would be easy on everybody if we got it out of the way. Life’s long, Willa,’’ he said more gently. ‘‘A year isn’t much.’’

‘‘Sometimes a day’s too much. Let go of me, Ben.’’ Her gaze lifted slowly. ‘‘A man who hesitates to listen to a woman with a knife in her hand deserves whatever he gets.’’

He could have had the knife out of her hand in three seconds flat, but he decided to leave it where it was. ‘‘You’d like to stick me, wouldn’t you?’’ The fact that he knew it to be true both aroused and irritated him. But then, she usually managed to do both. ‘‘Get it through your head: I don’t want what’s yours. And I don’t plan on being bartered for more land and more cattle any more than you do.’’

She went pale at that, and he nodded. ‘‘We know where we stand, Will. Could be I’ll find one of your sisters to my taste, but meanwhile, it’s just business.’’

The humiliation of it was as raw as the blood on her hands. ‘‘You son of a bitch.’’

He shifted his grip to her knife hand, just in case. ‘‘I love you too, sweetheart. Now, I’ll hang the bear. You go wash up.’’

‘‘I shot it, I can—’’

‘‘A woman who hesitates to listen to a man with a knife in his hand deserves what she gets.’’ He smiled again, slow and easy. ‘‘Why don’t we try to make this business go down smooth for both of us?’’

‘‘It can’t.’’ All the passion and frustration that whirled inside her echoed in the two words. ‘‘You know it can’t. How would you take it if you were standing where I am?’’

‘‘I’m not,’’ he said simply. ‘‘Go wash the blood off. We’ve got a ways to ride yet today.’’

He let her go, crouched again, knowing she was standing over him fighting to regain control. He didn’t fully relax until she’d stomped off toward the stream with his dog happily at her heels. Blowing out a breath, he looked down at the exposed fangs.

‘‘She’d rather a bite from you than a kind word from me,’’ he muttered. ‘‘Goddamn women.’’

While he finished the gruesome task, he admitted to himself that he’d lied. He did want her. The puzzle of it was, the less he wanted to, the more he did.

It was nearly an hour before she spoke again. They wore sheepskin jackets now against the cold and wind, and the horses were plodding through nearly a foot of snow, with Charlie happily blazing the trail.

‘‘You take half the bear meat. It’s only right,’’ Willa said.

‘‘I’m obliged.’’

‘‘Being obliged is the problem, isn’t it? Neither of us wants to be.’’

He understood her, he thought, better than she might like.

‘‘Sometimes you have to swallow what you can’t spit out.’’

‘‘And sometimes you choke.’’ One of the wounds in her heart split open. ‘‘He left Adam next to nothing.’’

Ben studied her profile. ‘‘Jack drew a hard line.’’ And Adam Wolfchild wasn’t blood, Ben thought. That would have been uppermost in Jack’s mind.

‘‘Adam should have more.’’ Will have more, she promised herself.

‘‘I’m not going to disagree with you when it comes to Adam. But if I know anyone who can take care of himself and make his own, it’s your brother.’’

He’s all I’ve got left. She nearly said it before she caught herself, before she remembered it would be a mistake to open any part of her heart to Ben. ‘‘How’s Zack? I saw his plane this morning.’’

‘‘Checking fences. I’d have to say he’s happy, the way he goes around grinning like a fool day and night. He and Shelly dote on that baby.’’ They all did, Ben thought, but he wasn’t going to mention the fact that he couldn’t keep his hands off his infant niece.

‘‘She’s a pretty baby. It’s still hard to see Zack McKinnon settling down to family life.’’

‘‘Shelly knows when to yank his reins.’’ Unable to resist, Ben grinned at her. ‘‘You’re not still carrying a torch for my baby brother, are you, Will?’’

Amused, she shifted and smiled sweetly. There had been a brief time when they were teenagers that she and Zack had made calf’s eyes at each other. ‘‘Every time I think of him, my heart goes pitty-pat. Once a woman’s been kissed by Zack McKinnon, she’s spoiled for anyone else.’’

‘‘Honey . . .’’ He reached over, flipped her braid behind her back. ‘‘That’s because I’ve never kissed you.’’

‘‘I’d sooner kiss a two-tailed skunk.’’

Laughing, he shifted his horse just enough so that his knee bumped Willa’s. ‘‘Zack’d be the first to tell you, I taught him everything he knows.’’

‘‘Maybe so, but I think I can live without either one of the McKinnon boys.’’ She jerked a shoulder, then turned her head slightly. ‘‘Smoke.’’ There was relief in that, in the sign of people and the near end of her solitary ride with Ben. ‘‘The crew’s probably in the cabin. It’s dinnertime.’’

With another woman, any other woman, Ben thought, he could have reached over, pulled her close, and kissed her breathless. Just on principle. Since it was Willa, he eased back in the saddle and kept his hands to himself.

‘‘I could eat. I’m going to want to round up the herd, get them down. More snow’s coming.’’

She only grunted. She could smell it. But there was something else in the air. At first she wondered if it was the sensory echo from the bear and the blood on her hands, but it lingered, seemed to grow stronger.

‘‘Something’s dead,’’ she murmured.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Something’s dead.’’ She straightened in the saddle, scanned the ridges and trees. It was dead quiet, dead still. ‘‘Can’t you smell it?’’

‘‘No.’’ But he didn’t doubt she could, and he turned his horse as she did. Already on the scent, Charlie was moving ahead. ‘‘It’s the Indian in you. One of the hands probably shot dinner.’’

It made sense. They would have brought provisions, and the cabin was always stocked, but fresh game was hard to resist. Still, that didn’t explain the dread in her stomach or the chill along her spine.

There was the scream of an eagle overhead, the wild, soul-stirring echo of it, then the utter silence of the mountains. The sun glittered off the snow, blinding. Following instinct, Willa left the rough path and walked her horse over broken, uneven ground.

‘‘We don’t have a lot of time for detours,’’ Ben reminded her.

‘‘Then go on.’’

He swore, reaching around to check that his rifle was within easy reach. There were bear here, too. And cougar.

He thought of camp, hardly more than ten minutes away, and the hot coffee that would be boiling to mud on the stove.

Then he saw it. His nose might not have been as sharp as hers, but his eyes were. Blood was splattered and pooled over the snow, splashed against rock. The black hide of the steer was coated with it. The dog stopped circling the mangled steer and raced back to the horses.

‘‘Well, shit.’’ Ben was already dismounting. ‘‘Made a mess of it.’’

‘‘Wolves?’’ It was more than the market price to Willa. It was the waste, the cruelty. He started to agree, then stopped short. A wolf didn’t kill, then leave the meat. A wolf didn’t hack and slice. No predator but one did.

‘‘A man.’’

Willa drew a sharp breath as she stepped closer, saw the damage. The throat had been slit, the belly disemboweled.

Charlie pressed against her legs, shivering. ‘‘It’s been butchered. Mutilated.’’

She crouched, and thought of the bear. No choice there but to kill, and the field dressing had been done efficiently with the tools at hand. But this—this was wild and vicious and without purpose.

‘‘Almost within sight of the cabin,’’ she said. ‘‘The blood’s frozen. It was probably done hours ago, before sunup.’’

‘‘It’s one of yours,’’ Ben told her after checking the brand.

‘‘Doesn’t matter whose.’’ But she noted the number on the yellow ear tag. The death would have to be recorded. She rose and stared over at the stream of smoke rising. ‘‘It matters why. Have you lost any cattle this way?’’

‘‘No.’’ He straightened to stand beside her. ‘‘Have you?’’

‘‘Not until now. I can’t believe it’s one of my men.’’ She took a shallow breath. ‘‘Or yours. There must be someone else camping up here.’’

‘‘Maybe.’’ He was frowning down at the ground. They stood shoulder to shoulder now, linked by the waste at their feet. She didn’t jerk away when he ran a hand down her braid, or when he laid that hand companionably on her arm.

‘‘We had more snow, a lot of wind. The ground’s pretty trampled up, but it looks like some tracks heading north. I’ll take some men and check it out.’’

‘‘It’s my cow.’’

He shifted his eyes to hers. ‘‘It doesn’t matter whose,’’ he repeated. ‘‘We have to get both herds rounded up and down the mountain, and we have to report this. I figure I can count on you for that.’’

She opened her mouth, closed it again. He was right. She was next to useless at tracking, but she could organize a drive. With a nod, she turned back to her horse. ‘‘I’ll talk to my men.’’

‘‘Will.’’ Now he laid a hand over hers, leather against leather, before she could mount. ‘‘Watch yourself.’’

She vaulted into the saddle. ‘‘They’re my men,’’ she said simply, and rode toward the rising smoke.

She found her men about to have their midday meal when she came into the cabin. Pickles was at the little stove, sturdy legs spread, ample belly spilling over the wide buckle of his belt. He was barely forty and balding fast, compensating for it with a ginger-colored moustache that grew longer every year. He’d earned his name from his obsessive love of dill pickles, and his personality was just as sour.

When he saw Willa, he grunted in greeting, sniffed, and turned back to the ham he was frying.

Jim Brewster sat with his booted feet on the table, enjoying the last of a Marlboro. He was just into his thirties with a face pretty enough for framing. Two dimples winked in his cheeks, and dark hair waved to his collar. He beamed at Willa and sent her a cocky wink that made his blue eyes
twinkle.

‘‘Got us company for dinner, Pickles.’’

Pickles gave another sour grunt, belched, and flipped his ham. ‘‘Barely enough meat for two as it is. Get your lazy ass up and open some beans.’’

‘‘Snow’s coming.’’ Willa tossed her coat over a hook and headed for the radio.

‘‘ ’Nother week easy.’’

She turned her head, met Pickles’s sulky brown eyes. ‘‘I don’t think so. We’ll start rounding up today.’’ She waited, holding his gaze. He hated taking his orders from a female, and they both knew it.

‘‘Your cattle,’’ he muttered, and turned the ham out onto a platter.

‘‘Yes, they are. And one of them’s been butchered a quarter mile east of here.’’

‘‘Butchered?’’ Jim paused in the act of handing Pickles an open can of beans. ‘‘Cougar?’’

‘‘Not unless cats are carrying knives these days. Someone opened one up, hacked it to pieces, and left it.’’

‘‘Bullshit.’’ Eyes narrowed, Pickles took a step forward.

‘‘That’s just shit, Will. We’ve lost a couple to cougar. Jim and me tracked a cat just yesterday. She musta circled around and got another cow, that’s all.’’

‘‘I know the difference between claws and a knife.’’ She inclined her head. ‘‘Go look for yourself. Dead east, about a quarter mile.’’

‘‘Damned if I won’t.’’ Pickles stomped over for his coat, muttering about women.

‘‘Sure it couldn’t have been a cat?’’ Jim asked the minute the door slammed.

‘‘Yeah, I’m sure. Get me some coffee, would you, Jim? I’m going to radio the ranch. I want Ham to know we’re heading down.’’

‘‘McKinnon’s men are up here, but—’’

‘‘No.’’ She shook her head, pulled out a chair. ‘‘No cowboy I know does that.’’

She contacted the ranch, listening to static, waiting for it to clear. The coffee and the crackling fire chased the worst of the chill away as she made arrangements for the drive.

She was on her second cup when she finished passing the information along to the McKinnon ranch.

Pickles slammed back in. ‘‘Son of a bitching bastard.’’

Accepting this as the only apology she’d get, Willa moved to the stove and filled her plate. ‘‘I rode up with Ben McKinnon. He’s following some tracks. We’re going to help get his herd down with our own. Has either of you seen anyone around here? Campers, hunters, eastern assholes?’’

‘‘Came across a campsite yesterday when we were tracking the cat.’’ Jim sat again with his plate. ‘‘But it was cold. Two or three days cold.’’

‘‘Left goddamn beer cans.’’ Pickles ate standing up. ‘‘Like it was their own backyard. Oughta be shot for it.’’

‘‘Sure that cow wasn’t shot?’’ Jim looked to Pickles for confirmation, a fact that Willa struggled not to resent. ‘‘You know how some of those city boys are—shoot at anything that moves.’’

‘‘Wasn’t shot. Ain’t no tourist done that.’’ Pickles shoved beans into his mouth. ‘‘Fucking teenagers what it is. Fucking crazy teenagers all doped up.’’

‘‘Maybe. If it was, Ben’ll find them easy enough.’’ But she didn’t think it had been teenagers. It seemed to Willa it took a lot more years to work up that kind of rage.

Jim pushed the barely warm beans around on his plate.

‘‘Ah, we heard about how things are.’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘We radioed in last night, and Ham, he figured he should, you know, tell us how things are.’’

She pushed her plate away and stood. ‘‘Then I’ll tell you just how things are.’’ Her voice was very cool, very quiet. ‘‘Mercy Ranch runs the way it always has. The old man’s in the ground, and now I’m operator. You take your orders from me.’’

Jim exchanged a quick look with Pickles, then scratched his cheek. ‘‘I didn’t mean to say different, Will. We were just sorta wondering how you were going to keep the others, your sisters, on the ranch.’’

‘‘They’ll take their orders from me too.’’ She jerked her coat off the hook. ‘‘Now, if you’ve finished your meal, let’s get saddled up.’’

‘‘Goddamn women,’’ Pickles muttered as soon as the door was safely closed behind her. ‘‘Don’t know one that isn’t a bossy bitch.’’

‘‘That’s ’cause you don’t know enough women.’’ Jim strolled over for his coat. ‘‘And that one is the boss.’’

‘‘For the time being.’’

‘‘She’s the boss today.’’ Jim shrugged into his coat, pulled out his gloves. ‘‘And today’s what we’ve got.’’

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Montana Sky.

Jack Mercy’s office, on the second floor of the main house, was big as a ballroom. The walls were paneled in yellow pine lumbered from his own land and shellacked to a rich gloss that lent a golden light to the room. Huge windows provided views of the ranch, the land and sky. Jack had been fond of saying he could see all a man needed to see from those windows, which were undraped but ornately trimmed.

On the floor were layered the rugs he’d collected. The chairs were leather, as he’d preferred, in rich shades of teal and maroon.

His trophies hung on the walls — heads of elk and bighorn sheep, of bear and buck. Crouched in one corner as though poised to charge was a massive black grizzly, fangs exposed, glassy black eyes full of rage.

Some of his favored weapons were in a locked display case. His great-grandfather’s Henry rifle and Colt Peacemaker, the Browning shotgun that had brought down the bear, the Mossberg 500 he’d called his dove duster, and the .44 Magnum he’d preferred for handgun hunting.

It was a man’s room, with male scents of leather and wood and a whiff of tobacco from the Cubans he liked to smoke.

The desk, which he’d had custom-made, was a lake of glossy wood, a maze of drawers all hinged with polished brass. Nate sat behind it now, fiddling with papers to give everyone present time to settle.

Tess thought he looked as out of place as a beer keg at a church social. The cowboy lawyer, she thought with a quick twist of her lips, duded up in his Sunday best. Not that he wasn’t appealing in a rough, country sort of fashion. A young Jimmy Stewart, she thought, all arms and legs and quiet sexuality. But big, gangling men who wore boots with their gabardine weren’t her style.

And she just wanted to get this whole damn business over with and get back to LA. She rolled her eyes toward the snarling grizzly, the shaggy head of a mountain goat, the weapons that had hunted them down. What a place, she mused. And what people.

Besides the cowboy lawyer, there was the skinny, hennahaired housekeeper, who sat in a straight-backed chair with her knobby knees tight together and modestly covered with a perfectly horrible black skirt. Then the Noble Savage, with his heartbreakingly beautiful face, his enigmatic eyes, and the faint odor of horses that clung to him.

Nervous Lily, Tess thought, continuing her survey, with her hands pressed together like vises and her head lowered, as if that would hide the bruises on her face. Lovely and fragile as a lost bird set down among vultures.

When Tess’s heart began to stir, she deliberately turned her attention to Willa.

Cowgirl Mercy, she thought with a sniff. Sullen, probably stupid, and silent. At least the woman looked better in jeans and flannel than she had in that baggy dress she’d worn to the funeral. In fact, Tess decided she made quite a picture, sitting in the big leather chair, her booted foot resting on her knee, her oddly exotic face set like stone.

And since she’d yet to see a single tear squeeze its way out of the dark eyes, Tess assumed Willa had no more love for Jack Mercy than she herself did.

Just business, she thought, tapping her fingers impatiently on the arm of her chair. Let’s get down to it.

Even as she had the thought, Nate lifted his eyes, met hers. For one uncomfortable moment, she felt he knew exactly what was going through her mind. And his disapproval of her, of everything about her, was as clear as the sky spread in the window behind him.

Think what you want, she decided, and kept her eyes cool on his. Just give me the cash.

‘‘There’s a couple ways we can do this,’’ Nate began.

‘‘There’s formal. I can read Jack’s will word for word, then explain what the hell all that legal talk means. Or I can give you the meaning, the terms, the options first.’’ Deliberately he looked at Willa. She was the one who mattered most, to him. ‘‘Up to you.’’

‘‘Do it the easy way, Nate.’’

‘‘All right, then. Bess, he left you a thousand dollars for every year you’ve been at Mercy. That’s thirty-four thousand.’’

‘‘Thirty-four thousand.’’ Bess’s eyes popped wide. ‘‘Good Lord, Nate, what am I supposed to do with a fat lot of money like that?’’

He smiled. ‘‘Well, you spend it, Bess. If you want to invest some, I can give you a hand with it.’’

‘‘Goodness.’’ Overwhelmed at the thought of it, she looked at Willa, back at her hands, and at Nate again.

‘‘Goodness.’’

And Tess thought: If the housekeeper gets thirty grand, I ought to get double. She knew just what she’d do with a fat lot of money.

‘‘Adam, in accordance with an agreement Jack made with your mother when they married, you’re to receive a lump sum of twenty thousand, or a two percent interest in Mercy Ranch, whichever you prefer. I can tell you the percentage is worth more than the cash, but the decision remains yours.’’

‘‘It’s not enough.’’ Willa’s voice snapped out, making Lily jump and Tess raise an eyebrow. ‘‘It’s not right. Two percent? Adam’s worked this ranch since he was eight years old. He’s—’’

‘‘Willa.’’ From his position behind her chair, Adam laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘‘It’s right enough.’’

‘‘The hell it is.’’ Fury for him, the injustice of it, had her shoving the hand away. ‘‘We’ve got one of the finest strings of horses in the state. That’s Adam’s doing. The horses should be his now—and the house where he lives. He should have been given land, and the money to work it.’’

‘‘Willa.’’ Patient, Adam put his hand on her again, held it there. ‘‘It’s what our mother asked for. It’s what he gave.’’

She subsided because there were strangers’ eyes watching. And because she would fix the wrongness of it. She’d have Nate draw up papers before the end of the day.

‘‘Sorry.’’ She laid her hands calmly on the wide arms of the chair. ‘‘Go on, Nate.’’

‘‘The ranch and its holdings,’’ Nate began again, ‘‘the stock, the equipment, vehicles, the timber rights . . .’’ He paused, and prepared himself for the unhappy job of destroying hopes. ‘‘Mercy Ranch business is to continue as usual, expenses drawn, salaries paid, profits banked or reinvested with you as operator, Will, under the executor’s supervision for a period of one year.’’

‘‘Wait.’’ Willa held up a hand. ‘‘He wanted you to supervise the running of the ranch for a year?’’

‘‘Under certain conditions,’’ Nate added, and his eyes were already full of apology. ‘‘If those conditions are met for the course of a year, beginning no later than fourteen days from the reading of the will, the ranch and all its holdings will become the sole property and sole interest of the beneficiaries.’’

‘‘What conditions?’’ Willa demanded. ‘‘What beneficiaries? What the hell is going on, Nate?’’

‘‘He’s left each one of his daughters a one-third interest in the ranch.’’ He watched the color drain from Willa’s face and, cursing Jack Mercy, continued with the rest. ‘‘In order to inherit, the three of you must live on the ranch, leaving the property for no longer than a one-week period, for one full year. At the end of that time, if conditions are met, each beneficiary will have a one-third interest. This interest cannot be sold or transferred to anyone other than one of the other beneficiaries for a period of ten years.’’

‘‘Hold on a minute.’’ Tess set her drink aside. ‘‘You’re saying I’ve got a third interest in some cattle ranch in Nowhere, Montana, and to collect, I’ve got to move here? Live here? Give up a year of my life? No way in hell.’’ She rose, gracefully unfolding her long legs. ‘‘I don’t want your ranch, kid,’’ she told Willa. ‘‘You’re welcome to every dusty acre and cow. This’ll never stick. Give me my share in cash, and I’m out of your way.’’

‘‘Excuse me, Ms. Mercy.’’ Nate sized her up from his seat behind the desk. Mad as a two-headed hen, he thought, and cool enough to hide it. ‘‘It will stick. His terms and wishes were very well thought out, very well presented. If you don’t agree to the terms, the ranch will be donated, in its entirety, to the Nature Conservancy.’’

‘‘Donated?’’ Staggered, Willa pressed her fingers to her temple. There was hurt and rage and a terrible dread curling and spreading inside her gut. Somehow she had to get beyond the feelings and think.

She understood the ten-year stipulation. That was to keep the land from being tax-assessed at the market price instead of the farm rate. Jack had hated the government like poison and wouldn’t have wanted to give up a penny to it. But to threaten to take it all away and give it to the type of organization he liked to call tree huggers or whale kissers didn’t make sense.

‘‘If we don’t do this,’’ she continued, struggling for calm, ‘‘he can just give it away? Just give away what’s been Mercy land for more than a century if these two don’t do what it says on that paper? If I don’t?’’

Nate exhaled deeply, hating himself. ‘‘I’m sorry, Willa. There was no reasoning with him. This is the way he set it up. Any one of the three of you leaves, it breaks the conditions, and the ranch is forfeited. You’ll each get one hundred dollars. That’s it.’’

‘‘A hundred dollars?’’ The absurdity of it struck Tess straight in the heart, flopped her back into her chair laughing.

‘‘That son of a bitch.’’

‘‘Shut up.’’ Willa’s voice whipped out as she got to her feet. ‘‘Just shut the hell up. Can we fight it, Nate? Is there any point in trying to fight it?’’

‘‘You want my legal opinion, no. It’d take years and a lot of money, and odds are you’d lose.’’

‘‘I’ll stay.’’ Lily fought to regulate her breathing. Home, safety, security. It was all here, just at her fingertips, like a shiny gift. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ She got to her feet when Willa rounded on her. ‘‘It’s not fair to you. It’s not right. I don’t know why he did this, but I’ll stay. When the year’s over, I’ll sell you my share for whatever you say is fair and right. It’s a beautiful ranch,’’ she added, trying to smile as Willa only continued to stare at her. ‘‘Everyone here knows it’s already yours. It’s only a year, after all.’’

‘‘That’s very sweet,’’ Tess spoke up. ‘‘But I’m damned if I’m staying here for a year. I’m going back to LA in the morning.’’

With her mind whirling, Willa sent her a considering look. However much she wanted both of them gone, she wanted the ranch more. Much more.

“Nate, what happens if one of the three of us dies suddenly?’’

‘‘Funny.’’ Tess picked up her brandy again. ‘‘Is that Montana humor?’’

‘‘In the event one of the beneficiaries dies within the transitory year, the remaining beneficiaries will be granted half shares of Mercy Ranch, under the same conditions.’’

‘‘So what are you going to do, kill me in my sleep? Bury me on the prairie?’’ Tess flicked her fingers in dismissal.

‘‘You can’t threaten me into staying here, living like this.’’

Maybe not, Willa thought, but money talked to certain types of people. ‘‘I don’t want you here. I don’t want either one of you, but I’ll do what has to be done to keep this ranch. Miss Hollywood might be interested to know just how much her dusty acres are worth, Nate.’’

‘‘At an estimate, current market value for the land and buildings alone, not including stock . . . between eighteen and twenty million.’’

Brandy slopped toward the rim of the snifter as Tess’s hand jerked. ‘‘Jesus Christ.’’

The outburst earned Tess a hiss from Bess and a sneer from Willa. ‘‘I thought that would get through,’’ Willa murmured.

‘‘When’s the last time you earned six million in a year . . . sis?’’

‘‘Could I have some water?’’ Lily managed, and drew Willa’s gaze.

‘‘Sit down before you fall down.’’ She gave Lily a careless nudge into a chair as she began to pace. ‘‘I’m going to want you to read the document word for word after all, Nate. I want to get this all straight in my head.’’ She went to a lacquered liquor cabinet and did something she’d never done when her father had been alive. She opened his whiskey and drank it.

She drank quietly, letting the slow burn move down her throat as she listened to Nate’s recital. And she forced herself not to think of all the years she had struggled so hard to earn her father’s love, much less his respect. His trust.

In the end, he had lumped her in with the daughters he’d never known. Because in the end, she thought, none of them had really mattered to him.

A name Nate mumbled had her ears burning. ‘‘Hold it. Hold just a damn minute. Did you say Ben McKinnon?’’

Nate shifted, cleared his throat. He’d been hoping to slide that one by her, for the time being. She’d had enough shocks for one day. ‘‘Your father designated myself and Ben to supervise the running of the ranch during the probationary year.’’

‘‘That chicken hawk’s going to be looking over my shoulder for a goddamn year?’’

‘‘Don’t you swear in this house, Will,’’ Bess piped up.

‘‘I’ll swear the damn house down if I want. Why the hell did he pick McKinnon?’’

‘‘Your father considered Three Rocks second only to Mercy. He wanted someone who knows the ins and outs of the business.’’

McKinnon can be mean as a snake, Nate remembered Mercy saying. And he won’t take any shit off a damn woman.

‘‘Neither of us will be looking over your shoulder,’’ Nate soothed. ‘‘We have our own ranches to run. This is just a minor detail.’’

‘‘Bullshit.’’ But Will reined it in. ‘‘Does McKinnon know about this? He wasn’t at the funeral.’’

‘‘He had business in Bozeman. He’ll be back tonight or tomorrow. And yes, he knows.’’

‘‘Had a hell of a laugh over it, didn’t he?’’

Had nearly choked with laughter, Nate remembered, but now he kept his own eyes sober. ‘‘This isn’t a joke, Will. It’s business, and temporary at that. All you have to do is get through four seasons.’’ His lips curved. ‘‘That’s what all of us have to do.’’

‘‘I’ll get through it. God knows if these two will.’’ She studied her sisters, shook her head. ‘‘What are you trembling about?’’ she asked Lily. ‘‘You’re facing millions of dollars, not a firing squad. For Christ’s sake, drink this.’’ She thrust the whiskey glass into Lily’s hand.

‘‘Stop picking on her.’’ Incensed, instinctively moving to protect Lily, Tess stepped between them.

‘‘I’m not picking on her, and get out of my face.’’

‘‘I’m going to be in your face for a goddamn year. Get used to it.’’

‘‘Then you better get used to how things run around here. You stay, you’re not going to sit around on your plump little ass, you’re going to work.’’

At the ‘‘plump little ass’’ remark, Tess sucked air through her nose. She’d sweated and starved off every excess pound she’d carried through high school, and she was damn proud of the results. ‘‘Remember this, you flat-chested, knockkneed bitch, I walk, you lose. And if you think I’m going to take orders from some ignorant little pie-faced cowgirl, you’re a hell of a lot more stupid than you look.’’

‘‘You’ll do exactly what I say,’’ Willa corrected. ‘‘Or instead of having a nice cozy bed in this house you’ll be pitching a tent in the hills for the next year.’’

‘‘I’ve got as much right to be under this roof as you do. Maybe more, since he married my mother first.’’

‘‘That just makes you older,’’ Will tossed back, and had the pleasure of seeing that nice shaft strike home. ‘‘And your mother was a bottle-blonde showgirl with more tits than brains.’’

Whatever Tess would have done or said in retaliation was broken off when Lily burst into tears.

‘‘Happy now?’’ Tess demanded, and gave Willa a hard shove.

‘‘Stop.’’ Tired of the sniping, Adam seared them both with a look. ‘‘You should both be ashamed of yourselves.’’

He bent down, murmuring to Lily as he helped her to her feet. ‘‘You want fresh air,’’ he said kindly. ‘‘And some food. You’ll feel better then.’’

‘‘Take her for a little walk,’’ Bess told him, and got creakily to her own feet. Her head was hammering like a three-armed carpenter. ‘‘I’ll put dinner on. I’m ashamed enough for both of you,’’ she said to Tess and Willa. ‘‘I knew both of your mas. They’d expect better of you.’’ She sniffed and, with dignity, turned to Nate. ‘‘You’re welcome to stay for dinner, Nate. There’s more than plenty.’’

‘‘Thanks, Bess, but . . .’’ He was getting the hell out while he still had all of his skin. ‘‘I’ve got to get on home.’’

He gathered his papers together, keeping a wary eye on the two women who remained in the room, scowling at each other. ‘‘I’m leaving three copies of all the documents. Any questions, you know where to reach me. If I don’t hear from you I’ll check back in a couple days, and see . . . And see,’’ he ended. He picked up his hat and his briefcase and left the field.

In control again, Willa took a cleansing breath. ‘‘I’ve put sweat and I’ve put blood into this ranch from the day I was born. You don’t give a damn about that, and I don’t care. But I’m not losing what’s mine. You figure that puts me over a barrel, but I know you’re not walking away from more money than you’ve ever seen before, or hoped to. So that makes us even.’’

With a nod, Tess sat on the arm of a chair and crossed her silky legs. ‘‘So, we define terms of our own for living through the next year. You think it’s a snap for me to give up my home, my friends, my life-style for a year. It’s not.’’

Tess gave a quick, sentimental thought to her apartment, her club, Rodeo Drive. Then she set her jaw. ‘‘But no, I’m not walking away from what’s mine, either.’’

‘‘Yours, my ass.’’

Tess merely inclined her head. ‘‘Whether either one of us likes it, and I doubt either one of us does, I’m as much his daughter as you are. I didn’t grow up here because he tossed me and my mother aside. That’s fact, and after being here for a day, I’m beginning to be grateful for it. But I’ll stick the year out.’’

Thoughtfully, Willa picked up the whiskey Lily hadn’t touched. Ambition and greed were excellent motivators.

She’d stick, all right. ‘‘And at the end of it?’’

‘‘You can buy me out.’’ The image of all that money made her giddy. ‘‘Or failing that, you can send the checks for my share of profits to LA. Which is where I’ll be one day after the year is up.’’

Will sampled the whiskey again and reminded herself to concentrate on now. ‘‘Can you ride?’’

‘‘Ride what?’’

With a snort, Will drank. ‘‘Figures. Probably don’t know a hen from a cock either.’’

‘‘Oh, I know a cock when I see one,’’ Tess drawled, and was surprised to hear Willa laugh.

‘‘People live here, they work here. That’s another fact. I’ve got enough to do handling the men and cattle without worrying with you, so you’ll take your orders from Bess.’’

‘‘You expect me to take orders from a housekeeper?’’

Steel glittered in Willa’s eyes. ‘‘You’ll take orders from the woman who’s going to feed you, tend your clothes, and clean the house where you’ll be living. And the first time you treat her like a servant will be the last time. I promise you. You’re not in LA now, Hollywood. Out here everybody pulls their weight.’’

‘‘I happen to have a career.’’

‘‘Yeah, writing movies.’’ There were probably less useful enterprises, but Willa couldn’t think of any. ‘‘Well, there’re twenty-four hours in a day. You’re going to figure that one out fast enough.’’ Tired, Will wandered to the window behind the desk. ‘‘What the hell am I going to do with the little lost bird?’’

‘‘More like a crushed flower.’’

Surprised at the compassion in the tone, Willa glanced back, then shrugged. ‘‘Did she say anything to you about the bruises?’’

‘‘I haven’t talked to her any more than you have.’’ Tess struggled to push away the guilt.
Noninvolvement, she reminded herself. ‘‘This isn’t exactly a family reunion.’’

‘‘She’ll tell Adam. Sooner or later everyone tells Adam what hurts. For now at least, we’ll leave the wounded Lily to him.’’

‘‘Fine. I’m going back to LA in the morning. To pack.’’

‘‘One of the men will drive you to the airport.’’

Dismissing Tess, Willa turned back to the window. ‘‘Do yourself a favor, Hollywood, and buy some long underwear. You’ll need it.’’

Will rode out at dusk. The sun was bleeding as it fell behind the western peaks, turning the sky to a rich, ripe red. She needed to think, to calm herself. Beneath her, the Appaloosa mare pranced and pulled on the bit.

‘‘Okay, Moon, let’s both run it off.’’ With a jerk of the reins, Will changed directions, then gave the eager mare her head. They streaked away from the lights, the buildings, the sounds of the ranch and into the open land where the river curved.

They followed its banks, riding east into the night where the first stars were already gleaming and the only sounds were the rush of water and the thunder of hooves. Cattle grazed and nighthawks circled. As they topped a rise, Will could see mile after mile of silhouette and shadow, trees spearing up, the waving grass of a meadow, the endless line of fence. And in the distance in the clear night air the faint glint of lights from a neighboring ranch. McKinnon land.

The mare tossed her head, snorted, when Will reined in.

‘‘We didn’t run it out, did we?’’

No, the anger was still simmering inside her just as the energy simmered inside her mount. Willa wanted it gone, this tearing, bitter fury and the grief that boiled under it. It wouldn’t help her get through the next year. It wouldn’t help her get through the next hour, she thought, and squeezed her eyes tight.

Tears would not be shed, she promised herself. Not for Jack Mercy, or his youngest daughter.

She breathed deep, drew in the scent of grass and night and horse. It was control she needed now, calculated, unbending control. She would find a way to handle the two sisters who had been pushed on her, to keep them in line and on the ranch. Whatever it took, she would make certain that they saw this through.

She would find a way to deal with the overseers who had been pushed on her. Nate was an irritant but not a particular problem, she decided as she set Moon into an easy walk.

He would do no more and no less than what he considered his legal duty. Which meant, in Willa’s opinion, that he would stay out of the day-to-day business of Mercy Ranch and play his part in broad strokes.

She could even find it in her heart to feel sorry for him. She’d known him too long and too well to think even for an instant that he would enjoy the position he’d been put in. Nate was fair, honest, and content to mind his own business.

Ben McKinnon, Will thought, and that bitter anger began to stir again. That was a different matter. She had no doubt that he would enjoy every minute. He’d push his nose in at every opportunity, and she’d have to take it. But, she thought with a grim smile, she wouldn’t have to take it well and she wouldn’t have to make it easy for him.

Oh, she knew what Jack Mercy had been about, and it made her blood boil. She could feel the heat rise to her skin and all but steam off into the cool night air as she looked down at the lights and silhouettes of Three Rocks Ranch.

McKinnon and Mercy land had marched side by side for generations. Some years after the Sioux had dealt with Custer, two men who’d hunted the mountains and taken their stake to Texas bought cattle on the cheap and drove them back north into Montana as partners. But the partnership had severed, and each had claimed his own land, his own cattle, and built his own ranch. So there had been Mercy Ranch and Three Rocks Ranch, each expanding, prospering, struggling, surviving.

And Jack Mercy had lusted after McKinnon land. Land that couldn’t be bought or stolen or finessed. But it could be merged, Willa thought now. If Mercy and McKinnon lands were joined, the result would be one of the largest, certainly the most important, ranches in the West.

All he had to do was sell his daughter. What else was a female good for? Willa thought now. Trade her, as you would a nice plump heifer. Put her in front of the bull often enough and nature would handle the rest.

So, since he’d had no son, he was doing the next best thing. He was putting his daughter in front of Ben McKinnon. And everyone would know it, Will thought as she forced her hands to relax on the reins. He hadn’t been able to work the deal while he lived, so he was working the angles from the grave.

And if the daughter who had stood beside him her entire life, had worked beside him, had sweated and bled into the land wasn’t lure enough—well, he had two more.

‘‘Goddamn you, Pa.’’ With unsteady hands, she settled her hat back onto her head. ‘‘The ranch is mine, and it’s going to stay mine. Damned if I’ll spread my legs for Ben McKinnon or anyone else.’’

She caught the flash of headlights, murmured to her mare to settle her. She couldn’t make out the vehicle, but noted the direction. A thin smile spread as she watched the lights veer toward the main house at Three Rocks.

‘‘Back from Bozeman, is he?’’ Instinctively she straightened in the saddle, brought her chin up. The air was clear enough that she heard the muffled slam of the truck’s door, the yapping greeting of dogs. She wondered if he would look over and up on the rise. He would see the dark shadow of horse and rider. And she thought he would know who was watching from the border of his land.

‘‘We’ll see what happens next, McKinnon,’’ she murmured.

‘‘We’ll see who runs Mercy when it’s done.’’

A coyote sang out, howling at the three-quarter moon that rode the sky. And she smiled again. There were all kinds of coyotes, she thought. No matter how pretty they sang, they were still scavengers.

She wasn’t going to let any scavengers on her land. Turning her mount, she rode home in the half-light.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Order a copy of Montana Sky

Being dead didn’t make Jack Mercy less of a son of a bitch. One week of dead didn’t offset sixty-eight years of living mean. Plenty of the people gathered by his grave would be happy to say so.

The fact was, funeral or no funeral, Bethanne Mosebly muttered those sentiments into her husband’s ear as they stood in the high grass of the cemetery. She was there only out of affection for young Willa, and she had bent her husband’s tired ear with that information as well all the way up from Ennis.

As a man who had listened to his wife’s chatter for fortysix years, Bob Mosebly simply grunted, tuning her and the preacher’s droning voice out.

Not that Bob had fond memories of Jack. He’d hated the old bastard, as did most every living soul in the state of Montana.

But dead was dead, Bob mused, and they had sure come out in droves to send the fucker on his way to hell.

This peaceful corner of Mercy Ranch, set in the shadows of the Big Belt Mountains, near the banks of the Missouri, was crowded now with ranchers and cowboys, merchants and politicians. Here where cattle grazed the hills and horses danced in sunny pastures, generations of Mercys were buried under the billowing grass.

Jack was the latest. He’d ordered the glossy chestnut coffin himself, had it custom-made and inscribed in gold with the linked Ms that made up the ranch’s brand. The box was lined with white satin, and Jack was inside it now, wearing his best snakeskin boots, his oldest and most favored Stetson, and holding his bullwhip.

Jack had vowed to die the way he had lived. In nosethumbing style.

Word was, Willa had already ordered the headstone, according to her father’s instructions. It would be white marble — no ordinary granite for Jackson Mercy — and the sentiments inscribed on it were his own:

Here lies Jack Mercy.
He lived as he wanted, died the same way.
The hell with anybody who didn’t like it.

The monument would be raised once the ground had settled, to join all the others that tipped and dotted the stony ground, from Jack Mercy’s great-grandfather, Jebidiah Mercy, who had roamed the mountains and claimed the land, to the last of Jack’s three wives — and the only one who’d died before he could divorce her.

Wasn’t it interesting, Bob mused, that each of Mercy’s wives had presented him with a daughter when he’d been hell-bent on having a son? Bob liked to think of it as God’s little joke on a man who had stepped on backs — and hearts — to get what he wanted in every other area of his life.

He remembered each of Jack’s wives well enough, though none of them had lasted long. Lookers every one, he thought now, and the girls they’d birthed weren’t hard on the eyes either. Bethanne had been burning up the phone lines ever since word came along that Mercy’s two oldest daughters were flying in for the funeral. Neither of them had set foot on Mercy land since before they could walk.

And they wouldn’t have been welcome.

Only Willa had stayed. There’d been little Mercy could do about that, seeing as how her mother had died almost before the child had been weaned. Without any relations to dump the girl on, he’d passed the baby along to his housekeeper, and Bess had raised the girl as best she could.

Each of the women had a touch of Jack in her, Bob noted, scanning them from under the brim of his hat. The dark hair, the sharp chin. You could tell they were sisters, all right, even though they’d never set eyes on each other before.

Time would tell how they would deal together, and time would tell if Willa had enough of Jack Mercy in her to run a ranch of twenty-five thousand acres.

She was thinking of the ranch, and the work that needed to be done. The morning was bright and clear, with the hills sporting color so bold and beautiful it almost hurt the eyes.

The mountains and valley might have been painted fancy for fall, but the chinook wind had come in hot and dry and thick. Early October was warm enough for shirtsleeves, but that could change tomorrow. There’d already been snow in the high country, and she could see it, dribbling along the black and gray peaks, slyly coating the forests. Cattle needed to be rounded up, fences needed to be checked, repaired, checked again. Winter wheat had to be planted.

It was up to her now. It was all up to her. Jack Mercy was no longer Mercy Ranch, Willa reminded herself. She was.

She listened to the preacher speak of everlasting life, of forgiveness and the welcome of heaven. And thought that Jack Mercy would spit on anyone’s welcome into a place other than his own. Montana had been his, this wide country of mountain and meadow, of eagle and wolf.

Her father would be as miserable in heaven as he would in hell.

Her face remained calm as the fancy coffin was lowered into the newest scar in the earth. Her skin was pale gold, a legacy from her mother and her Blackfoot blood as much as the sun. Her eyes, nearly as black as the hair she’d hurriedly twisted into a braid for the funeral, remained fixed on the box that held her father’s body. She hadn’t worn a hat, and the sun beamed like fire into her eyes. But she didn’t let them tear.

She had a proud face, high cheekbones, a wide, haughty mouth, dark, exotic eyes with heavy lids and thick lashes. She’d broken her nose falling off an angry wild mustang when she was eight. Willa liked to think the slight left turn it took in the center of her face added character.

Character meant a great deal more to Willa Mercy than beauty. Men didn’t respect beauty, she knew. They used it. She stood very still, the wind picking up strands from her braid and teasing them into a dance. A woman of average height and tough, rangy build in an ill-fitting black dress and dainty black heels that had never been out of their box before that morning. A woman of twenty-four with work on her mind, and a raging, tearing grief in her heart.

She had, despite everything, loved Jack Mercy. And she said nothing, not one word, to the two women, the strangers who shared her blood and had come to see their father buried.

For a moment, just one moment, she let her gaze shift, let it rest on the grave of Mary Wolfchild Mercy. The mother she couldn’t remember was buried under a soft mound of wildflowers that bloomed like jewels in the autumn sun. Adam’s doing, she thought, and looked up and into the eyes of her half brother. He would know as no one else could that she had tears in her heart she could never let free.

When Adam took her hand, Willa linked fingers with his. In her mind, and heart, he was all the family she had now.

‘‘He lived the life that satisfied him,’’ Adam murmured.

His voice was quiet, peaceful. If they had been alone Willa could have turned, rested her head on his shoulder, and found comfort.

‘‘Yes, he did. And now it’s done.’’

Adam glanced over at the two women, Jack Mercy’s daughters, and thought something else was just beginning.

‘‘You have to speak with them, Willa.’’

‘‘They’re sleeping in my house, eating my food.’’ Deliberately she looked back at her father’s grave. ‘‘That’s enough.’’

‘‘They’re your blood.’’

‘‘No, Adam, you’re my blood. They’re nothing to me.’’

She turned away from him and braced herself to receive the condolences.

Neighbors brought food for death. there was no stopping the bone-deep tradition, any more than Willa could have stopped Bess from cooking for three days straight to provide for what the housekeeper called the bereavement supper. And that was a double pile of horseshit in Willa’s mind. There was no bereavement here. Curiosity, certainly.

Many of the people who packed into the main house had been invited before. More, many more, had not. His death provided them entry, and they enjoyed it.

The main house was a showplace, Jack Mercy style. Once a cabin of log and mud had stood there, but that had been more than a hundred years before. Now there was a sprawling, rambling structure of stone and wood, of glistening glass. Rugs from all over the world spread over floors of gleaming pine or polished tile. Jack Mercy had liked to collect. When he’d become master of Mercy Ranch he had spent five years turning what had been a lovely home into his personal palace.

Rich lived rich, he liked to say.

So he had. Collecting paintings and sculpture, adding rooms where the art could be displayed. The entrance was a towering atrium, floored with tiles in jewel tones of sapphire and ruby in a repeating pattern of the Mercy Ranch brand. The staircase that swept to the second floor was polished oak, shiny as glass, with a newel post carved in the shape of a howling wolf.

People gathered there now, many of them goggling over it as they balanced their plates. Others crowded into the living room with its acre of slick floor and wide curve of sofa in cream-colored leather. On the smooth river rock of the wall-spanning fireplace hung a life-size painting of Jack Mercy astride a black stallion. His head was cocked, his hat tipped back, a bullwhip curled in one hand. Many felt that those hard blue eyes damned them as they sat drinking his whiskey and toasting his death.

For Lily Mercy, the second daughter Jack had conceived and discarded, it was terrifying. The house, the people, the noise. The room the housekeeper had given her the day before when she’d arrived was so beautiful. So quiet, she thought now as she moved closer to the rail of the side porch. The lovely bed, the pretty golden wood against the silky wallpaper.

The solitude.

She wanted that now, so very much, as she looked out toward the mountains. Such mountains, she thought. So high, so rough. Nothing at all like the pretty little hills of her home in Virginia. And all the sky, the shuddering and endless blue of it curving down to more land than could possibly exist.

The plains, that wild roll of them, and the wind that seemed never to stop. And the colors, the golds and russets, the scarlets and bronzes of both hill and plain exploding with autumn.

And this valley, where the ranch spread in a spot of such impossible strength and beauty. She’d seen deer out the window that morning, drinking from a stream that glowed silver in the dawn. She’d heard horses, the voices of men, the crow of a rooster, and what she thought — hoped — might have been an eagle’s cry.

She wondered whether, if she found the courage to walk into the forest that danced up those foothills, she would see the moose, the elk, the fox that she had read about so greedily on the flight west.

She wondered if she would be allowed to stay even another day — and where she would go, what she would do, if
she was asked to leave.

She couldn’t go back east, not yet. Self-consciously she fingered the yellowing bruise she’d tried to hide with makeup and sunglasses. Jesse had found her. She’d been so careful, but he’d found her, and the court orders hadn’t stopped his fists. They never had. Divorce hadn’t stopped him, all the moving and the running hadn’t stopped him.

But here, she thought, maybe here, thousands of miles away, in a country so huge, she could finally start again.

Without fear.

The letter from the attorney informing her of Jack Mercy’s death and requesting her to travel to Montana had been like a gift from God. Though her expenses had been paid, Lily had cashed in the first-class airfare and booked zigzagging flights across the country under three different names. She wanted desperately to believe Jesse Cooke couldn’t find her here.

She was so tired of running, of being afraid.

She wondered if she could move to Billings or Helena and find a job. Any job. She wasn’t without some skills.

There was her teaching degree, and she knew how to use a keyboard. Maybe she could find a small apartment of her own, even just a room to start until she got on her feet again.

She could live here, she thought, staring out at the vast and terrifying and glorious space. Maybe she even belonged here.

She jumped when a hand touched her arm, barely stifled the scream as her heart leaped like a rabbit into her throat.

Not Jesse, she realized, feeling the fool. The man beside her was dark, where Jesse was blond. This man had bronzed skin and hair that streamed to his shoulders. Kind eyes, dark, very dark, in a face as beautiful as a painting.

But then Jesse was beautiful, too. She knew how cruel beauty could be.

‘‘I’m sorry.’’ Adam’s voice was as soothing as it would have been if he’d frightened a puppy or a sick foal. ‘‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Iced tea.’’ He took her hand, noting the way it trembled, and wrapped it around the glass. ‘‘It’s a dry day.’’

‘‘Thank you. I didn’t hear you come up behind me.’’ In a habit she wasn’t even aware of, Lily took a step aside, putting distance between them. Running room. ‘‘I was just . . . looking. It’s so beautiful here.’’

‘‘Yes, it is.’’

She sipped, cooling her dry throat, and ordered herself to be calm and polite. People asked fewer questions when you were calm. ‘‘Do you live nearby?’’

‘‘Very.’’ He smiled, stepped closer to the rail, and gestured east. He liked her voice, the slow, warm southern flavor of it. ‘‘The little white house on the other side of the horse barn.’’

‘‘Yes, I saw it. You have blue shutters and a garden, and there was a little black dog sleeping in the yard.’’ Lily remembered
how homey it had looked, how much more welcoming than the grand house.

‘‘That’s Beans.’’ Adam smiled again. ‘‘The dog. He has a fondness for refried beans. I’m Adam Wolfchild, Willa’s brother.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ She studied the hand he offered for a moment, then ordered herself to take it. She could see the points of resemblance now, the high, slashing cheekbones, the eyes.

‘‘I didn’t realize she had a — That would make us . . .’’

‘‘No.’’ Her hand seemed very fragile, and he let it go gently. ‘‘You shared a father. Willa and I shared a mother.’’

‘‘I see.’’ And realizing that she’d given very little thought to the man they’d buried today, she felt ashamed. ‘‘Were you close, to him . . . your stepfather?’’

‘‘No one was.’’ It was said simply and without bitterness.

‘‘You’re uncomfortable here.’’ He’d noticed her keeping to the edges of groups of people, shying away from contact as if the casual brush of shoulders might bruise her. Just as he’d noticed the marks of violence on her face that she tried to hide.

‘‘I don’t know anyone.’’

Wounded, Adam thought. He had always been drawn to the wounded. She was lovely, and injured. Dressed neatly in a quiet black suit and heels, she was only an inch or so shorter than his five ten and too thin for her height. Her hair was dark, with a sheen of red, and it fell in soft waves that reminded him of angel wings. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses, but he wondered about their color, and about what else he would read in them.

She had her father’s chin, he noticed, but her mouth was soft and rather small, like a child’s. There had been the faint hint of a dimple beside it when she’d tried to smile at him.

Her skin was creamy, very pale — a fragile contrast to the marks on it.

She was alone, he thought, and afraid. It might take him some time to soften Willa’s heart toward this woman, this sister.

‘‘I have to check on a horse,’’ he began.

‘‘Oh.’’ It surprised her that she was disappointed. She had wanted to be alone. She was better when she was alone. ‘‘I won’t keep you.’’

‘‘Would you like to walk down? See some of the stock?’’

‘‘The horses? I—’’ Don’t be a coward, she ordered herself.

He isn’t going to hurt you. ‘‘Yes, I’d like that. If I wouldn’t be in your way.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t.’’ Knowing she’d shy away, he didn’t offer a hand or take her arm, but merely led the way down the stairs and across the rough dirt road.

Several people saw them go, and tongues wagged as tongues do. Lily Mercy was one of Jack’s daughters, after all, though, as was pointed out, she hardly had a word to say for herself. Something that had never been Willa’s problem — no, indeed. That was a girl who said plenty, whatever and whenever she wanted.

As for the other one — well, that was a different kettle of fish altogether. Snooty, she was, parading around in her fancy suit and looking down her nose. Anybody with eyes could see the way she’d stood at the gravesite, cold as ice.

She was a picture, to be sure. Jack had sired fine-looking daughters, and that one, the oldest one, had his eyes. Hard and sharp and blue.

It was obvious she thought she was better than the rest of them with her California polish and her expensive shoes, but there were plenty who remembered her ma had been a Las Vegas showgirl with a big, braying laugh and a bawdy turn of phrase. Those who did remember had already decided they much preferred the mother to the daughter.

Tess Mercy could have cared less. She was here in this godforsaken outback only until the will could be read. She’d take what was hers, which was less than the old bastard owed her, and shake the dust off her Ferragamos.

‘‘I’ll be back by Monday at the latest.’’

She carried the phone along as she paced about with quick, jerky motions, nervous energy searing the air around her. She’d closed the doors of what she supposed was a den, hoping to have at least a few moments of privacy. She had to work hard to ignore the mounted animal heads that populated the walls.

‘‘The script’s finished.’’ She smiled a little, tunneled her fingers through the straightedge swing of dark hair that curved at her jaw. ‘‘Damn right it’s brilliant, and it’ll be in your hot little hands Monday. Don’t hassle me, Ira,’’ she warned her agent. ‘‘I’ll get you the script, then you get me the deal. My cash flow’s down to a dribble.’’

She shifted the phone and pursed her lips as she helped herself to a snifter of brandy from the decanter. She was still listening to the promises and pleas of Hollywood when she saw Lily and Adam stroll by the window.

Interesting, she thought, and sipped. The little mouse and the Noble Savage.

Tess had done some quick checking before she’d made the trip to Montana. She knew Adam Wolfchild was the son of Jack Mercy’s third and final wife. That he’d been eight when his mother had married Mercy. Wolfchild was Blackfoot, or mostly. His mother had been part Indian. The man had spent twenty-five years on Mercy Ranch and had little more to show for it than a tiny house and a job tending horses.

Tess intended to have more.

As for Lily, all Tess had discovered was that she was divorced, childless, and moved around quite a bit. Probably because her husband had used her for a punching bag, Tess thought, and made herself clamp down on a stir of pity. She couldn’t afford emotional attachments here. It was straight business.

Lily’s mother had been a photographer who’d come to Montana to snap pictures of the real West. She’d snapped Jack Mercy — for all the good it had done her, Tess thought.

Then there was Willa. Tess’s mouth tightened as she thought of Willa. The one who had stayed, the one the old bastard had kept.

Well, she owned the place now, Tess assumed, shrugging her shoulders. And she was welcome to it. No doubt she’d earned it. But Tess Mercy wasn’t walking away without a nice chunk of change.

Looking out the window, she could see the plains in the distance, rolling, rolling endlessly, as empty as the moon. With a shudder, she turned her back on the view. Christ, she wanted Rodeo Drive.

‘‘Monday, Ira,’’ she snapped, annoyed with his voice buzzing in her ear. ‘‘Your office, twelve sharp. Then you can take me to lunch.’’

With that as a good-bye, she replaced the receiver.

Three days, tops, she promised herself, and toasted an elk head with her brandy. Then she’d get the hell out of Dodge and back to civilization.

‘‘I shouldn’t have to remind you that you got guests downstairs, Will.’’ Bess Pringle stood with her hands on her bony hips and used the same tone she’d used when Willa was ten.

Willa jerked her jeans on — Bess didn’t believe in little niceties like privacy and had barely knocked before striding into the bedroom. Willa responded just as she might have at ten. ‘‘Then don’t.’’ She sat down to pull on her boots.

‘‘Rude is a four-letter word.’’

‘‘So’s work, but it still has to be done.’’

‘‘And you’ve got enough hands around this place to see to it for one blessed day. You’re not going off somewhere today, of all days. It ain’t fittin’.’’

What was or wasn’t fitting constituted the bulk of Bess’s moral and social codes. She was a bird of a woman, all bone and teeth, though she could plow through a mountain of hotcakes like a starving field hand and had the sweet tooth of an eight-year-old. She was fifty-eight — and had changed the date on her birth certificate to prove it — and had a head of flaming red hair she dyed in secret and kept pulled back in a don’t-give-me-any-lip bun.

Her voice was as rough as pine bark and her face as smooth as a girl’s, and surprisingly pretty with moss-green eyes and a pug Irish nose. Her hands were small and quick and able. And so was her temper.

With her fists still glued to her hips, she marched up to Willa and glared down. ‘‘You get your sassy self down those stairs and tend to your guests.’’

‘‘I’ve got a ranch to run.’’ Willa rose. It hardly mattered that in her boots she topped Bess by six inches. The balance of power had always tottered back and forth between them.

‘‘And they’re not my guests. I’m not the one who wanted them here.’’

‘‘They’ve come to pay respects. That’s fittin’.’’

‘‘They’ve come to gawk and prowl around the house. And it’s time they left.’’

‘‘Maybe some of them did.’’ Bess jerked her head in a little nod. ‘‘But there’s plenty more who are here for you.’’

‘‘I don’t want them.’’ Willa turned away, picked up her hat, then simply stood staring out her window, crushing the brim in her hands. The window faced the mountains, the dark belt of trees, the peaks of the Big Belt that held all the beauty and mystery in the world.
‘‘I don’t need them. I can’t breathe with all these people hovering around.’’

Bess hesitated before laying a hand on Willa’s shoulder. Jack Mercy hadn’t wanted his daughter raised soft. No pampering, no spoiling, no cuddling. He’d made that clear while Willa had still been in diapers. So Bess had pampered and spoiled and cuddled only when she was certain she wouldn’t be caught and sent away like one of Jack’s wives.

‘‘Honey, you got a right to grieve.’’

‘‘He’s dead and he’s buried. Feeling sorry won’t change it.’’ But she lifted a hand, closed it over the small one on her shoulder.
‘‘He didn’t even tell me he was sick, Bess. He couldn’t even give me those last few weeks to try to take care of him, or to say good-bye.’’

‘‘He was a proud man,’’ Bess said, but she thought, Bastard. Selfish bastard. ‘‘It’s better the cancer took him quick rather than letting him linger. He would’ve hated that and it would’ve been harder on you.’’

‘‘One way or the other, it’s done.’’ She smoothed the wide, circling brim of her hat, settled it on her head. ‘‘I’ve got animals and people depending on me. The hands need to see, right now, that I’m in charge. That Mercy Ranch is still being run by a Mercy.’’

‘‘You do what you have to do, then.’’ Years of experience had taught Bess that what was fitting didn’t hold much water when it came to ranch business. ‘‘But you be back by suppertime. You’re going to sit down and eat decent.’’

‘‘Clear these people out of the house, and I will.’’

She started out, turning left toward the back stairs. They wound down the east wing of the house and allowed her to slip into the mudroom. Even there she could hear the beehive buzz of conversations from the other rooms, the occasional roll of laughter. Resenting all of it, she slammed out the door, then pulled up short when she saw the two men smoking companionably on the side porch.

Her gaze narrowed on the older man and the bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. ‘‘Enjoying yourself, Ham?’’

Sarcasm from Willa didn’t ruffle Hamilton Dawson. He’d put her up on her first pony, had wrapped her head after her first spill. He’d taught her how to use a rope, shoot a rifle, and dress a deer. Now he merely fit his cigarette into the little hole surrounded by grizzled hair and blew out a smoke ring.

‘‘It’s’’ — another smoke ring formed — ‘‘a pretty afternoon.’’

‘‘I want the fence checked along the northwest boundary.’’

‘‘Been done,’’ he said placidly, and continued to lean on the rail, a short, stocky man on legs curved like a wishbone. He was ranch foreman and figured he knew what needed to be done as well as Willa did. ‘‘Got a crew out making repairs. Sent Brewster and Pickles up the high country. We lost a couple head up there. Looks like cougar.’’ Another drag, another stream of smoke. ‘‘Brewster’ll take care of it. Likes to shoot things.’’

‘‘I want to talk to him when he gets back.’’

‘‘I expect you will.’’ He straightened up from the rail, adjusted his mud-colored dishrag of a hat. ‘‘It’s weaning time.’’

‘‘Yes, I know.’’

He expected she did, and nodded again. ‘‘I’ll go check on the fence crew. Sorry about your pa, Will.’’

She knew those simple words tacked onto ranch business were more sincere and personal than the acres of flowers sent by strangers.
‘‘I’ll ride out later.’’

He nodded, to her, to the man beside him, then hitched his bowlegged way toward his rig.

‘‘How are you holding up, Will?’’

She shrugged a shoulder, frustrated that she didn’t know what to do next. ‘‘I want it to be tomorrow,’’ she said.

‘‘Tomorrow’ll be easier, don’t you think, Nate?’’

Because he didn’t want to tell her the answer was no, he tipped back his beer. He was there for her, as a friend, a fellow rancher, a neighbor. He was also there as Jack Mercy’s lawyer, and he knew that before too much more time passed he was going to shatter the woman standing beside him.

‘‘Let’s take a walk.’’ He set the beer down on the rail, took Willa’s arm. ‘‘My legs need stretching.’’

He had a lot of them. Nathan Torrence was a tall one. He’d hit six two at seventeen and had kept growing. Now, at thirty-three, he was six six and lanky with it. Hair the color of wheat straw curled under his hat. His eyes were as blue as the Montana sky in a face handsomely scored by wind and sun. At the end of long arms were big hands. At the end of long legs were big feet. Despite them, he was
surprisingly graceful.

He looked like a cowboy, walked like a cowboy. His heart, when it came to matters of his family, his horses, and the poetry of Keats, was as soft as a down pillow. His mind, when it came to matters of law, of justice, of simple right and wrong, was as hard as granite.
He had a deep and long-standing affection for Willa Mercy. And he hated that he had no choice but to put her through hell.

‘‘I’ve never lost anybody close to me,’’ Nate began. ‘‘I can’t say I know how you feel.’’

Willa kept walking, past the cookhouse, the bunkhouse, by the chicken house where the hens were going broody.

‘‘He never let anyone get close to him. I don’t know how I feel.’’

‘‘The ranch . . .’’ This was dicey territory, and Nate negotiated carefully. ‘‘It’s a lot to deal with.’’

‘‘We’ve got good people, good stock, good land.’’ It wasn’t hard to smile up at Nate. It never was. ‘‘Good friends.’’

‘‘You can call on me anytime, Will. Me or anyone in the county.’’

‘‘I know that.’’ She looked beyond him, to the paddocks, the corrals, the outbuildings, the houses, and farther, to where the land went into its long, endless roll to the bottom of the sky. ‘‘A Mercy has run this place for more than a hundred years. Raised cattle, planted grain, run horses. I know what needs to be done and how to do it. Nothing really changes.’’

Everything changes, Nate thought. And the world she was speaking of was about to take a sharp turn, thanks to the hard heart of a dead man. It was better to do it now, straight off, before she climbed onto a horse or into a rig and rode off.

‘‘We’d best get to the reading of the will,’’ he decided.

Copyright © Nora Roberts

Buy a copy of High Noon

STILL, flowers and an evening of girl movies smoothed out a lot of edges. At the end of the marathon, Phoebe carried her sleeping daughter to bed. Any-o’clock made it to just past midnight this time.

Twenty minutes later, Phoebe was as deeply asleep as her daughter.

The sound of the doorbell had her bolting straight up in bed. She rolled out, glancing at the bedside clock—three-fifteen—before snatching up her robe. She was already at the steps and starting down when Essie and Ava came out of their rooms.

“Was that the doorbell?” Essie clutched her robe closed at the neck, and her knuckles were white. “At this hour?”

“Probably just kids fooling around. You stay up here with Carly, okay? In case it woke her.”

“Don’t open the door. Don’t—”

“Don’t worry, Mama.”

That twenty-year-old fear, Phoebe knew, was always waiting to push off from the bottom of the dark pool toward the surface.

“I’ll go with you. Probably just a couple half-drunk teenagers playing pranks,” Ava said before Phoebe could object.

No point in making it bigger than it was, Phoebe decided, and let Ava walk down with her. “She’ll be upset the rest of the night,” Phoebe murmured.

“I’ll see she takes a sleeping pill if she needs it. Stupid kids.”

Phoebe peered through the pattern of textured glass on the panel of the front door and saw nothing. They’d run off, she thought, likely laughing hysterically as kids would over waking up a household.

But when she rose to her toes to study the veranda more carefully, she saw it.

“Go on up, Ava, tell Mama it was nothing. Just kids being a nuisance.”

“What is it?” Ava clutched at Phoebe’s arm. “Is there something out there?”

“Go on up and tell Mama. I don’t want her scared. Tell her I’m just getting a glass of water while I’m down here.”

“What is it? I’ll go up and get Steven’s baseball bat. Don’t you open that door until—”

“Ava, nobody’s out there, but I need to open this door, and I can’t until you go up and tell Mama everything’s fine. She’s working herself up into a state by now. You know she is.”

“Damn it.” Loyalty to Essie overrode the rest. “I’m coming right back.”

Phoebe waited until Ava was up the stairs before she unlocked the door. She scanned the street—right, left, across—but her gut told her whoever had rung the bell was gone. She had only to crouch down to pick up what lay on the doorstep. Then she shut the door and relocked it before carrying it into the kitchen to set it on the table.

The doll had bright red hair. It had probably been long hair once but had been crudely hacked off. Whoever had done it had stripped it, bound its hands with clothesline, affixed a square of duct tape across its mouth. Red paint was splattered and smeared over the doll to simulate blood.

“Oh my God, Phoebe!”

Phoebe held up a hand, continued to study the doll. “Carly? Mama?”

“Carly slept through it. I told Essie it was nothing, and you were staying down just a little while in case those kids came back so you could give them a scare and a piece of your mind.”

“Good.”

“That horrible thing.” Ava laid the ball bat she’d snatched out of her son’s closet on the table beside it.

“Honey, why don’t you get me the camera from the server drawer? I want to take some pictures for my files.”

“But shouldn’t you call the police?”

“Ava, you’re always forgetting I am the police.”

“But—”

“I’ll be taking it in, but I want my own pictures. Don’t worry, whoever did this isn’t coming back tonight. He delivered the message. And don’t tell Mama about this,” Phoebe added as she went into the tool drawer for a measuring tape. “Not yet.”

“Of course I won’t tell her. Phoebe, I wish you’d call Dave. I wish you’d call Dave right now and tell him someone put this thing that’s meant to be you right on the doorstep.”

“I’m not going to wake Dave at this hour. There’s nothing he can do.” Phoebe rubbed a hand on Ava’s arm as she walked back to the table. “But I’ll talk to him about it, I promise. Get me that camera now, all right?”

She measured, took pictures, then double bagged the doll in plastic, tucked it into a shopping bag and stowed it in the foyer closet.

Essie called out softly as Phoebe passed her bedroom door. “Honey? Everything all right?”

“It’s fine.” Phoebe stopped in Essie’s doorway. Her mother looked so young and vulnerable in the big old bed. “Excitement’s over for the night. You going to be able to get back to sleep?”

“I think so. Kids pulling pranks. What are you going to do?”

“Don’t let them know it bothered you. ’Night, Mama.”

In her bedroom, Phoebe set the alarm for six. She’d take the doll into the precinct, file a report, be home again before anyone knew she’d gone out. She’d ask Sykes to look into it. He was solid and smart. If the doll could be traced, he’d trace it.

Nobody, nobody was going to upset her family.

As she lay sleepless in the dark, already knowing she wouldn’t need the alarm, she wondered where Arnie Meeks had been at three-fifteen.

It had been enough to see the lights come on in her fancy house. Flash, flash, flash. Enough to see that before he’d bolted into the park, into the trees. Into the dark.

But it had been even better—a nice bonus—to see her open the door and pick up her little present. Worth the time, worth the trouble, yeah, to see her come out for his gift.

Just some foreplay, bitch, he thought as he drove home. Just a little tickle before the main event.

He wasn’t nearly finished with Phoebe MacNamara.

She’d have canceled the date if it wouldn’t have made the incident the night before too important. And if canceling wouldn’t have meant answering a dozen questions from her mother, and even from Carly.

She’d already answered her share that morning as it had taken her longer than she’d hoped to deliver the evidence, make a report, get home again on the damn CAT. At least she’d had the foresight to wear sweats so she could use the excuse—simply lie, Phoebe admitted—and say she’d gone for an early run in the park.

Then, of course, Carly had walked her feet off during the afternoon. The battle of wills over the purchase of the “cutest” outfit had tried her patience so that she and her daughter were not on the best of terms when they’d returned home—Carly to sulk in her room and Phoebe to escape to the courtyard chaise with a broad-brimmed hat on her head.

Now she had to go out to dinner, she thought, as, after refusing all opinions, she pulled out her all-purpose black dress. If it was good enough for weddings, funerals and the occasional cocktail party, it was good enough for a dinner date.

The fashionista gene had skipped a generation, she decided with some irritation, along with the curls and dimples.

She started to put her hair up, but fiddling with it made her think of the rudely shorn hair on the doll. She left it down. And while she knew her family would have preferred a little time to grill her date— and for Phoebe to make an entrance down the stairs—she made sure she was in the parlor well before seven.

And at the door first when the bell rang.

“Hello, Duncan.”

“First let me say: Wow. Then, hello, Phoebe.”

She stepped back, raised her eyebrows at the nosegay of pink rosebuds he carried. “You already sent me flowers, which are gorgeous, by the way.”

“Glad you liked them. This isn’t for you.” He glanced around the foyer. “I like your house.”

“We do, too.”

“Phoebe, aren’t you going to invite the man past the foyer, introduce him?” Essie stepped out of the parlor, aimed a smile at Duncan.

“I’m Essie MacNamara, Phoebe’s mother.”

“Ma’am.” He took the hand she offered. “It sounds like a line, but has to be said anyway. I can see where Phoebe gets her impressive looks.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased it had to be said. Come on into the parlor. My son and his wife aren’t here, but I’ll introduce you to the rest of the family. Ava, this is Phoebe’s friend Duncan.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you.”

“Phoebe didn’t mention so many beauties in the family. She did mention you.” He smiled over at Carly. “I went for pink.” He held out the flowers.

“Isn’t that sweet!” Essie had already melted. “Carly, this is Mr. Swift. And I believe those are your first roses from a gentleman caller.”

The sulky child tumbled into a coy female. “They’re mine?”

“Unless you hate pink.”

“I like pink.” She flushed nearly the color of the buds she took from him. “Thank you. Gran, can I pick a vase for them myself? Can I?”

“Of course you can. Mr. Swift, can I offer you something to drink?”

“Duncan. I—”

“We should go,” Phoebe interrupted. “The dazzle in here’s getting blinding.” She picked up a jacket from the back of a chair. “I won’t be late.”

“Ouch,” Duncan said.

Ignoring him, Phoebe bent to kiss Carly’s cheek. “Behave.”

“You enjoy yourselves,” Essie said. “And Duncan, you be sure to come back.”

“Thanks. Next time I’ll have to bring a meadow. Nice to meet you all.”

Phoebe knew very well there were three faces plastered to the parlor window when Duncan opened the car door for her. She sent him a thoughtful look, then slipped inside.

She sent him the same look when he got behind the wheel. “Are you trying to clear the path by charming my daughter?”

“Absolutely. Now that I know about your mother and Ava, I’ll work on them.”

“Now I have to decide whether to appreciate your honesty or be insulted by it.”

“Let me know when you make up your mind. Meanwhile, do you hate boats?”

“Why?”

“Because if you hate boats I need to make an adjustment. So, do you?”

“No, I don’t hate boats.”

“Good.” He flipped out a cell phone, punched a number. “Duncan. We’re on the way. Good. Great. Thanks.” He clicked it closed. “Your daughter looks like your mother. The dimples missed you.”

“To my great sadness.”

“How’s Ava related?”

“Not by blood, but she’s still family.”

He nodded in a way that told her he understood completely. “And you have an older brother.”

“Younger. Carter’s younger.”

“Okay. Do he and his wife live in that great house with you, too?”

“No, they have their own place. What made you think to bring Carly roses?”

“Ah . . . Well, I don’t know much about seven-year-old girls, and didn’t know if this specific one went for dolls or footballs. There was also the possibility you’re one of those sugar Nazis, so that eliminated the candy route. Figured I sent you flowers, and she’d probably get a kick out of getting some, too. Is there a problem?”

“No. No. I’m complicating it, and it was a sweet gesture. She’ll never forget it. A girl doesn’t forget the first time a man gives her flowers.”

“I don’t have to marry her or anything, do I?”

“Not for another twenty years.”

After he’d parked, Phoebe assumed they were going to one of the restaurants along River Street. Something with a view, she supposed, even alfresco dining, which made her glad for the jacket.

Instead he led her to the pier, past a few boats, and to a graceful, gleaming white sailboat. There was a table on deck under a white cloth. Tea lights under a little dome in the center.

“This would be yours.”

“If you hated boats, we were going for pizza, and this relationship would probably have ended with the last pepperoni.”

“Fortunately for me I like boats. I had pizza last night.”

She let him help her on board, adjusted to the sway. As first dates went, though she supposed technically this was their second, it had a lot of potential.

“Do you do a lot of sailing?”

“I live over on Whitfield Island.”

“Ah.” That answered that. She walked to the rail, looked across the river. “Did you always live on Whitfield?”

“No. Didn’t plan to.” He took a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket, began to work out the cork. “It just sort of happened and I got to like it.”

“Like winning the lottery.”

“More or less.”

She turned at the sound of the cork popping.

“So this part?” he began. “It’s the showing-off part. The boat, champagne, fancy food—which is under the table in a warming bin. But it’s also because I thought it would be nice to eat out on the water, just you and me.”

“The showing-off part’s a bull’s-eye. The just-you-and-me part is problematic. Not for dinner, but as a concept.”

He poured the wine. “Because?”

She leaned back against the rail, wallowing in the breeze and the sway. “I have layers of complications.”

“Single parent, complex career.”

“Yes.” She took the wine. “And more.”

“Such as?”

“Long stories.”

“So you said before. I’m not in any hurry.”

“All right, let’s just start this way. I loved my ex-husband when I married him.”

He leaned back with her. “Always a good plan.”

“I thought so. I loved him very much, even though I knew, I understood going in, we weren’t on equal terms.”

“I don’t get it.”

“He didn’t love me very much. He couldn’t. He just isn’t built for it.”

“Sounds like excuses.”

“No. No. Easier if they were. He was never abusive, never—to my knowledge—unfaithful. But he couldn’t put his whole self into the marriage. I was sure I could fix that, I could work with that. Then I got pregnant. He wasn’t upset or angry. After Carly was born . . . There was just nothing,” she said after a moment. “No connection, no bond, no curiosity. He coasted, we coasted for nearly a year that way. Then he told me he wanted out. He was sorry, but it just wasn’t what he was looking for. He decided he wanted to travel. Roy’s like that. Impulsive. He married me on impulse, agreed to start a family on one. Neither really satisfied him, so, on to the next.”

He tucked her hair behind her ear again, just that casual swirl of finger around the curve. “Does Carly ever see him?”

“No. Really no. And actually handles the situation better than I do. That’s only one complication.”

“Okay, give me another.”

“My mother’s agoraphobic. She hasn’t been out of that house in ten years. She can’t.”

“She didn’t seem—”

“Crazy?” Phoebe interrupted. “She’s not.”

“I wasn’t going to say crazy, hair-trigger. I was going to say nervous around strangers. Such as me.”

“It’s not the same thing. In the house, she’s fine. She understands and feels safe inside the house.”

“It must be rough on her.” He ran the back of his hand down Phoebe’s arm. “And you.”

“We deal with it. She fought it a long time, about as long as she hasn’t been able to fight it. She fought it for me and my brother. So now Carter and I—and Ava and Carly—deal with it.”

“You’ve got some rough stuff.” He turned, shifted so he was facing her, so his free hand rested on the rail by her elbow.

So she could feel him, the pull of him as their eyes met and held. “But I don’t understand what it has to do with you and me as a concept.”

Right that minute, she was trying to understand it herself. “My family and my work take nearly all my time, all my energy.”

“You may be laboring under the mistaken impression I’m highmaintenance.”

He took her glass, moved back to the bottle. He topped hers off, then his own. When he went back to her, he leaned in first, laid his lips on hers. “Got a zing going there.”

Oh, God, yeah. “Zings are easy.”

“Have to start somewhere. I like here. Sexy redhead, beautiful night, bubbles in the wine. Hungry?”

“More than I like.”

He smiled. “Why don’t you sit down? There’s supposed to be some sort of cold lobster deal in the cold box inside. I’ll go get it. You can tell me some more long stories while we eat.”

She wasn’t going to tell him anything else about her life, her family. Keep it light, she decided. All on the surface. But he had a way, and somehow between the lobster salad and the medallions of beef, she let him in.

“I wonder how a girl from Savannah aims for the FBI and trains to talk people off ledges, for instance, then circles back to the local police. Did you play cops with your Barbies?”

“I didn’t much like Barbies, really. All that blond hair, those big breasts.”

“Which is why I loved them.” He laughed when she only blinked at him. “What? You figure Malibu Barbie isn’t going to start a ten-yearold boy thinking?”

“I do now. Unfortunately.”

“So if it wasn’t Barbies, what started you on the road? G.I. Joe?”

“Joe’s a soldier. It was Dave McVee.”

“Dave McVee? I must’ve missed him during my action-figure stage.”

“He’s a person and, though he’s a hero, has never been a toy—that I’m aware of.”

“Ah.” He refilled their glasses and enjoyed the way the lights played over that porcelain skin, those clever cat’s eyes. “High-school crush? First love?”

“Neither. Hero, first and last. He saved us.”

When she said nothing more, Duncan shook his head. “You know you can’t leave it there.”

“No, I suppose I can’t. My father was killed when my mother was pregnant with Carter. My younger brother.”

“That’s rough.” He laid his hand over hers. “Seriously rough. How old were you?”

“Four, nearly five. I remember him, a little. But I remember more it broke something in Mama that took a long time to heal, and it never healed all the way. I know now, being a trained observer who’s educated in psychology, that his death likely laid the groundwork for her agoraphobia. She had to go out to work, had to haul us around. No choice at all. But for years she kept mostly to herself.”

“She had a choice,” Duncan disagreed. “She chose to do what needed to be done to take care of her family.”

“Yes, you’re right. And she did take care. Then she met this man. She met Reuben. He’d come by, fix things for her. Little household things. I could see, being a girl of almost twelve, the flirt was on
between them. It was odd, but my father’d been gone a long time, and it was nice, too, to see her get all flushed and foolish.”

“You wanted her to be happy.”

“I did. He was nice to us, at first Reuben was awful nice to us. Playing catch with Carter out in the yard, bringing us candy, taking Mama out to the movies and such.”

“But he didn’t stay nice. I can hear it,” Duncan said when she looked at him. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“No, he didn’t stay nice. They’d slept together. I’m not sure how I knew it, even then. But she opened herself up enough, after all those years, to be with him that way.”

“And that’s when it changed?”

“Yeah. He got possessive, proprietary, critical. He’d pick on us, all three of us really, but make it like a joke. Carter, especially Carter got the digs. Boy couldn’t find his ass with both hands, ha ha ha. A man never grew balls reading books. And so on. He started coming over every night, expecting Mama to have dinner hot on the table, shoo us off so he could grope her. She wouldn’t, and he’d get pissy. Started drinking a lot. I expect he always did, but he drank more at the house than he had at first. And this is terrible dinner conversation.”

“I’d like to hear the rest. My father drank more than his share, so I know what it’s like. Finish it off.”

“All right. One day he came by when Mama was still at work. It was just Carter and me. He’d been drinking, and he popped open another beer, then a second one and pushed it at Carter. Told him it was time he learned to drink like a man. Carter didn’t want it. God, he was only seven. Carter told him to go away, leave him alone, and Reuben smacked him, right in the face, for sass. Well, I sassed him then, you can believe it.”

The old rage bubbled straight up. “I told him to get the hell out of our house, to keep his fat hands off my brother. Well, he smacked me, too. And that’s when Mama came in. I’ll tell you something, Duncan, up to that point I loved her. She worked so hard, she did her best. But I never thought she had any backbone. Not until she walked in and saw me and Carter on the floor and that son of a bitch standing over us taking off his belt.”

She paused a moment, took a sip of wine. “He was going to use it on us, going to teach us a lesson. Mama lit into him like ball lightning. Of course, he was twice her size, and drunk, so he knocked her clear across the room. She was screaming at him to get out, to stay away from her babies, and I told Carter to run, to run to the neighbor’s, call the police.

When I was sure he’d gotten far enough away, I started screaming, too, saying the police were coming. Reuben called me and Mama names I wasn’t yet acquainted with, but he went.”

“You kept your head.” His hand gripped hers on the table now, a solid link. “You were smart.”

“I was scared. I wanted the police because the police are supposed to help. They came, and they talked to my mother. I don’t want to say they talked her out of filing charges, but they didn’t encourage it. They took his name, said they’d go talk to him. They probably did. I don’t know all that happened, just some. I know he went by her work, apologized to her. I know he came by the house with flowers, but she wouldn’t let him in. I’d see him sitting outside in his car, just sitting there watching the house. And once, at least once that I saw, he grabbed her when she was outside, tried to pull her into his car. I called the police again then, and some of the neighbors came out, so he took off again. And Mama, she took out a restraining order. That’s what they told her she should do.”

“They didn’t arrest him.”

“I think they may have put him in holding for a few hours, and they gave him a stern talking-to. So a few nights later, he got liquored up, got his gun, and he broke into the house. He hit Mama so hard she still has a little scar here.” Phoebe traced her fingers over her cheek. “He held the gun to her head, and he told me and Carter to go around, lock all the doors, the windows, close the curtains. We were all going to sit ourselves down, have a long talk.

“He kept us in there almost twelve hours. The police came, after a couple hours, I think. Reuben shot a few holes in the wall for sport, and the neighbors called the police. He yelled out he’d kill us all if they tried coming in. The brats first. Pretty soon, the police shut off the power. It was August, it was hot. Then Dave got him on the phone and kept him talking.”

“He talked him into letting you go?”

“He kept him talking. That’s the first rule. As long as Reuben was talking to Dave, he wasn’t killing us. He would have; I could see it. Carter and me. Maybe not Mama because he’d gotten it into his head she belonged to him. But Dave got him talking about fishing. A long conversation about fishing, and kept us alive. But after a while, Reuben got himself worked up again. He was going to hurt Carter, I could feel it. So I distracted him, the way Dave had with the fishing. Between one thing and another, I got into the bathroom, unlocked the window in there, and I told Carter—bullied Carter—into going in first chance, getting out that way.”

“You got your brother out,” Duncan murmured.

“Reuben had a serious hard-on for Carter. He was going to hurt him.”

She told him then about fixing the meal, the sleeping pills. And of sitting in the hospital while they stitched up her mother’s face, talking to Dave.

“He kept my family alive.”

“And you got them out. Twelve years old.”

“I wouldn’t have had a family to get out if it hadn’t been for Dave. We moved into Cousin Bess’s house after that, the house on Jones Street. Dave kept in touch. Lots of longer stories in all of that, but Dave talked to me about hostage and crisis negotiation. He thought I’d have a knack for it, and the perspective of what it’s like on the other side. I wanted to please him, and it sounded exciting. So I trained, and I found out he was right. I have a knack for it.”

She lifted her glass, half toast. “It’s no lottery ticket, but it put me where I am.”

“What happened to Reuben?”

“He died in prison. Pissed someone off enough for that someone to shove a shiv into him multiple times. As a moral woman, as an officer of the law, I’m obliged to deplore that sort of thing. I went out and bought a bottle of champagne, not quite up to these standards, but a very decent bottle. I enjoyed every drop of it.”

“Glad to hear it.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You’ve had an interesting life, Phoebe.”

“Interesting?”

“Well, you can’t claim to have lived in the rut of routine.”

She laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”

“I’ve got some insight now on why I saw that purpose in you when you walked into Suicide Joe’s apartment. And you have the sexiest green eyes.”

She watched him with them as she sipped her champagne. “If you think because I’ve bared my soul, more or less, and have had several glasses of this lovely champagne, I’m going to slide down into the cabin and have wild sex with you, you’re mistaken.”

“Can we negotiate? Any other kind of sex a possibility?”

“I don’t think so, but thanks all the same.”

“How about a walk along the river where I can kiss you in the moonlight?”

“We can start with the walk.”

He rose, took her hand. And as she came to her feet, he simply cupped the back of her neck to draw her mouth to his.

Warm lips and cool air, a hard body and a gentle touch. She gave in, gave up to the moment. Her fingers twined with his and curled tight as she leaned in for more.

He could feel the strength of her under the soft, soft skin. It was that, he knew, that had pulled at him from the first moment. Those contrasts, those complexities. There was nothing simple, nothing ordinary about her.

Yet he thought this could be simple—this one thing—this slowly building heat between them.

So the long, long kiss spun out, hinting of a spark that might flash at any moment, while the deck swayed gently under their feet, and the air blew soft over the water.

She brought her hand to his chest, kept it there a moment as his heart thumped beneath her palm. Then she used it to ease him back.

“Someone else has quite a knack,” she commented.

“I’ve been practicing religiously since I was twelve.” He brought the hand on his chest up, to rub his lips over the knuckles. “I’ve developed a few variations, if you’d like me to demonstrate.”

“I think that was enough of a demonstration for right now. We discussed a walk.”

“Probably best to save the variations. I’m not sure you’re ready.”

“Oh really? Don’t think you can use that kind of maneuver on me. I’m a cop.”

He stepped off, onto the pier, held out a hand for hers. “Variation Seven’s been known to cause temporary unconsciousness.”

“That’s a straight dare.” She stepped from boat to dock. “And I haven’t taken a dare since I was seven. We’re walking, Mr. Swift.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

As they walked, she angled her head to study his face. “Variation Seven?”

“I’m required by law to give the previous warning before use. Now that you’ve been warned, I’m in the clear.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her laugh floated over the water. And her face, bright with it, filled the field glasses.

He dug into the takeout bag for his fries as he watched her, watched them. And he considered how quick and easy it would be if he had that face of hers in the crosshairs of a rifle scope.

Bang!

Too quick, too easy.

But before much longer, she wouldn’t be laughing.

Copyright © 2007 by Nora Roberts

Buy a copy of High Noon.

WHAT DIDN’T SUCK, Phoebe decided, was to come home after a viciously bad day and find two dozen stargazer lilies waiting for her.

Essie had arranged them into quite a show in Cousin Bess’s big Waterford vase, culling out a trio from the field for Phoebe’s bedroom.

“You can have the whole lot up in your room, of course, but I thought—”

“No, this is fine. This is lovely.” Phoebe leaned over for a sniff of them where they stood elegant and splashy on the piecrust table in the family parlor. “We can all enjoy them here.”

“I didn’t read the note.” Essie handed it over. “And I have to admit, it was a bitter war of conscience and curiosity. Even though I know who sent them.”

“I suppose he did. Well.” Phoebe tapped the little envelope on her palm.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Phoebe, read it!” Ava stood behind Carly, rubbing the girl’s shoulders. “We’re dying here. I considered wrestling your mama to the ground for that note.”

Phoebe supposed when a man sent flowers to a house with four females, he sent them to all. She opened the envelope, and read.

“ ‘See you Saturday. Duncan.’ ”

“That’s it?” Disappointment dragged through Ava’s voice. “Not much of a poet, is he?”

“I’d say he’s letting the flowers speak for themselves,” Essie corrected.

“That’s poetical enough.”

“Mama, is he your boyfriend?”

“He’s just someone I’m going to have dinner with tomorrow,” Phoebe told Carly.

“ ’Cause Sherrilynn’s big sister has a boyfriend, and he makes her cry all the time. She lays across the bed in her room and cries all the time, Sherrilynn says.”

“And I bet Sherrilynn’s big sister enjoys every minute of it.” Phoebe reached down to cup Carly’s face. “I’m not much of a crier myself.”

“You cried when you called Roy last time.”

A mother could never hide tears from a child, and a mother who thought she could was delusional. “Not so very much. I’m going to go up and change. I heard a rumor it’s pizza night around here.”

“And DVD and popcorn night!”

“I heard that, too. I want to go take off my work, and put on my play.”

Upstairs, Phoebe sat on the side of the bed. Could a mother ever really protect her child from her mistakes, or the ripples from them that spread all through a life?

Weren’t they in this house now because of a single event from more than twenty years before? Weren’t they all who they were, with their lives tangled together under this roof, because of that steamy summer night when she was twelve? Decisions she made, actions she took, even words she spoke would affect her daughter forever. Just as her mother’s had affected her.

Mama had done her best, Phoebe thought. But trusting a man with herself, with her children, had changed the course of their world.

And she remembered it all, every movement, every moment, as if it were yesterday.

The room was a box of heat, stained with the grease of his sweat. He’d begun to swig whiskey straight from the bottle of Wild Turkey Mama kept up high in the kitchen cupboard, so the stench of whiskey added another smear to the trapped air.

Phoebe hoped he’d drink enough to pass out before he used the .45 clutched in his free hand that he’d taken to waving around like a mean little boy with a pointy stick.

Put your eye out, you’re not careful.

He’d already fired off a few rounds, but just to kill lamps or bric-abrac and put holes in the walls. He’d held it to Mama’s head, too, screaming and cursing as he’d dragged her across the floor by her long red hair.

But he hadn’t shot Mama, not yet, or made good on his threats to put a bullet in Phoebe’s little brother Carter, or Phoebe herself.

But he could, he could, and he made sure they knew he would if they gave him any goddamn lip. So fear lived in the box, too, a terrible, helpless fear that hung in the trapped air like blackflies.

Though all the shades were drawn or the curtains pulled tight over the windows, she knew the police were outside. He talked to them on the phone, Reuben did. She wished she knew what they were saying to him because he mostly calmed down afterward.

If she knew, for sure, what they said to calm him, maybe she could say it, too, in the in-between times he got tired of talking to them and hung up the phone and before he stirred himself up hot again and they had to try to cool him off, one more time.

He called the person on the other end of the phone Dave, as if they were friends, and once he’d gone on a long ramble about fishing.

Now, he’d gone back to pacing and drinking and cursing. The terrible in-between time. Phoebe no longer flinched when he swung the barrel of the gun toward the sofa where she and Carter huddled.
She was too tired to flinch.

He’d broken in just after supper, when the sun had still been up. It had been down a long time now. So long, she thought maybe it would be coming up again before long.

Reuben had shot the pretty little clock with the mother-of-pearl face that had been a wedding present to Mama and Daddy, where it sat on the dropleaf table, so Phoebe couldn’t be sure how many hours had passed since its death at five minutes past seven.

Mama loved that clock. Phoebe knew that’s why Reuben had killed it, because Mama set such store by that sweet little clock.

When the phone rang again, he slammed the bottle on the little table and snatched it up.

“Dave, you son of a bitch, I said I want the electric turned back on. Don’t you fucking tell me you’re working on it.”

He waved the gun, and Phoebe heard Carter suck in his breath. She rubbed a hand over the point of his knee to keep him still, to keep him quiet.

As much store as Mama set by the little clock, she set a lot more by Carter. Reuben knew that, too. So hurting Carter was bound to be somewhere on Reuben’s list of things to do.

“Don’t you fucking tell me we’re going to work this out. You’re not in here sweating like a goddamn pig, using goddamn oil lamps. You get the air back on in here, and right quick, and the lights, or I’m going to hurt one of these kids. Essie, get your skinny, worthless ass over here and tell him I mean what I say. Now!”

Phoebe watched as her mother pushed out of the chair he’d ordered her to sit in. Her face looked haggard in the lamplight, her eyes stunned as a trapped rabbit. When she was close enough to take the phone, he hooked an arm around her throat, pressed the barrel of the gun to her temple.

Beside Phoebe, Carter braced to leap. Phoebe gripped his hand, hard, shook her head, to keep him on the couch. “Don’t.” She barely breathed the word. “He’ll hurt her if you try.”

“Tell him I mean what I say!”

Essie kept her eyes straight ahead. “He means what he says.”

“Tell him what I’m doing now.”

Tears slid down her cheeks, bumping into the dried blood from the cut his fist had ripped there earlier. “He’s holding a gun to my head. My children are sitting together on the sofa. They’re frightened. Please, do what he wants.”

“You should’ve done what I wanted, Essie.” He closed his hand over her breast, squeezed. “You should’ve kept doing what I wanted, then none of this would be happening. I told you you’d be sorry, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Reuben, you told me.”

“You hear that, Dave? It’s her fault. Whatever happens in here, it’s her fault. I was to put a bullet in her useless brain right now, it’s her own damn fault.”

“Mr. Reuben?” Phoebe heard her own voice, calm as a spring morning.

It felt like it came from someone else, someone whose heart wasn’t punching like fists into her throat. But Reuben’s hard eyes tracked over and latched onto her.

“I ask you to talk, little bitch?”

“No, sir. I just thought maybe you were getting hungry. Maybe you want me to make you a sandwich. We’ve got some nice ham.”

Phoebe didn’t—couldn’t—allow herself to look at her mother. She felt her mama’s fear rising like a flood, and if she looked at it head-on she might drown in it.

“You figure if you fix me a sandwich, I won’t shoot your whore of a mother in the head?”

“I don’t know. But we got some nice ham, and some potato salad.”

She wasn’t going to cry, Phoebe realized. It surprised her there weren’t any tears pushing against that hammering heart. But there was fury in there, bubbling with the nerves in her belly. “I made the potato salad myself. It’s good.”

“Go on then, take that lamp with you. Don’t think I can’t see you in there. You try anything stupid, I’m going to shoot your baby brother in the balls.”

“Yes, sir.” She rose, lifted the little oil lamp. “Mr. Reuben? Can I use the bathroom first, please? I really have to go.”

“Jesus Christ. Cross your legs and hold it.”

“I’ve been holding it, Mr. Reuben. If I could just use the bathroom, real quick, I’d make you a nice plate of food.” She cast her eyes down. “I could leave the door open. Please?”

“You better piss fast. I don’t like how long you take, I’ll start breaking your mama’s fingers.”

“I’ll be fast.” She hurried toward the bathroom right off the living room.

She put the lamp on the back of the toilet, then, yanking down her pants, prayed that nerves and simple embarrassment wouldn’t clamp her bladder shut. She shot a quick glance at the window over the tub.

Too small, she knew, for her to wiggle out of. Carter could probably make it. If she could convince Reuben to let Carter use the bathroom, she’d tell Carter to try to get out.

She hopped up, flushing with one hand, reaching up to ease open the medicine cabinet with the other. “Yes, sir!” she called back when Reuben shouted at her to hurry the hell up.

She grabbed the little bottle of her mother’s Valium from the top shelf, stuffed it into her pocket.

When Phoebe came out, Reuben shoved her mother so that Essie went sprawling toward the sofa. “You there, Dave? I’m going to have me a little bite to eat. If the electric isn’t on by the time I finish, I’m going to play eenie meenie miny mo and kill one of these kids. You go make that sandwich, Phoebe. And don’t be stingy with the potato salad.”

It was a shotgun house, and small with it. Phoebe made sure she stayed in his line of sight as she took the ham and the salad out of the refrigerator.

She could hear him talking to Dave, and struggled to keep her hands steady while she got out a plate and a saucer. A million dollars? Now he wanted a million dollars and a Cadillac, along with a free pass over the state line. Stupid as he was mean, Phoebe decided. Using the big blue bowl of potato salad as cover, she dumped pills on the saucer. Using her mother’s pestle, she crushed them as best she could. She dumped a generous scoop of potato salad on the pills, mixed them together. She slathered mustard on two pieces of bread, slapped some ham and slices of American cheese between them. Maybe if she could get a knife out of the drawer, maybe—

“What’s taking so fucking long?”

Phoebe’s head jerked up. He’d put down the phone—she hadn’t been paying close enough attention—and with the gun jammed under Carter’s chin, was halfway to the kitchen doorway.

“I’m sorry. I just have to get you a fork for the potato salad.”

Palming the pill bottle, she turned, yanked open the flatware drawer. She let the bottle drop in as she reached down for a fork. “You want some lemonade, Mr. Reuben? Mama made it fresh just—”

“Get that food out here, girl, and quick.”

She snatched up the plate. It was easy to let the fear show, to let it mask everything else. Seeing the gun under Carter’s jaw overwhelmed even her rage. Her hands shook so the plate bobbed up and down.

When he smiled, she understood their fear was part of what he wanted.

Giving it to him cost her nothing.

“Put that plate by the phone there, and go sit your skinny ass down on the sofa.”

She did exactly as she was told, but before Phoebe could sit, Reuben lifted his leg to give Carter a solid boot on the ass that sent the boy pitching forward. Essie leaped up, stopping only when Phoebe blocked her way, shot her a fierce look.

Phoebe walked over to pull Carter up herself. “Hush, Carter! Mr. Reuben doesn’t want to hear all that crying while he’s trying to eat.”

“Got some sense.” With a nod, Reuben sat, laid the gun across his lap. He picked up the fork with one hand, the phone with the other.

“Don’t know where you came by it with that worthless whore who raised you. Where’s that electric, Dave?” he said into the phone, and took a forkful of potato salad.

While Carter sniffled in their mother’s arms, Phoebe watched Reuben eat. Had she put enough pills in? Enough to make him pass out? The liquor he washed down the food with would help, wouldn’t it? Maybe it would kill him. She’d read about things like that, pills and liquor. Maybe the son of a bitch would just die.

She leaned down, whispered into Carter’s ear. Her brother shook his head, so she pinched him, hard. “You do just what I say, or I’ll slap you stupid.”

“Shut the hell up over there! Did I tell you to talk?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reuben. I was just telling him not to cry. He’s gotta pee, too. Can he just go use the bathroom, Mr. Reuben? I’m sorry, Mr. Reuben, but it’ll be an awful mess if he wets his pants. It’ll only take him a minute.”

“Christ’s sake! G’wan, then.”

Phoebe closed her hand over Carter’s, squeezed viciously. “Go on, Carter. Do what you’re told.”

Knuckling his eyes, Carter pushed off the sofa and dragged his heels into the bathroom.

“Mr. Reuben?”

Mama hissed at her to stay quiet, but Phoebe ignored her. Carter could get out. If Reuben didn’t think about him for a few minutes, Carter could get out.

“Do you think if I asked that man to turn on the electric, he would? It’s so hot. Maybe if I asked him, if I told him we’re all so hot, he’d turn it on?”

“Hear that, Dave?” Reuben kicked back in his chair and grinned. His glassy eyes drooped. “Got a kid wants to negotiate with you. Sure, what the fuck. Come on over here.”

When Phoebe stood in front of him, Reuben passed her the phone. And pressed the gun to her belly. “Tell him what I’m doing first.”

Sweat snaked a slow, fat line down her back. Why didn’t the pills work? Had Carter wriggled out the window?

“Mister? He’s got the gun at my stomach, and I’m awful scared. We’re so hot. No, we’re not hurt, but we’re so hot it’s going to make us sick. If we could just have the air-conditioning back on, maybe we could sleep, ’cept we’re so scared I guess we’d need a bunch of sleeping pills or something. Please, mister, would you please turn on the electricity?

“And, sir?” She gripped the phone tighter when Reuben reached for it. When he shrugged, leaned back, the wave of relief was like giddiness.

“Could you please give him the money and the car he wants? He’s been real nice to us since I gave him the potato salad I made myself. He even let me go to the bathroom first. We’re all just so tired we might just pass out any minute, you know?”

Reuben held out a hand for the phone, then gave her a nasty little poke with the gun to move her back. “Hear that, Dave? This girl here, she wants the electric back on. Wants me to have the money and that Caddy. Hell no, I didn’t let them get anything to eat, and I won’t till that electric’s back on. Fact, I’m gonna go eenie meenie right now and . . . Where’s that boy? Where is that little shit?”

“Mr. Reuben, he’s right . . .” Phoebe shot out her arm as if to point and knocked over the bottle of Wild Turkey. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’ll clean it right up. I’ll—”

She went down, pain searing over her face as the back of his hand slammed against her cheek.

“Stupid bitch!” He lurched up, staggered.

Phoebe looked straight into the barrel of the gun. Like the wrath of God, Essie leaped off the couch and onto his back.

He bucked; she bit. Her nails scraped like razors down his face as they both screamed, both cursed. Phoebe scrambled back in a crab walk, barely avoiding a bullet as Reuben went down to his knees under Essie’s assault.

“Help us! Help us now!” Phoebe shouted until her lungs burned.

She grabbed the bottle, prepared to whale him, but Reuben went down, flat on his face. Weeping, screaming, Essie continued to pound him with her fists, even when the door burst open. Even when men rushed in with guns.

“Don’t shoot us. Don’t shoot us.” Weeping, Phoebe crawled to her mother.

Things slowed down to a dream, it seemed like. And in the dream people walked her through water where voices echoed and the lights hurt her eyes. Once, she fell asleep, and did dream. But the dream was so scary she pushed herself awake again.

Mama had to have X-rays of her face to make sure her cheekbone wasn’t broken, and stitches to close the gash. Phoebe sat in the little room in the hospital. She didn’t want to lie down, didn’t want to sleep again and fall back into the dream where the gun exploded, and the bullet—like a live thing—hunted her down and killed her.

Carter slept curled up in a ball on the narrow bed. His fists were clenched, and off and on his body twitched like a horse’s did when flies landed on it.

Doctors and nurses and police came in and out, and asked questions. When they did, she wanted them to go away. When they went away, she wished they’d come back so she wasn’t alone. But there’d been water to drink, to wash the grit that had coated her throat. And then icy Coca-Cola, straight from the bottle.

She wanted her mother. She wanted Mama so bad it hurt worse than Reuben’s hand across her face.

When a man came in with a big McDonald’s takeout bag, the smell of burgers and fries had her stomach jittering with sudden and acute hunger.

He smiled at her, glanced at Carter, then came over to sit beside Phoebe on the bed. “Thought you might be hungry. Don’t know about you, but I’d rather skip the hospital food. I’m Dave.”

She knew she stared, knew it was rude. But she’d expected Dave to be old—older anyway. He looked barely older than the high school boys Phoebe liked to sigh over in secret. His hair was a light brown with a lot of curl to it, his eyes shades lighter and blue. He wore a dark blue shirt, open at the co