A January Chill
by
Rachel Lee


"Lee tells a deeply emotional tale.  She will touch readers in a very
real way"

Romantic Times.

"Lee crafts a heartrending saga..."

Publishers Weekly on Snow In September.

ISBN 1-55166-802-5

"Why'd you come back to Whisper Creek?"

The sleepy question came from behind him.  He turned and saw that
Joni's eyes were open.  She still looked sleepy, and amazingly hug
gable

He shrugged.  "I don't know.  It's home."

She shook her head.  "I'm serious, Hardy.  The way Witt has treated
you... Why didn't you take a job with some architectural firm in Denver
or Chicago?  You could have made more money."

"Is that what you think I should be doing?  Making more money?"

"No.  It's just that I wondered why.  You had a way out."  She pushed
her hair back from her face.  "It's all about Karen, you know.  It's
all about this feeling of unfinished business.  At least for me."

Before he could say a word, she'd disappeared into her room.  He turned
back to the window and stared out into the teeth of the blizzard.  Yes,
it was unfinished business that had brought him back.  But not Karen.
Not Witt.  Joni.

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The November evening was frigid and blowing dry snow so hard it stung.
Joni Matlock came through the back door of the house, taking care to
stomp the snow off her boots, then removed them and set them by the
wall on the rag rug.  Her feet instantly felt cold, because the mudroom
wasn't heated.  Shivering a little, she shook out of her jacket, tugged
off her knit cap and hung both on a peg next to her mother's.

Then she darted into the kitchen and gave thanks for the heat that made
her face sting.  Her mother was sitting at the table in the dining
room, visible through the open doorway, apparently busy with her
needlework.

"Mom," Joni said, "you put too much wood in the stove again."

Hannah Matlock looked up with a smile.  "I get cold, honey.  You know
that."

"It must be eighty in here."  But Joni wasn't complaining too
seriously. It felt good after the bitter chill of the dark evening
outside.  On the trip home from the hospital where she worked as a
pharmacist, her car heater didn't even have time to start working.  She
felt like an ice cube.

"There's fresh coffee," Hannah said, bowing her head over her
stitchery.  "And I thought I'd just heat the leftover pot roast for
dinner."

"That sounds good."

Joni poured herself a mug of coffee and whitened it with a few drops of
cream.  Real cream.  She couldn't stand the nondairy creamers.  Then
she stood in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, sipping
the hot brew and watching her mother stitch.

At fifty, Hannah's hair was still as black as a starless night, a gift
from her Ute ancestors.  Her face, too, held a hint of the exotic in
high cheekbones, and was still nearly as seamless as her daughter's.
Her eyes were dark brown, almost as dark as her hair, and Joni had
always envied them because they seemed to hold mystery.

Joni, for her part, had bright blue eyes.  Hannah always said Joni's
eyes had captured the sky.  Joni felt differently about them.  Blue
eyes were a lot morel" sensitive to the light, and all winter long she
had to hide them behind sunglasses.

The women were alike enough, however, to be sisters.

Joni joined her mother at the table, cradling her mug in her cold
hands.  "How was your day?"

"Delightful," Hannah said.  She rarely said anything else, "Well, there
was one bad spot.  I had to help put down Angle Beluk's dog."  Hannah
worked as a veterinary assistant four mornings a week.

"I'm sorry," Joni said, feeling a pang.  "What was wrong?"

"Cancer."  Hannah sighed and snipped her thread.  Then she put her hoop
to one side.  "Poor Angie.  She had Brownie for sixteen years."

"That's so sad."

"Well, it happens, unfortunately.  On the brighter side, we delivered a
litter of pups.  What about you?  How was your day?"

Joni sipped her coffee, feeling the heat all the way down to her
stomach.  "Oh, the usual.  I rolled pills, mixed elixirs, chatted with
a dozen people...."

Hannah laughed.  "You make it sound so boring!"

Joni smiled back at her.  "It's not.  But it sure isn't the height of
adventure."

Something in Hannah's face softened.  "Is that what you really want,
Joni?  Adventure?"

After a moment, Joni shook her head.  "Not really.  Remember the curse,
" May you live in interesting times'?  I'll settle for ho-hum, thank
you very much.  Want me to put the pot roast on to heat before I go
change? "

"No, honey, I'll do it.  You just go on up."

"Okay."  Taking her mug with her, Joni rose and disappeared into the
living room, in the direction of the stairs.

Hannah stared after her, a faint grease between her eyebrows.  Maybe,
she thought for the hundredth time, she had made a mistake in moving
them fifteen years ago to Whisper Creek after Lewis died.

She had told herself at the time that it was for Joni that she had
brought them here, but now, in retrospect, she wondered if she hadn't
really done it because she was afraid herself.  After all, staying in
Denver had meant finding reminders of Lewis around every corner and in
every familiar face.  She had tried to go back to work but had found
being in the hospital again was just impossible for her.  Every sound,
every smell, reminded her of Lewis and the fifteen years they had
shared.

So maybe she hadn't really done it for Joni.  Maybe she had been lying
to herself when she justified the move by assuring herself she was
taking the child away from all the bad influences to a quiet community
where kids didn't hang around in gangs and kill innocent doctors who
were crossing a parking lot on the way to save lives.

Maybe she had been lying to herself when she argued that Joni would be
better off near the only family either of them had, Lewis's brother,
Witt.  *

Maybe those had all been excuses because she was unwilling to face her
own fears and her own pain-and her shame.

But she hadn't really wondered about it until lately.  Not until three
years ago, when Joni had finished her schooling and moved back into her
old bedroom while taking a job at the little mountain hospital just
outside town.  For the first time it had seriously occurred to Hannah
that she might have crippled Joni in some way.

Because what could a twenty-six-year-old woman possibly want in this
town?  There was no adventure, few single men of her age, nowhere to go
on Friday night other than a movie theater and a couple of bars.  Why
hadn't Joni taken a job somewhere else?  Her pharmacy degree and her
grades surely would have given her her pick.

But Joni had chosen to come here and live with her mother.  Not that
Hannah minded.  It just made her feel terribly guilty.

As did her secret, the one she had never whispered to a soul.  Over the
years she had almost convinced herself it wasn't true, but lately .
lately every time she wondered if she had gone wrong somehow with Joni,
the thought came back to haunt her.

Maybe she had made it worse by keeping it so long.  Maybe she had
deprived Joni of something essential.  Every time the thoughts rose in
her mind, she shied away from them, telling herself that the truth
would have made no essential difference, that all she had done was
protect herself and her child from shame.

But she hadn't really protected herself, because the shame still burned
in her, making her squirm inwardly.  Reminding her that her motives had
never been as pure as she had told herself.  Keeping her from the one
thing she wanted more than anything apart from Joni's happiness.

But it was too late now, she told herself.  She had made her mistakes,
and there was no way to mend them.  She had to believe that, at the
very least, she had taken good care of her daughter.

Sighing, she rose from the table and went to put the leftovers in the
microwave to warm.  And she tried not to think of the terrible secret
she guarded.

Upstairs, Joni's room was like an oven.  The heat from the woodstove
downstairs funneled up the stairwell and filled the bedrooms.  It was
one of the reasons she was always trying to persuade her mother not to
put so much wood in the fire.

Smothering a sigh, she battled to open the argumentative bedroom window
and let some of the overpowering heat escape into the frigid night. 
The icy chill that only a few minutes ago had been making her so
uncomfortable now actually felt welcome as it sucked some of the heat
out.

Her room was blessed with a walk-in closet large enough to be a
dressing room--which was a good, thing, since the room itself barely
had enough room for the four-poster double bed and a rocking chair. 
The closet was chilly, since it had been closed all day, and she
shivered a little as she changed swiftly into what she called her
"compromise clothes," a pair of chinos and a long-sleeved cotton shirt.
She wouldn't suffocate at the temperature her mother preferred, yet
they would prevent her from shivering in the drafts that always stirred
in this old house.

Downstairs, she found Hannah humming quietly as she set the table.
Hannah frequently hummed, though she never sang out loud, and Joni
always found the sound comforting.  Taking the plates from her mother's
hands, she finished the job.

"So not one exciting thing happened today?"  Hannah asked.

"Not really."  Joni put the porcelain candle holders in the middle of
the table and lit the red tapers that were left from last Christmas.
Every year, Hannah went overboard scattering red candles around the
house for the holiday.  Then they spent all the next year burning them.
"Pneumonia is going around again.  You be sure to stay away from anyone
who's coughing, Mom."

Hannah gave her a wry smile.  "I used to be a nurse."

Joni laughed.  "You're right.  I'm terrible about that."

"I don't mind.  But I will remind you.  And the same goes for you, Miss
Smarty-Pants.  Don't forget to wash your hands."

They exchanged understanding looks.

Hannah returned from the kitchen, carrying the casserole dish that held
the remains of the pot roast.  Using a big steel spoon, she began to
dish out the food.  "How bad is it?  Are many people getting sick?"

"Bob Warner said the wards are almost full.  The docs think this is
going to be the worst winter in years."

Hannah clucked her tongue.  "Well, tell Bob that if they need extra
hands, I'll be glad to come in and help.  I'm not that rusty."

"He knows that."  Joni gave her a wicked grin.  "You've been practicing
on dogs and cats for a long time."

"Child, you are terrible.  The skills aren't all that different."

Joni pursed her lips.  "I'm sure.  And you know how to pin a patient
down."

Hannah looked over the top of her reading glasses at her daughter.
"That can be useful on any ward."

Then they both laughed and sat at the table, facing each other across
the candles.

The best thing about living with her mother now, Joni often thought,
was how they'd become such good friends.  Her going away to college
seemed to have given them just the distance they needed to cross the
mother-child barriers, and what had grown between them since was
something Joni wouldn't have traded for anything.

"So," Hannah said, "apart from pneumonia, what else happened in your
day?"

Joni hesitated, knowing the family position on Hardy Wingate too well
to suppose the news would be greeted warmly, but then decided to go
ahead and tell her mother anyway.  ,"I saw Hardy Wingate today.
Apparently his mother is in the hospital with pneumonia."

Hannah looked up from her plate and pursed her lips.  "Joni..."

"I know, I know.  Witt hates him.  Well, you don't have to worry about
it, Mom.  Hardy will barely talk to me."  Which was a shame, she
thought.  She'd had a crush on Hardy years ago, and while she'd
outgrown it, she still thought he was attractive.  And nice, despite
her uncle Witt's opinion.

"Well," said her mother after a few moments, "I'm sorry Barbara is
sick."

Apparently it was okay to feel bad about Hardy's mother.

After supper Hannah went back to her needlework and Joni did the
dishes.  There was a small window over the chipped porcelain sink, and
she found herself pausing frequently as she washed to look out into the
night.  The hill there was so steep she could almost look over the
neighbor's roof toward downtown.  She did, however, have an unimpeded
view of the night sky, and since the moon was full tonight, she could
even see the pale glow of snowcapped mountains in the distance.

Whisper Creek had sprung up around silver mines in the 1880s, nestled
on the eastern edge of the valley between two mountain ranges.  The
town itself was built into the hills, and many of the houses clung to
steep terrain.  It had never grown large enough to spread into the. 
valley to-the west, where the land was flat and open.  Her uncle Witt
owned a lot of that land out there.  Not that it did him any good. 
Runoff from the tailings left in the hills by miners a century ago had
tainted the water and consequently the land.  Brush was about all that
grew out there, and even it was thin.

The land hadn't always been poor.  Back when the first Matlock had
purchased it with the money he'd made from his own silver mine, it had
been verdant with promise.  But after about forty years or so, the
cattle had started sickening and dying.

Uncle Witt hadn't even tried to do anything with the land.  What could
he do?  It would take more money than he had to reclaim it, and even
though the EPA had declared the town and the area around it a Superfund
site, there didn't seem to be much improvement.

Joni sometimes looked at the land, though, trying to think of things
that could be done with it.  The view, after all, was spectacular.  But
who could come up with the money to turn it into a resort?  Everyone in
town talked about ways to draw tourists to the area, to give the
economy another base apart from" the unreliable molybdenum and silver
mines, but so far no one had been able to ante up the investment
money.

Realizing she was daydreaming again, Joni quickly returned her
attention to the dishes.  After a busy day at work, where inattention
could cost someone's life, she generally felt mentally drained and had
a tendency to zone out when she came home.  Today had been an
exceptionally busy day, as the altitude, the dryness of the air and the
low temperatures seemed to weaken people's resistance.

Then there had been Hardy Wingate.  She felt almost guilty for even
thinking about him, but his face popped up before her mind's eye.  He'd
looked exhausted, she thought.  His square, bronzed face had been paler
than usual, and his gray eyes had been bloodshot.  He'd been in the
hospital cafeteria, swallowing coffee in the hopes that caffeine would
keep him going.

Seeing him, she had walked over to him and joined him.  He'd looked at
her almost hesitantly, as if expecting her to say something nasty.  Or
as if she were on some list of prohibitions he didn't want to break.

"Hi," she'd said, sitting across from him anyway.

"Hi."  His voice had sounded strained, weary.

"Are you sick?"  It was a pointless question.  He looked exhausted, but
he didn't look ill.  "My mother.  I was up all night with her in
intensive care."

"I'm sorry."  And she truly had been.  Still was.  Barbara Wingate was
a lovely woman.  "Pneumonia?"

"Yeah."

"How's she doing now?"

"Better.  They said I could go get some sleep."

She pointed to the coffee.  "That's a great sleeping potion."

For an instant, just an instant, he looked as if he might crack a
smile.  But then his face sagged again.  "I'll be here all night."

"I don't think so.  You'll collapse, yourself, if you don't get any
sleep."

"I'll be fine."  Then, without another word, he tossed off the last of
his coffee, rose and walked away.

And now, standing at the sink, Joni heard herself sigh.  He hadn't even
said goodbye, as if simple social courtesies were forbidden, too.  And
all because of Witt.

The phone rang, and she heard her mother pick it up in the living room.
A little while later, Hannah's laugh wafted to her.  Good news of some
kind.  That was a plus.  God knew they could use some.

Not that life was all that bad, but there were times when Joni thought
they were all dying in this little town.  Silver prices were lousy, and
the silver mine was on minimal operation, which meant a lot of miners
were on layoffs that were supposedly only temporary.  The molybdenum
mine was doing better, but there was some talk of cutbacks there,
too.

This had always been a boom-and-bust town, and it looked as if they
were once again on the edge of a bust.

And she didn't usually feel this down.  She wondered if maybe she was
getting sick, too, then decided she just didn't have time for it.

She drained the dishwater, rinsed the sink and was just drying her
hands when her mother came into the kitchen.

"Witt's coming over," Hannah said.  "He said he has some good news."

Not for the first time, Joni noticed the way Hannah's face brightened
and her eyes sparkled when Witt was coming over.  It was the only time
Hannah ever looked that way.

"Great," she said, although after talking to Hardy Wingate today, she
was feeling surprisingly unreceptive toward the idea of seeing her
uncle.  Silly, she told herself.  The feud was more than a decade old,
so old they should all be comfortable with it.  Why was she feeling so
uncomfortable?  Because she was afraid Witt would look into her eyes
and read betrayal there, all because she had talked to a man she'd
known since her school days?

How ridiculous could she get?

Witt arrived fifteen minutes later, apparently having walked from his
house across town.  When he stepped in through the front door, he
brought the frigid night in with him, and Joni felt the draft snake
around her bare ankles.

Witt was a bear of a man, over six feet, and broad with muscle from
hard labor.  He filled the doorway and then the small living room as he
stripped off his coat and muffler.  A grin cracked his weathered face,
and his eyes, as blue as Joni's, seemed to be dancing.

He wrapped Joni in a big hug, the way he always had, his arms seeming
to make promises of safety and eternal welcome.  Even when she was
irritated with him, which she was every now and then, Joni couldn't
help responding to that hug with one of her own.

"You're cold," she told him, laughing in spite of herself.

"You're warm," he countered.  "You're singeing my fingers."

"That's because Mom keeps it so hot in here."

Witt released her and turned to Hannah.  "Still a hothouse flower,
huh?"

Hannah laughed but shook her head.  "Sorry."  The truth was, as Joni
knew, her mother had spent too many cold nights as a child, and keeping
warm made her feel as if she lived in the lap of luxury, even if the
lap was a small, aging Victorian house on the side of a hill in a tiny
mountain mining town.

"Well," said Witt, greeting her with a much more restraiaed hug than he
had given Joni, "if I suddenly dash out into a snowbank, you'll know
it's because my clothes started smoking."

Hannah laughed; she always laughed at Wilt's humor, Joni thought, not
for the first time.

Hannah offered her usual gesture of hospitality.  "I was just about to
make coffee.  Join me?"  Hannah never made coffee in the evening, but
she always said this same thing to a guest.  Long ago, when she'd been
eight or nine, Joni had asked her why.

"Because," Hannah had explained, "it's polite to offer refreshments to
a guest, but I don't want them to feel like they might be putting me
out, so I always say I was about to do it."

Joni had thought that was kind of silly.  Why not let your guests know
you were doing something especially for them?  But she'd been watching
Hannah's hospitality charm people for years.

"Sure," Witt said, following her toward the kitchen.  "Coffee's great,
but yours in the best."

He always said that.  For some strange reason, tonight that irritated
Joni.  What was wrong with her?  she asked herself.  Why was she
getting so irritated by things that were practically family rituals?

They gathered at the dining-room table, another family tradition.  The
only times they ever gathered in the living room were at Christmas or
when they had company from outside the family.

Hannah brought out a coffee cake she had baked that day and cut a large
slice for Witt.  Joni declined.

"All right," Hannah said when they all had their coffee.  "What's the
good news, Witt?"

He was grinning from ear to ear, wide enough to split his face. 
"You'll never guess."

Hannah looked at Joni and rolled her eyes.  Joni had to laugh.  "I
know," she said to her mother.  "He bought a new truck.  Cherry red
with oversize tires."

Hannah laughed, and Witt scowled.  "You'll never stop teasing me about
that truck I drive, will you?"

"Of course not," Joni told him.  "It's a classic.  Older than me, and
so rusted out I can see the road through the floorboards."

"Well, just so you know, I am gonna buy a new truck."

No longer joking, Joni put her coffee mug down and looked at her uncle
in wonder.  "Are you okay?  You're not getting sick?"

"Jeez," Witt muttered.  "She'll never lay off.  Hannah, you should have
got the upper hand when she was little."

"Apparently so," Hannah agreed.  But her eyes danced.

"No," Witt told his niece, "I'm not sick.  I'm not even a little crazy.
And if trucks didn't cost damn near as much as a house, I'd've bought a
new one years ago."

"So what happened to make you buy one now?"  Joni asked.

"I won the lottery."

Silence descended over the table.  It was one of the longest silences
Joni could remember since the news that Witt's daughter, her cousin
Karen, had been killed in a car accident.  Silences like this were
fraught with shock and disbelief.

It was Hannah who spoke first, almost uncertainly.  "You're kidding."

Witt shook his head.  "I'm not kidding.  I won the lottery."

"Well, wahoo!"  Joni said as excitement and happiness burst through the
layer of shock.  "Double wahoo!  That's wonderful, Uncle Witt!  Enough
to buy a new truck, huh?"

But Witt didn't answer her.  Instead, he simply looked at her and then
at Hannah.  Another silence fell, and Joni felt her heart begin to beat
with loud thuds.  Finally she whispered, "More than enough to buy a
truck?"

Hannah's dark eyes flew to her daughter, then leaped back to Witt.  She
reached out a hand and touched his forearm.  "Witt?  How much did you
win?"

Witt cleared his throat.  "It's ... well ... kinda hard to believe."

"Ohmigod," Joni said in a rush, feeling hot and cold by turns.  "Uncle
Witt..."  She turned to look at her mother, as if she could find some
link back to reality there.  But Hannah's face was registering the same
blank disbelief.  Things like this didn't happen to people they knew.

"It's..."  Witt sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.  "I won
the jackpot."

"Oh my God."  This time it was Hannah who spoke, her tone prayerful.
"Oh, Witt, that's a lot of money.  How much?"

"Eleven million."  His voice sounded almost choked.  "Of course, it
won't be that much.  The payout is over twenty-five years, and there's
taxes and stuff but, um..."

Joni, always great at math, calculated quickly.  "You'll still be
bringing home almost two hundred thousand a year," she said.  "My God.
That's incredible."  Then, as a sudden, wonderful exuberance hit her,
she let out a whoop.  "Oh, man, Uncle Witt, you're on easy street now.
So you get the new truck and a lot else besides."  She grinned at him,
feeling a wonderful sense of happiness for the man who had been like a
father to her since the death of her dad.  "It couldn't happen to a
nicer guy.  So, are you going to Tahiti?"

He laughed, sounding embarrassed.  "Nah.  Not unless Hannah wants to
go."

Hannah's eyes widened; then her cheeks pinkened.  "Tahiti?  Me?"  She
waved away the idea.  "What on earth would I do there?  Besides, the
winnings are yours, Witt."

His face took on a strange tension, one Joni couldn't identify.  "So
what then?"  she pressed him.  "I haven't had a whole lot of time to
think about it, Joni.  Jeez, I just found out last week."

"Last week?  You've been sitting on this for a week?"  She couldn't
believe it.  She would have been shrieking from the rooftops.

"Well, I didn't exactly believe it.  I wanted to verify it first.  Then
well..."  He hesitated.  "I don't want the whole world to know about
it, not just yet."

"That's understandable," Hannah said promptly.

"But you must have been thinking about what you want to do with the
money."

But Joni's thoughts had turned suddenly to a darker vein, one that left
her feeling chilled.  She'd heard about lottery winners and how their
lives could be turned into absolute hell by other folks.

"Just put it all in a bank, Uncle Witt," she said.  "Put it away and
use it any way you see fit.  And just remember, you don't owe anything
to anyone."

His blue eyes settled on her, blue eyes that she sometimes thought were
the wisest eyes she'd ever looked into.

"I do owe something, Joni," he said slowly.  "Everyone owes something.
I'm thinking about building a lodge on the property.  You know how long
this town has wanted something like that.  It'd make jobs for folks
around here, jobs that don't depend on a mine.  And if we had the
facility, I'm sure the tourists would follow.  God knows we've got
plenty of snow and hills."

But the chill around her heart deepened.  Because the simple fact was,
when there was a lot of money involved, nothing was ever that simple.

"Well," said Hannah briskly, "this calls for a celebration.  Let me get
you a glass of Drambuie, Witt.  What about you, Joni?"

"No thanks, Mom."  She hated to drink.  Besides, something about this
didn't feel right.  Witt was looking strange, and Hannah was looking
disturbed, and there was suddenly an undercurrent so strong in the room
that Joni could feel her own nerves stretching.

But she'd had that feeling before with her mother and her uncle.  It
had been there ever since she could remember, the feeling that things
were being left unspoken.  It was so familiar she hardly wondered about
it.

But all of a sudden it seemed significant.  And just as suddenly,
Witt's news didn't feel like anything to celebrate.

The chill settled over her again, this time a strong foreboding.  In
her heart of hearts, she knew nothing was ever going to be the same
again.

Hardy Wingate sat at his mother's bedside and tried not to give in to
the anxiety that was creeping along his nerve endings.  Barbara was
better, they told him.  She'd passed the crisis.  But he couldn't see
it. She was still on oxygen, she still had tubes running into her
everywhere, and the only improvement he could see was that she wasn't
on a respirator anymore.  Her breathing was still labored, though, and
he knew things could change in an instant, no matter what they told
him.

He touched her hand gently, hoping she could tell he was there.  Since
last night, when he'd brought her in, she hadn't seemed to be aware of
much.  Which was probably a good thing.  He hoped she wasn't
suffering.

But he was going crazy, sitting there with nothing to occupy him but
worry and guilt.  And memories.  God-awful memories of sitting beside
Karen Matlock's bedside twelve years ago, just before she died.  Just
before Witt Matlock threw him out.

He didn't blame Witt for that, but it had hurt anyway.  And sometimes
it still hurt.  Like right now, when he was reliving the whole damn
nightmare because he had nothing to occupy his thoughts.

He'd picked up a paperback novel at the gift shop earlier, some highly
touted thriller, but it hadn't been able to hold his attention. 
Either

J.

W.

Killeen was losing his touch or Hardy Wingate just didn't have the
brainpower left to focus on it.

So he sat there holding his mother's hand, trying not to think about
how frail it felt, trying not to think about Karen Wingate and that
hellish night twelve years ago.  But trying not to think about things
only seemed to make him think about them more.

Or maybe it was talking to Joni Matlock earlier in the cafeteria that
was making him think so much about Karen.  Back in high school, when
he'd been dating Karen, he'd gotten to know Joni because the girls were
close.  But since Karen's death .  well, he hadn't had a whole lot to
do with the Matlocks since then.  *"

And even in a small town like this, it was possible to avoid people if
you really wanted to.  Right after the accident, he'd gone away to
college.  By the time he got back, Joni had gone away to school, and
since her return three years ago, the most he'd seen of her was across
the width of the supermarket or Main Street.  Which suited him fine.

But then today, out of the clear blue, she'd come up to him while he
was having coffee in the cafeteria and had joined him.  What had
possessed the woman?  She knew what her uncle thought of him.  And she
must have noticed that he'd been working on avoiding her.  Hell, the
reason the width of the street was always between them was that he was
perfectly willing to cross the damn thing to get away when he saw her
coming.

Then, like nothing in the world had ever happened, she plopped down
with him at the cafeteria table.  Weird.  And he'd been within two
seconds of jumping up and walking away when she'd asked about his
mother.

Now, he couldn't ignore that.  He couldn't be rude in the face of that
kind of politeness.  His mother had raised him better than that.  So
he'd been stuck, and he'd had to talk to her.

And all the time he'd been itching to get away.  He supposed it was
stupid, after all this time, but he didn't want any more trouble with
Witt Matlock.  That man hated him.

Well, why the hell not?  He hated himself.

He froze suddenly, his heart stopping in his chest as he realized that
his mother was no longer breathing.  Caught in a vise of fear, he
lifted his gaze to her face.  Then, just as he was reaching for the
call button, she drew a long, ragged breath.  Then another.  The
tortured tempos of life resumed.

He waited breathlessly for a long time, but Barbara seemed to have
taken a firm grasp on life once more.  The tightness in his chest eased
a little, but as it did, he felt the burn of unshed tears in his
eyes.

"Hang in there," he heard himself tell her in a rough whisper.  "Hang
in there, Mom."

Even as he spoke the encouragement, he wondered why.  Maybe she was as
tired of it all as he sometimes felt.  As he felt right now.  Sometimes
it just didn't seem worth the effort.

But he wasn't ready to lose her yet.  He probably never would be, but
she was only fifty, and he figured he shouldn't have to be losing her
for a good long while yet.

As soon as he had the thought, bitterness rose in him, burning his
throat like bile.  Karen had been too young, too.  Only seventeen. 
Life and death didn't care about things like youth.

But Barbara kept breathing, difficult though it was, and the heart
monitor kept recording her steady, too rapid beats.  He watched the
lambda waves form on the display, one after another in perfect rhythm,
checked the digital readouts and saw that her blood pressure Whs
steady, her pulse a constant eighty-five.  Too fast, but strong. 
Strong enough.  Not like it had been with Karen.

For a few seconds he was suddenly back in the I.

C.

U twelve years ago, watching the monitor, all too aware despite his
lack of knowledge that the ragged pattern of Karen's heartbeats wasn't
a good sign.  Aware that the rattling unsteadiness of her breathing was
terrible.  Aware that those low numbers on the blood pressure monitors
were dangerous.

Aware that no one was doing anything for her just then.  Wondering why,
ready to go grab someone and demand they help her.  Sensing that they
had done all they could.

Then Witt had come into the cubicle behind him.

"Get out!"

He jerked, as if the words had been spoken behind him right now instead
of twelve years ago.  He came back to the present with the feeling of
someone who had just taken a long, rough journey.  His heart was
pounding, and his face was damp with sweat.  God!

There was a rustle, and the curtain was pulled back.  Delia Patterson
entered, giving him a slight smile and a nod as she approached the bed.
She checked the IV and made a note on a clipboard.

"How is she?"

Delia, a slightly plump woman with the champagne-blond hair that a lot
of older women adopted to cover the gray, looked at him.  She'd known
Hardy all his life.  "You can see for yourself."

"Delia..."

She shook her head.  "I can't make any promises.  And I'm not the
doctor.  But..."  She hesitated.  "We might see some difference by
morning.  Maybe.  The doctor put her on some pretty powerful
antibiotics, Hardy.  But no one can say for sure, understand?"

He nodded, hating the uncertainty.  He'd always hated uncertainty, but
life seemed to deal out very little else.

"You staying all night?"  she asked.

"I plan to."

"That waiting-room couch is mighty hard."  She glanced at her watch.
"And you've been in here longer than the allowed ten minutes."

"For God's sake, I'm just sitting here holding her hand."

She nodded.  "Okay, I'll give you another ten."

"Thanks."

On the way out the door she paused and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"If she's more alert in the morning, she's going to need you then,
Hardy.  You might consider getting some serious sleep tonight."

"I want to be here.  In case."

She nodded.  "But I can call you if ... anything changes.  You could be
here in ten minutes."

"That might be too many minutes.  Thanks, Delia, but I'm staying."

"And probably catching pneumonia, too."  She shook her head.  "We're
overflowing into the hallways.  Have" you been immunized?  "

"Who, me?"

She shook her head, muttered something and walked out.  Hardy felt a
faint smile curling the corners of his mouth, but it faded as he turned
back to his mother.  She was fighting for her life, and if she could
summon the energy to do that, then he could damn well stick it out with
her.

After ten more minutes Delia kept her word and banished him to the I.

C.

U waiting room.  Much to his relief, there were only two other people
there.  Given Delia's description of patients overflowing into the
halls, he'd figured the waiting rooms would be getting full, too.

There was one couch.  It didn't look too healthy, as if it hadn't been
cleaned in a long time, and it didn't offer any extra padding for
comfort.  In fact, he thought minutes after he'd stretched out on it,
the floor was probably more comfortable.

So what?  He could handle it for forty minutes until Delia would be
obliged to let him back into the I.

C.

U.

But as soon as he closed his eyes, Joni Matlock filled his mind's eye.
Everything was determined to torture him, it seemed.  There couldn't be
a worse possible time to start thinking about the Matlocks.  Thinking
about Joni inevitably led him to thinking about Karen, and tonight he
didn't want to remember how the best medical treatment in the world
hadn't been able to save Karen, not with his mother at death's door.

But good time, bad time, right time, wrong time, it didn't make a bit
of difference.  His thoughts wouldn't leave him alone, and they seemed
bound and determined to focus on Joni.

Okay, he told himself.  Think about Joni.  Think about her until you're
bored and your mind decides to go somewhere else.

So he thought over their conversation earlier.  It had been brief.  He
figured she'd picked up on the fact that he really didn't want to talk
to her.  She'd been polite, concerned the way any stranger would be.
Nothing more.  Nothing to get all bent about.

Except that he couldn't forget those blue eyes of hers.  It wasn't just
that they were pretty, though they certainly were.  It wasn't just that
they were as arrestingly blue as a clear mountain-morning sky.  It was
the way they seemed to speak to him.  They'd only talked for three
minutes, if that, but when he'd walked away, he'd had the feeling
they'd shared an entire subtext, her eyes to his.

But those eyes had always made him feel that way.  They'd always drawn
him and spoken to him.  If life had treated them all differently, he
might have gotten to know her better.  Instead, he avoided her the way
he avoided Witt.  Because some things were better left buried, and
there was no way he could talk to Joni Matlock without remembering
Karen Matlock.

As easy as that, his thoughts turned on him and began to twist into
dark corridors.  Swearing under his breath, he sat upright and forced
himself to remember where he was.  Me had to stop beating himself up
over the past.  He knew that.  It was done, and he couldn't change any
of it.

But when it got dark, on nights when he couldn't sleep, he could still
hear Karen's scream as the other car swerved straight at him, could
still remember her screams as they lay in the mangled wreckage of his
car.  Could still remember Witt looking at him out of cold, dead eyes
and saying, "You killed her, boy.  You killed her."

The sounds and smells of the I.

C.

U had brought it all back to the surface, bubbling up like explosive
gases in the swamp of his brain.  His hold on the present, he realized,
was getting mighty tenuous.

Shoving himself to his feet, he went out into the brightly lighted
corridor to pace.  But that, too, was familiar, and he realized with a
sickening plunge of his stomach that yesterday and today were starting
to fuse in his weary brain.  He wasn't sure from one minute to the next
which year it was and who was lying in the I.

C.

U near death.

God, he thought he'd gotten over the worst of this a few years ago, but
now here it was again, rearing up to bite him on the butt.  He deserved
it; he knew that.  But deserving this kind of torture didn't mean he
had to like it.

He passed his hand over his face, trying to wipe away the images that
seemed to be dancing at the edges of his vision, horrific images that
were burned forever into his mind.  Feeling desperate, he glanced at
his watch and realized it was only two minutes until they would let him
in to see Barbara one last time before they shut down visiting hours
for the night.

Stupid, he thought.  Family members ought to be able to visit patients
in the I.

C.

U round the clock.  What difference did it make if it was midnight,
2:00 a. m. or 8;00 a. m?

But they were strict about it, and he didn't want to squawk too loudly
right now, especially since he'd been pushing the limits all day and
the nurses had been letting him.

He was standing right outside the I.

C.

U door when Delia opened it.

"Last call," she said, pursing her lips.  "Ten minutes and you're outta
here, Hardy.  Then you're going to go home and get some sleep.  With
this pneumonia going around, we ain't got no room for exhaustion
cases."

He gave her a wan smile and made his way to the cubicle where his
mother lay.  No change.  At once relief and disappointment filled him,
but he reminded himself that he'd been told not to expect a miracle.
Morning.  He'd been told again and again that she might be better in
the morning.  It was so hard to believe right now, though, as he stood
at her bedside, holding her hand gently and murmuring nonsense to
her.

Ten minutes later, when he was evicted, nothing had changed.  He had
the panicky feeling that his mother was slipping slowly away from him,
so slowly that it was almost undetectable.  And he couldn't really
blame her.

Life had been hard on her for a long time.  First there had been his
drunken bum of a father.  Then, when Lester had left, there had been
the two jobs she worked to keep Hardy and herself clothed and
sheltered. She'd even continued working two jobs so he could go to
college.  Then she'd helped him start his construction firm, working
the endless hours right beside him as they built the business.  Now
that things were finally going good, it seemed somehow so unreasonably
unfair that she should be at death's door.

But maybe she'd had enough.  He could hardly blame her.  He knew he
hadn't lived up to her dreams for him.  There was the accident with
Karen's death, which had certainly hurt her, too, and then his refusal
to date anyone, though she kept encouraging him to.  She wanted grand
babies she said, but he couldn't bear the thought of caring like that
again.

So maybe she was just fed up.  Her life had been one major
disappointment after another.

And the thoughts running through his brain were doing nothing at all to
ease his panic.

When he stepped blindly out of the I.

C.

U, he bumped into someone.  It took him a moment to recognize Joni.
"What are you doing here?"  he demanded roughly.  It was a question he
had no right to ask, and he realized it almost as soon as the words
came out of his mouth.

But she didn't take it amiss.  "I was worrying about you and your
mother.  How is she?"

"Pretty bad," he admitted reluctantly.  "We probably won't know
anything till morning."

"I'm sorry."

He gave her a short nod.

She reached out tentatively and touched his forearm briefly.  "Let me
buy you a cocoa?"

He looked down at her and shook his head.  "Joni, you're courting
disaster.  You know what Witt thinks of me."

"Yeah.  But I happen to disagree, and I'm over twenty-one.  Cocoa?"

"The cafeteria's closed."

She gave him a wink that made him feel strangely light-headed.  Lack of
sleep, he told himself.

"Hey," she said, grabbing his hand, "I work here, remember?  I know
where the good stuff is hidden."

She took him away from the I.

C.

U toward the reception area, then steered him through a door that said
Employees Only.

Inside was a staff lounge.  A nurse was sitting on an easy chair with
her shoes kicked off, eating a snack.  A man in scrubs was stretched
out on a couch with a cushion over his face.

Joni waved at the nurse, then put her finger over her lips as she
looked at Hardy and pointed to the sleeping man.  He nodded.

She made two mugs of instant cocoa, passed him one, then indicated he
should follow her.  They left the lounge and went to sit in the
reception area.

"See?"  she said.  "Insider knowledge."

"Thanks."  He hoped it didn't sound as grudging as it felt, because the
cocoa was hot and delicious and contained the first calories he'd put
in his system since a sandwich at noon.  "You look awful," she told
him.

She hadn't changed a bit, he realized.  She was still the mouthy
fourteen-year-old who'd pestered the living be jesus out of him and
Karen sometimes.  Even back then, he'd tried to be understanding.  A
kid who'd lost her daddy and moved to a town that didn't easily make
room for new arrivals--yeah, she'd had a reason to be a pest. 
Everybody else in the world had kind of ignored her.

"Have you slept within recent memory?"  she asked.

"I've dozed here and there.  Don't give me hell, Joni.  I'm not up for
it."

"Okay."  She sipped her cocoa and looked at him from those amazing blue
eyes.

"Don't you need to get home and get some sleep yourself?"

She shrugged.  "I'm not on duty tomorrow.  Day off."

"Even with the epidemic?"

"I might be called in," she admitted.

"Then go get some sleep."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

They stared at each other, letting her words hang in the air between
them.  Neither of them wanted to mention Karen, he realized, but she
lay between them as surely as if she were there.

"I'm trying to keep you out of trouble with your uncle," he said
finally.

"My problem, not yours."

He cocked an eye at her.  "What put you in such a feisty mood?"

"I don't know.  Maybe it's realizing that age doesn't necessarily make
a person wise."

He sipped his cocoa, wondering what she was getting at, and almost
afraid to ask.  He didn't know Joni at all anymore, he reminded
himself. Since Karen's death, until today, they hadn't passed more than
a dozen words.

"Can you keep a secret?"  she asked finally.

"Sure.  But you shouldn't be telling them to me."

"I've got a reason."

She always had a reason.  He remembered that from way back when.
According to Joni, she never did a thing without good reason.  He had
his own thoughts about that.

"Witt won the lottery," she told him.  "But don't tell anyone else."

"Yeah?"  He felt a mild interest.  "That's neat.  You all going to take
a vacation in Hawaii?"  His mother had always wanted to do that.  It
pained him that he hadn't yet been able to make that dream come true
for her. This year, he promised himself.  Somehow, if she made it
through this pneumonia, he was going to get her to Hawaii, if he had to
move heaven and earth.

"I suggested Tahiti."  She gave him a smile that struck him as uneasy
and sad.  Despite all his overwhelming emotional exhaustion because of
the last twenty-four desperate hours, he still managed to feel a pang
for Joni.

"What's wrong?"

"Not a thing," she said.  "It's a lot of money."

"Well, that's a good thing," he said generously.  "Witt's worked hard
in the mine all his life.  You can't begrudge him an early
retirement."

"I'd never do that.  No, I'm really pleased for him."

"So, is he going to Tahiti?"

She shook her head.  "No."

"Seems a shame.  But maybe it wasn't enough for the trip."

She looked at him sideways.  "How about eleven million dollars?"

That set him back on his heels.  Numbers like that were usually
attached to major construction jobs, none of which he'd so far managed
to garner for his company.  "Wow," he said after a moment.  "Wow.  But
it doesn't pay out in a lump sum."

"No, but even with the payout schedule it's a lot of money."

"I guess he will retire."

"Actually..."  She hesitated.  "He's thinking about a career change."

"That's cool."  Like he cared.

"He'sum ... thinking about building a resort on that property he owns
west of town."

And suddenly Hardy understood why she was mentioning this to him.  He
looked straight at her and felt the entire world hold its breath for a
few seconds.  Then he said slowly, "Joni... are you sure you know what
you're doing?"

Her mouth tightened, and she looked away.  When she faced him again,
her eyes were moist.  "When Karen died, I didn't just lose my best
friend. I lost my other best friend, too."

In spite of himself, he felt his throat tighten a little, and he
cleared it.  "Joni..."

She shook her head, silencing him.  "It's been twelve years, Hardy.
Twelve years!  And ever since we talked this afternoon, I've been
thinking about how much Wilt's anger has cost me.  And you, too.  Karen
would never have had to sneak out with you that night if Witt hadn't
thought you weren't good enough for her.  And you and I could still
have been friends except for Witt.  Damn it, Hardy, it's not right. And
Karen had the guts not to let it keep her away from you.  Maybe I've
got the same guts, finally."

"Joni ... Joni, it's not a matter of guts.  It's a matter of not raking
up a whole lot of unpleasantness.  Not at this late date.  After all
this time, Witt's not going to change his mind about me.  It'll just
open old wounds for everyone."

"Maybe they need to be opened."  A tear spilled down her cheek.  "This
money's a bad thing, Hardy.  I've been feeling it ever since Witt told
me about it.  The only way to avoid the bad things is to turn it to
some good.  You could build that lodge better than anybody."

"You don't know that.  There's no way you can know that."

"I believe it."

He knew what she was offering him.  Witt would never, ever, have asked
him to bid on the project, would never even have let him know it was up
for bid.  But if he could just give Witt the best bid.  maybe he'd get
the job anyway.  And it was exactly the kind of job he knew how to do,
the kind of job he was constantly looking for.  It could benefit them
both.

He shook his head.  "Witt will never agree, no matter how good the bid
is."

"I have some influence, Hardy."

"That may be.  But you don't want to get crosswise with your uncle,
Joni.  He and your mom are the only family you have."

"Well, you do what you think best.  But I'll tell you right now, the
next time you cross a street when you see me coming, I'm going to cross
it, too."  She drew a tremulous breath.  "It's like ... it's like I can
feel Karen telling me to do this.  I know that's crazy, but it's what I
feel.  I'm not going to let Witt tell me who I can be friends with
anymore.  And neither should you."

He looked at her, wondering if she were getting sick or slipping a cog.
All this time.  Yeah, all this time.  He suddenly remembered that it
hadn't been Joni who'd been avoiding him.  No, he'd been the one
avoiding her.  Because of Witt.  Because he was scared to look into
that abyss yet again.  Because he'd managed to put his guilt on the
back burner finally, and getting involved with the Matlocks was only
going to make him face it all over again.

He closed his eyes, the memories surging in him, filling him with
blackness.  "It won't work, Joni."

"You don't know until you try."

He did know, though.  He knew in his deepest heart that Witt would
never give him the job.  But he also knew in his deepest heart that he
wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't try.

Why, he wondered, did nearly every damn thing in his life have to be
just beyond his grasp?  It seemed to him that life had always been
teasing and tantalizing him with promises it snatched away before they
were barely fulfilled.  And, God, he hoped his mother wasn't another
one of them.

When he looked at Joni again, his eyes felt swollen and hot, and his
heart hurt almost too much to bear.  "What's the point?  It won't
happen."

"Maybe, maybe not," she said.  "But you'll never know if you don't
try."

A great philosophy, but words were cheap.  Hardy had absolutely no
doubt that he was going to find himself disappointed once again.

But what the hell, he thought.  After a while you got used to being
kicked.

But all that faded away at four-thirty in the morning when Barbara
Wingate awoke, her fever gone and her gaze once again aware.

So maybe, Hardy thought gratefully, you didn't always have to get
kicked.

It was a thought that kept him smiling the rest of the day.

Wind whipped the snow into a whiteness that erased the world as Joni
drove home from work on a chilly January afternoon.  A blizzard was
moving through the mountains, and she was beginning to wonder if she'd
stayed a little too late at the hospital.  She didn't have all that far
to drive, though, and she reminded herself that she would be driving
through this kind of weather at least a dozen more times before winter
blew its last white breath over the Colorado Rockies.  Heck, some years
she drove through this until June.

It was two days after New Year's, and she was feeling as good as it was
possible to feel in the wake of the holidays.  She wondered if she
would have her usual letdown or if she was finally old enough not to
get so high on anticipation that she would inevitably crash after New
Year's.

Probably not, she decided.  Nor was she sure she really wanted to
outgrow the magical, excited feeling that always preceded Christmas for
her.

When she got home and had left her outerwear in the mudroom, she went
to find her mother.  Hannah was sitting in the living room, reading.

"Miserable out there," she remarked to her daughter.  "Did you have
trouble getting up the hill?"

"No.  But I wouldn't want to try it in an hour."  The stack of mail was
on the table by the door, and she flipped through it, pulling out her
credit card bill and the utility bill that she paid as part of her
share of the household costs.  Then she came to a thick manila envelope
that wasn't addressed to anyone.

"What's this?"  she asked.

"Witt left it.  He said it's the request for bids he had a lawyer draw
up."  Hannah smiled.  "He was as excited as a kid.  Apparently he's
sent a bunch of them out to firms in Denver, and now he can't wait for
the replies."

"So why did we get a copy?"

Hannah laughed.  "I think he wanted to show off a little."

Witt liked to show off for her mother, Joni thought.  She often
wondered why the two of them had never gotten together.  They were both
widowed, after all.  But .  sometimes she sensed there was an invisible
wall between them.  Some kind of barrier the two refused to cross.

Silly, she told herself.  She was imagining things.  "I guess he won't
mind if I look at it."

"I guess he was hoping you might," Hannah replied.  "Witt's like any
other man.  He wants to hear how brilliant he is."

The statement carried the warmth of affection, and Joni laughed.  She
tucked the envelope under her arm and headed upstairs.

"Trust me," Hannah called after her, "it'll put you to sleep."

But Joni had other thoughts in mind, and she eagerly pried the envelope
open when she reached her room.  A stapled stack of papers came out,
and a quick scan told her most of it was boilerplate, establishing
rules such as how the bid should be presented.  But there was a
specification, too, one that she was able to determine required an
architectural proposal for a thirty-room lodge.  The other details
didn't matter to her.  What did matter was the due date on the request:
January tenth.

She was jolted by the nearness of the date.  Witt must have sent these
out early last month or even in November to the firms in Denver.  They
would need at least a month to respond.

The due date was only a week away.  And Hardy probably hadn't even seen
this yet.

She checked the date again to be sure she wasn't mistaken.  This was
fast, awfully fast, but maybe it had to be, so construction could start
as early as possible in the spring.

But why had it taken Witt so long to drop this copy off for her mother?
Had he deliberately done this so it wouldn't fall into Hardy's hands?
But why would he even suspect it would?  No, it must be that he'd only
now gotten a spare copy from his attorney.

Eight days.  If Hardy was to have any chance of responding to this, she
had to get the papers to him right away.

But even as she jumped up from the bed, ready to dash out into the
blizzard once more, a thought yanked her back.  If she did this, Witt
might never forgive her.

Her pulse racing, she flopped onto the bed and stared at the cracked
ceiling, thinking about that.  It was all well and good to believe that
Witt ought to forgive Hardy.  The police had blamed the drunk driver
for the accident, and Joni couldn't understand why Witt persisted in
believing Hardy was responsible-except that Hardy wasn't supposed to be
seeing Karen, and if Karen hadn't climbed out the window that July
night, she would probably still be alive.

But Karen was dead, and Witt honestly believed that Hardy was
responsible.  There was, she supposed, a possibility that Witt was
right.  Maybe he knew something about what had happened that she
didn't. But it was more likely, she believed, that he simply needed a
scapegoat, and since the drunk driver hadn't survived the accident,
Hardy was the only person left to blame.

Taking this proposal over to Hardy would be seen as a betrayal.  Witt
might never forgive her.  But then she decided that was ridiculous. 
Witt always forgave her.  He would be mad, sure, but he would forgive
her once she explained.

Explained.  It occurred to her that maybe she'd better be able to
explain this to herself before she tried to explain it to Witt.  Common
sense dictated that she just stay out of this.  It wasn't her problem,
nor was it her feud--as Hardy had made patently clear since their talk
that night at the hospital.  He was still avoiding her like the
plague.

But it was her problem, she decided.  She loved Witt, and she liked
Hardy.  It pained her that Witt had carried such anger all this time. 
It meant that he wasn't healing.

Karen would want her to do this.  She believed that in her soul. 
They'd been like sisters, especially after Joni moved to town, sharing
everything--their hopes, dreams and feelings.  Sharing Witt as a
father, and Hannah as a mother.  Sharing Hardy's friendship, although
only Karen had dated him.

Karen wouldn't like to see her father so bitter and angry, and she
wouldn't like Hardy to miss this opportunity.  There was not a doubt of
that in Joni's mind.  Karen, had she been here, never would have
allowed this state of affairs to continue for so long.

But Karen wasn't here, and Witt was.  She hated to have Witt angry with
her and always had.  She loved him so much that she wanted to be
perfect for him, although it was an impossible goal.

And sometimes, dimly, she realized that she'd spent the last twelve
years trying to replace his daughter for him.  Maybe it was time to
grow up and accept that she couldn't replace Karen, and that she had to
live her own life as she saw fit.

Sitting up, she went to the closet and pulled out a small photo album
she kept on a shelf beneath a stack of sweatshirts.  Almost all the
pages were empty, but that was because she only had a half-dozen photos
of Karen.

Oh, Witt had shoe boxes full of pictures of his daughter, but these
photos were special.  These photos had been hers and hers alone, taken
with a cheap camera that hadn't lasted beyond a couple rolls of film.
In retrospect, she wished she'd photographed Karen more often, instead
of wasting film on scenery.  But she hadn't guessed what was going to
happen.

So here they were, her six private memories of Karen.  The first
snapshot, her favorite, showed her and Karen sitting on the bleachers
at the high school football field.  They had both laughed and acted
silly that afternoon at football practice, full of the high spirits and
joy of youth!  " Hardy had snapped that photo of them just before
practice had started.  She could still remember how he had looked all
suited up for the game, holding her silly little camera in his big
hands.

The next photo, one she would never, ever let Witt see, was of Hardy
and Karen.  Snow was falling, and the flash had bounced off it, giving
the couple in the photo a dim, background look.  But they were holding
each other, hugging, their faces pressed close as they grinned into the
camera.

Where the first picture always made her smile in memory, this one
always made her ache.

They had been so young.  So sure that the world was their oyster.  All
of them.  And maybe it had been, only instead of finding pearls they'd
all found lumps of coal.

Her throat suddenly tight, Joni closed the album without looking any
farther.  She knew the photos by heart, anyway.  She'd wept over them
on enough cold, dark nights, lying up here, unable to believe that
Karen was truly gone.

There was such a feeling of unfinished business, but not just for
Karen, who had died.  Lately she had been thinking that they'd all
somehow gone into stasis since Karen's death.  As if they were in some
kind of emotional suspended animation.  All of them: Witt, who had
never recovered from his grief; Hannah, who .  who just seemed to be
getting through the days.  Herself, who always felt as if she was just
marking time.  And Hardy, who, as far as she could tell, hadn't even
dated.

They were all unfinished lives, and for so long none of them seemed to
have taken any real steps to move forward emotionally.

Karen wouldn't have liked that.  And it was time, Joni decided with a
stiffening of her shoulders, that someone pushed them past their frozen
emotional states.

Scooping up the request for bids, she tucked it under her baggy green
Shaker sweater and set out on her personal mission to thaw the glacier
that had swallowed them all.

"Where are you going?"  Hannah asked as Joni passed her in the living
room.  "Supper's almost ready."

"I won't be long," Joni replied, not even breaking step.  "I just need
to run over to ... Sally's.  Back in a sec."

"Be careful out there.  It's getting really bad."

No kidding, Joni thought after she'd tugged on her parka, hat, mittens
and boots, and stepped outside.  It had been bad enough when she'd come
home from work, but now the wind was blowing so hard that ice crystals
stung her face, and the street lamp two houses down was nothing but a
glow in the snow hidden night.

If she'd had to go either up- or downhill to get to HardyX house, she
would have stopped right there.  But he lived three blocks over on a
cross street, a level run.  She could make it.

The night was mysterious and threatening, the whipping snow hiding the
landmarks, making the world look unfamiliar.  Leaning into the wind,
squinting against the stinging snow, she slipped and slid down the
drifting street.  The sidewalks, caught as they were between two deep
snowbanks, were already filled with the snow they caught, and the going
was easier on the street.  There was no traffic at all to give her any
problems.

It was so lonely out here.  There was something about being out in the
middle of a snowstorm alone that left her feeling cut off and solitary
to her very soul.  The little bits of warm light that reached her from
the street lamps and the glow from nearby windows only made her feel
lonelier somehow.

She'd always felt this way on cold wintry nights, walking down darkened
streets with no other soul in evidence, but tonight was even worse than
usual, as if all the empty places in her heart were filled with a cold,
whistling wind she couldn't ignore.  Nor could she shrug off the
feeling.

Hardy's house was just another one of the small Victorians lining the
streets in this part of town, but unlike the rest, his was a showplace
renovated through his own hard work and skill.

Even back in high school, Hardy had loved to work with his hands and
with wood.  He'd replaced the gingerbread on the house during those
years, spending painstaking hours in the school shop, because he didn't
have the tools at home, whenever he didn't have to work.  Karen had
spent a lot of those hours with him, watching him, admiring his growing
skill.  Occasionally Joni had joined them.

But since Hardy had come back from college, he'd transformed the
exterior, getting rid of the ugly aluminum siding and replacing it with
wood, hanging new shutters, rebuilding the huge porch.  She imagined
he'd done a lot of work on the inside, too, but she didn't know,
because she'd never been invited in, not since Karen's death.

At the foot of the porch steps, she hesitated, forgetting the snow that
sliced at her cheeks.  This was nuts, and she didn't delude herself
about it.  Hardy might tell her she was crazy, to get lost.  Sometimes
she wondered if he agreed with Witt's opinion of him.

Then there was Witt.  He would forgive her.  Maybe.  He certainly
hadn't been able to forgive Hardy all these years.  But she was
different, she told herself.  She was his niece.  His brother's
daughter.  He couldn't possibly treat her the same way he had treated
Hardy.

That was what she told herself, anyway.  She was well aware that she
didn't believe it one hundred percent as she climbed the steps and
finally rang Hardy's bell.

A minute passed before the door opened.  Hardy stood there in stocking
feet, looking rumpled in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves
pushed up.

"Joni?"  he said as if he couldn't believe his eyes.  "What the hell
are you doing here?"

It wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but Joni hadn't expected one, not the
way things were.  But she wasn't doing this for herself, or even for
Hardy, really.  She was doing it for Karen.

Before she could formulate a response, the wind ripped around the
corner of his house, splattering her face with ice needles.

"Damn," he said under his breath and reached out, taking her arm and
pulling her inside.  He closed the door behind her, shutting out the
bitter night.

"Thanks," she murmured, her thoughts scattering as she got a look at
the inside of Hardy Wingate's house.

Polished wood greeted her everywhere, from the original plank floors to
the polished stair railing rising to the second floor.  Colorful old
rugs were scattered around the foyer, and the walls were painted a
creamy white.  Through the door to the right she could see a living
room filled with beautiful period pieces, and to the left was the
dining room, with a long Queen Anne table and chairs.

"I didn't know you liked antiques," she blurted.

"These aren't antiques," he said almost impatiently.  "I made them
myself."

She looked up at him.  "When do you have time?"

He shrugged.  "I've been doing this for years.  Keeps me busy in the
evenings.  What do you want?"

He wasn't even going to ask her to take her coat off, she realized. 
Not even a civilized, neighborly offer of something hot to drink before
she left.  She was, however, stubborn enough not to allow him to rush
her. What she was about to do deserved at least that much
consideration.

"How's your mother?"

"Getting better.  Still exhausted.  She sleeps a lot.  She's sleeping
right now.  Did you want to see her?"

She could tell he doubted it, and she couldn't blame him; she certainly
hadn't tried to come see Barbara in the last two months.  "No," she
said slowly.  "I came to see you."

"Big mistake.  Witt'll have your hide."

"Witt's not entitled to my hide.  I'm a grown woman."  She smothered
her exasperation.  "And it's all irrelevant, anyway."  Shoving her hand
up under her jacket, she tugged the envelope out from under her sweater
and offered it to him.  It was warm from her body.  "Here.  The request
for bids on Witt's lodge."

Hardy hesitated, looking at the envelope as she held it out to him.
"Joni..."  He trailed off as if he didn't know what to say.

"You've only got until the tenth to submit," she said, thrusting it
toward him.  "I'm sorry I couldn't give you more time, but I just got
this today.  You'll have to hurry."

He still didn't take the envelope.  He stared at it as if it might
explode Si any moment.  Then, slowly, he dragged his gaze from it and
looked straight at her.  "Witt is going to kill one of us if I take
that."

She shrugged, all too aware that he was right.  "I can handle it."
"Joni, why are you doing this?  Why?"

She looked down, studying the braid rug beneath her feet, watching the
melting snow drip from her boot and disappear into the rug.  "Karen
would want me to."

For the longest time Hardy didn't say anything.  He didn't even move or
seem to draw a breath.  Just as she was about to look up at him, to
make sure she hadn't shocked him into a stroke or something, he
spoke.

"Take your jacket and boots off," he said roughly.  "You need something
hot to drink, and I'm boiling water for tea."

"I need to get right home," she said, mindful that Hannah would ask
questions if she was gone too long.  She wasn't comfortable with the
lie she had already told, and she didn't want to have to tell too many
more of them.

"You've got time enough for some tea.  If you're worried about your
mother, call her."

Hannah wasn't the biggest part of her problem, Joni thought gloomily as
she tugged off her boots and hung her jacket on the coat tree.  Not by
a long shot.

She followed Hardy into the kitchen, which was behind the dining room
toward the back of the house.  Here, too, loving care was displayed in
a brick floor and gleaming modern appliances complemented by beautiful
oak cabinets and tiled countertops.  Hardy waved her to a round oak
table.

"Earl Grey okay?"  he asked.

"Great."  She wasn't much of a tea connoisseur, and she would have been
content with ordinary old orange and black pekoe.

Hardy brought two steaming mugs to the table, both dangling tags over
the side.  "Sugar?  Cream?  Lemon?"

"Black's fine."

Apparently he felt the same, because he sat across from her, dipping
his tea bag absently while he studied her.  "Karen's been gone a long
time," he remarked.  "I doubt any of us could know what she'd want."

"She'd want for her dad not to be so angry and bitter," Joni said
firmly.

"And me submitting a bid is going to change his mind?"  The question
was full of disbelief.

"If you submit a good one, it might force him to face how unfair he's
been to you."

"Are you so sure that he's been unfair?"

The question jolted Joni.  What was he talking about?  The cops had
said the accident wasn't his fault.  The other driver had steered right
into them and Hardy hadn't been able to evade him.  "It wasn't your
fault," she said urgently.

"Maybe not."  He dragged his eyes away from her and looked toward a
corner of the kitchen.  "And maybe it was.  The point is, Joni, nobody
except me really knows what happened that night.  I can't blame Witt
for thinking I should have done more.  I think about that a lot
myself."

Horror gripped her like vines of ice around her heart.  "No, Hardy."

"Yes, Hardy," he said almost mockingly.  He looked at her.  "I've
replayed those thirty seconds in my mind so many times, and I keep
reaching the same conclusion.  I didn't have enough experience at the
wheel.  Maybe I should have sped up instead of slowing down.  Maybe I
could have spun the wheel more.  Maybe if I'd known that drunk drivers
steer right into lights I would've had the presence of mind to turn
mine off.  Maybe I should have gone left instead of right.  I can think
of a dozen things I could have done differently.  Maybe the outcome
would have been different."

He leaned forward, his gaze burning into her.  "And if I can think
that, why shouldn't Witt?  I don't blame him for how he feels."

She hated to think of Hardy feeling this way.  "Hindsight's always
twenty-twenty."

"No it's not," he said harshly.  "It just asks a lot of pointless
questions.  But this isn't getting us anywhere.  I can't bid on this
project.  I'd just be wasting my time."

"You don't know that."  Anger began to burn in her.

"And you don't know that Witt might have a change of heart."

"You don't know that he won't.  My uncle isn't a stupid man, Hardy.  He
wants to build the best lodge he can afford.  He doesn't want it to be
second-rate, or fail because it isn't attractive enough."

"And he can get any one of a dozen decent architects and general
contractors anywhere between Denver and Glenwood Springs."

"He said he's doing this to make jobs for local people."

Hardy shook his head in exasperation.  "Noble intent, but I'm sure he's
not thinking of me as local people.  Christ, Joni, you still go off
halfcocked, don't you?"

Another time she might have bristled, but right now she didn't want to
argue with him.  It would only make it easier for him to refuse to bid.
"I'm not going off half-cocked.  I've been thinking about this for
months now."

He just looked at her.

"Hardy, it's time for this to end."

His eyebrows lowered, and something in his jaw set.  "Have you
considered that you're proposing to pick at one very large scab?  That
if you keep this up, someone may well wind up bleeding?"

"It?s been twelve years," she said.  It sounded like a mantra, even to
her.  "Enough is enough.  Don't chicken out, Hardy."

She tossed the envelope on the table and rose, ignoring her tea.  But
before she could reach the kitchen door, his voice stopped her.

"How are you going to explain to Witt that you don't have your copy of
the bid package?"

She shrugged, refusing to look at him.

"Jesus H. Christ," he said under his breath.  "Drink your damn tea.
I'll make a copy of it."

She faced him then.  "You're going to bid?"

"No, I'm going to save your altruistic butt."  Snatching up the
envelope, he disappeared into the back of the house, where his office
was.  Moments later, she heard the sound of a photocopier warming up.

He was going to bid, she told herself.  There would be no reason for
him to make a copy otherwise.

But even as she lied to herself, she knew she was doing it.  He was
just making sure she didn't have any excuse to leave without her copy
of the request for bids.

He was taking care of her again, the way he'd always tried to in the
old days.  Part of her wanted to resent it, and part of her was touched
that he still cared enough to do it, even after all these long years.

A few minutes later he returned with two sheafs of papers.  One was her
copy, carefully restapled at the corner.  The other, unstapled, was
clearly his copy.

"There," he said, returning hers.  "Look, this isn't some kind of
morality attack, is it?"

Confused, she looked at him.  "Morality?"

"Yeah.  You're not on some moral high horse, thinking that you're going
to teach us all to be better people, are you?"

"No.  God no!  I'm not that conceited."

"No?"  He put his palms on the table and leaned toward her, looking
straight at her.  "Then what is this, Joni?  Are you saying our
feelings aren't valid?  That Witt doesn't have a right to be angry with
me? That I don't have a right to feel it's better to avoid the man?"

She felt hurt, because she didn't at all like the way he seemed to be
seeing her.  Her eyes started stinging, and her throat tightened up.
Pressing her lips together, she snatched up the envelope, stuffed the
papers into it and headed for the door, picking up her jacket as she
went.

"Joni..."

She didn't want to look at him, but something made her turn around
anyway.  "I think ... I think I'm ashamed of my behavior," she said
thickly.  "I think I've let Karen down.  You and I were friends, Hardy.
We were friends."

Hardy stood at his open door, watching her dash down the street.  Not
until she stopped and pulled on her jacket did he close the door.

Damn her, he thought almost savagely.  Damn her eyes.  What was she
doing, shaking all this old stuff out of the woodwork at this late
date?  What was she hoping to accomplish?  Did she think some miracle
was going to occur if he entered his bid?  Did she think Witt was going
to forget all his anger and bitterness just because Hardy Wingate could
build a better hotel?

Not bloody likely.  "Shit!"  He swore under his breath so his mother
wouldn't be disturbed.  He could almost hate Joni right now.  She'd
dangled a plum under his nose, something he would have given his
eyeteeth to do, something that would have put him in a position to take
his mother to Hawaii.

And considering that Barbara wasn't doing well at all, he desperately
wanted to give her that trip.  Since her pneumonia she'd been so frail,
even needed a wheelchair some of the time.  Her lungs had been damaged,
leaving her breathless after even mild exertion.  He needed to get her
to a lower altitude, but she refused to go.

Swearing softly once more, he grabbed the bid packet from the table and
went back to his office.  A spacious two rooms he'd added to the house,
it was like another world: gleaming real-wood paneling, wide picture
windows looking out onto a snowy, night-darkened backyard, a
freestanding fireplace.  Worktables, model tables, drafting boards, two
computers.  It was his eyrie.  His escape.  His dream-place.  When he
was here, he forgot everything except creating.

On the model table right now was the project he'd been working on for
the last couple of months despite himself: a lodge for Witt Matlock. 
He had decided to fly in the face of the conventional for this one.
Instead of following the Vail and Aspen trend toward Alpine looks in
redwood and cedar, he'd chosen to carry the Victorian charm of Whisper
Creek into the hotel.  High spires, lots of gingerbread, a porch that
wrapped around.  Beautiful.

Lines that sang.  A creation that deserved to be realized.

He stretched out his arm and prepared to knock the whole thing to the
floor, to wipe out the insane dream that Joni had planted in his
brain.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.  Instead, he dropped onto a
stool and simply sat staring at the model.  Seeing it not as it was,
but as it could be when finished.  Somebody else could build it, he
told himself.  It didn't have to be Witt.  Some other investor would
come along, especially if Witt built a lodge.

That was what Witt probably wanted.  A long, low building, the rustic
log-cabin type.  A male sort of retreat.  That would be like Witt, to
want something of that kind, not this Victorian froufrou.

But he knew he was lying to himself.  He was lying to himself about a
lot of things, and had been for many years.  It was a poor excuse,
realizing that deluding himself was the only way he could remain
sane.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he clenched his fists and wondered why he
couldn't just keep on pretending.  Wondered why Joni had suddenly
decided she had to take action when this whole mess had been carefully
buried years ago.

Did she suspect?  he wondered.  Had she always suspected at some
unconscious level?  And if Joni had, had Karen?  And maybe Witt?

It was something he'd never really admitted to himself, and sometimes,
over the past twelve years, he'd managed to convince himself he was
imagining the whole thing.

But the heavy weight of guilt in his heart didn't let him fool himself
that easily.  It wouldn't let him forget for long.

The night he'd taken Karen out, the night she'd been killed .  he'd
begun thinking about breaking up with her.

Because he'd just started to realize that he was falling for someone
else.

And that someone else had been Joni.

1 he drive to Denver took nearly four hours, even with the high speed
limit on the interstate highway.  Witt was impatient all the way, and
glad of Hannah's company to keep him distracted.

"I still don't understand why you want me to come with you," Hannah
said as they were at last traveling through the suburbs, passing the
Westminster exits.

"It's simple," he said, as he had yesterday when he'd insisted she ride
shotgun.  "I want a second opinion on the proposals?-"

"But I don't know anything about hotels, Witt."

"But you know the kind of place you'd like to stay in if you were
taking a vacation in the mountains."

"I doubt that."  She looked at him with a vaguely amused smile.  "It's
one woman's opinion, Witt."

"It's one more than just mine."

"Aren't these things decided on the basis of cost?"

"Partly.  That has to be taken into account, of course.  But whatever
it costs, I want to be sure it's appealing."  He didn't want some
boxy-looking place that could be any one of a hundred other motels and
hotels in the state.  "I want something special."

She nodded and settled back in her seat.  Out of deference to her, Witt
had troubled to lay a metal sheet across the floorboards so the wind of
their travel wouldn't be blowing up through the holes.

Hannah had never criticized his truck, unlike Joni, who was apt to
tease him mercilessly about it.  But Hannah didn't seem to have very
high expectations, which he found a little strange in a woman who'd
been married to a doctor.  Instead, she seemed content with whatever
she had, meager though it might be.  And she never criticized his
truck.

"I'm still gonna get that new truck," he told her, for some reason
needing to know how she would react.

"I imagine you'll enjoy that," she said.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable?"

Her dark gaze settled on him.  He could feel it, even though he wasn't
looking at her.  He'd always been able to feel Hannah's gaze.  "If I
was worried about that, we could have taken my Jeep."

He kept his eyes on the road.  "Seems like you could worry a little
more about such things, Hannah.  Look after your comfort a bit
better."

"I'm content."

That was what she always said, that she was content.  And he always
wondered whether to believe her.  Maybe she was just trying to convince
herself.  Or maybe she meant it.  God knew he had no way of knowing the
truth.

The lawyer's office was on a quiet street, in a professional building
full of doctors and other lawyers, and surrounded by older residences.
Jim Loeb's office was on the second floor, a spacious suite that
suggested he did quite well in business and real estate law.  A very
ordinary man with brown hair and eyes, his wide smile saved him from
being plain.

He shook Witt's hand warmly and didn't even blink when Witt introduced
Hannah as his business partner.  Hannah did, though.  She opened her
mouth as if she wanted to argue the point, then closed it tightly.

"How do the bids look?"  Witt asked when they were all seated with cups
of coffee.

"Well..."  Jim sighed.  "I was hoping for a larger response. 
Apparently a, lot of firms don't want to get tangled up in jobs in such
a small, out-of the-way town.  But we did get three, and they all look
pretty good to me."

He opened a large portfolio on his desk and passed some
eleven-by-seventeen color drawings to Witt.  "These are from the first
bidder."

"Not too bad," Witt muttered as he looked at the half-timbered
Tudor-style structure.  "But not exactly exciting."

Jim nodded.  "I know.  But given the price constraints... well, I think
this bid was off-the-shelf, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah.  Something these folks have done before.  What's next?"

The next was a log cabin-style structure, two stories high, looking
like a piece of Fort Laramie.  Witt actually liked that better.  At
least it had rustic charm.  Hannah wasn't exactly thrilled, though. 
She didn't say anything, but she didn't seem especially interested. 
"Okay.  And the last one?"

"This one's interesting," Jim said.  "It came from someone we didn't
approach.  I guess one of the other prospect ives must have turned it
over to him.  Anyway, I checked on him.  He's solid, even if he is
relatively new to the business.  And he seems downright eager.  Come
on, I'll show you."

He took them down a short hall into another room where a polished
conference table held a scale model of a two-story Victorian structure
that looked like a grand hotel out of the past.

"Ohh..."  said Hannah.

Witt couldn't mistake her enthusiasm, even though she said nothing
more.  Of course, he had nearly thirty years of learning to read that
often-inscrutable face of hers.  There was a smile in her dark eyes,
just a subtle hint around the corners.

He looked at the model again and admitted to himself that he kind of
liked the fact that the architect had gone all out, building a model
rather than relying on drawings.  He liked the idea that the guy
apparently really wanted the job.

But he was no pushover.  "Can I afford this?"

"Actually," said Jim, "you can.  The bid's reasonable, well within what
the bank's willing to go with."

"I don't know."  He wasn't quite sure why he was resisting.  "I wasn't
thinking Victorian."

Hannah broke her silence.  "It would fit with the rest of the town."

It would.  It would fit perfectly.  Especially with the Main Street
improvement project that had resulted in Victorian streetlights and
brick sidewalks.

He walked slowly around the table, looking at the model, which was
painted in the candy colors so popular on Victorians.  "It's cheerful,"
he said finally.

"It's beautiful," said Hannah, then clapped a hand to her mouth as if
she were talking out of turn.

"That's why I brought you along," Witt said.  "Talk to me, Hannah."

"The others are ordinary, Witt.  This would be a landmark."

Surprisingly, Jim nodded.  "Might even get you some coverage in the
major papers and some magazines.  And look at this."  Bending over the
table, he swung back part of the model, opening one of the wings for
inspection.  Inside were the rooms, a few of them even decorated with
fancy doll furniture, rugs and fixtures.

"Wow," said Hannah, a smile curving her mouth.  "Can I take this home
and play with it?"

Jim laughed, and Witt had to grin.  "Some dollhouse, huh?  Well, if I
decide to go with this guy, you get to keep the model."

Hannah colored faintly.  "I don't have anyplace to put it, Witt.  I was
just being enthusiastic."

"You'll have a place to put it," he said with a firmness that had her
looking strangely at him.

"Okay," Witt said, looking at the model again, trying to wrap his
preconceived ideas around this unexpected model of his future.  Hannah
liked it, and that was a big plus as far as he was concerned.  "It's
got the owner's apartments and everything?"

"It does," Jim confirmed.  "And you're sure this guy is okay?"

"I checked him out.  He's only been in the business solo for five
years, but he hasn't had any problems.  His clients seem to be happy.
He has a reputation for keeping on schedule and on budget."

"Sounds good.  And the overall price?"

"Smack between the log cabin and the Tudor style."

"Hmm."  He couldn't reject it on those grounds, then.

"Witt?"  Hannah spoke.  "What's wrong?  Don't you like it?"

"It's just not what I had in mind.  I'm going to have to think about
it."

"What don't you like?"

"Nothing.  Really.  It's just I wasn't planning on Victorian."  A silly
thing to be resistant about, especially when Hannah seemed to like the
design.

"Well," she said, "it has to be your decision."

Jim spoke.  "If you don't like any of them, Witt, we can put out
requests for more bids.  Acceptance is contingent on you liking the
designs, as well as on the financial side of it."

"It's not that I don't like it," Witt said again, feeling a little
beleaguered.  "Maybe it's the colors.  Wouldn't all white with black
shutters look better?"

"More traditional, certainly," Jim agreed.

"Let's take a look at the bids, okay?"

Jim nodded and led them back to his office.  He'd pulled out the
salient parts of all the bid packages and had them ready for Witt to
look at without the boilerplate in the way.

Witt read through the first two slowly, making mental notes about the
time lines, about the lists of materials, thinking about all the little
details these guys had considered, things he might never have thought
about if he'd spent a year working on something like this.

The he turned to the final bid, the one for the Victorian.  And he saw
the name at the top of it.  "Hardy Wingate?"  he said, his voice
muffled. Beside him, he could feel Hannah stiffen.

Jim looked at him, his brow furrowing.  "Is something wrong?"

"" Yeah," said Witt, tossing the papers down on Jim's desk.  " I
wouldn't do business with that jerk if he was the last architect on the
planet.  I'll think about the other two, Jim.  I'll call you in a day
or two.  "

He and Hannah were in the car climbing back into the mountains before
he spoke again.  "I'm sorry, I forgot I was going to buy you lunch."

"Don't worry about it."

He nodded once, briefly, then pounded the steering wheel with the palm
of his hand.  "Goddamn it!  How the hell did Hardy get hold of that bid
package?"

Hannah spoke uncertainly.  "You heard what Jim said.  One of the other
firms must have passed it along to him."

"Yeah.  Yeah."  But his gut was burning, and he didn't want to think it
was all as simple as that.  "Imagine him having the gall to bid!"

Hannah folded her hands in her lap.  "He put an awful lot of work into
it."

"And why the hell did he do that?  He must've known I was going to turn
him down."

"Maybe."

"There's no maybe about it."  He glared at her, as if she were somehow
at fault, then slapped his hand against the steering wheel once more.

"Witt..."

He hated it when she did that, starting to speak, then checking
herself, leaving him wondering what the hell she had decided to say.
But he knew from long experience that pressing her wasn't going to get
her to spit it out.

"Damn it," he said again, and turned off the highway.  "I'm getting
lunch.  Son of a bitch thinks I'm going to hire him to build my lodge
after he killed my daughter?"

"Maybe not," Hannah said quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe he doesn't expect anything at all from you.  Maybe he just has
dreams, too, Witt."

"Well, fuck him."

Neither of them said another word until they stopped at a fast-food
place and ordered chicken.  Hannah had her usual thigh with coleslaw.
Witt, who burned calories faster in the mine than he could sometimes
eat them, ordered two breasts, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits and
baked beans.

They took a table in a quiet corner.  The place wasn't busy, probably
because it was the middle of the afternoon.  Halfway through his first
chicken breast, Witt looked up.  "He did it just to tweak my nose."

Hannah, who was nibbling at her coleslaw, merely looked at him.

"Well, what the hell else could he be up to?"

"Maybe," she said carefully, "he just wants the job.  Or maybe it's an
olive branch."

"Olive branch!  Hah!  He should never have taken Karen out behind my
back."

"Maybe not.  But you need to remember that she was your daughter, and
she chose to go with him even when you forbade it."

"She wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been urging her."

"Mmm."  Hannah said no more.  Instead, she filled her mouth with a
spoonful of slaw.

God, Witt thought, he hated it when she went inscrutable on him.  That
"Mmm" said volumes.  She didn't agree with him but wasn't going to say
so.  Ordinarily he could ignore that kind of stuff from her, but today
he was itching for a fight so badly he could hardly stand it.  And
Hardy Wingate was nowhere around to fight with.  Which left Hannah. 
And what did that say about him?

"Sorry," he grumbled, and attacked his second piece of chicken.  The
food, which he ordinarily enjoyed, tasted like sawdust today.  For a
bit, he stared out the window beside him, noticing that dark clouds
were gathering over the mountains to the west.  Apparently the clear
sunny day was about to give way to some more snow.  Well, that was fine
by him.  The way he was feeling, getting snowed in would suit him just
fine.

He tried to tell himself he shouldn't feel so bent, but he felt bent
anyway.  It wasn't as if Hardy Wingate had done anything new to him. 
All the guy had done was set himself up for a major disappointment. 
Asking to get kicked, really.

So what maggot was gnawing Hardy's brain, anyway?  For all the nasty
things Witt had thought about Hardy over the years, he'd never thought
the guy was stupid.  And this was stupid.  Had he thought he was going
to slip one by, that maybe Witt wouldn't notice who the bidder was?

He would have liked to think Hardy was that underhanded, but in his
mind's eye he could still see the pages of the bid, every one clearly
marked Hardy Wingate, Architect.

No, he hadn't been trying to pull a fast one.

"Olive branch?"  he said, returning his gaze to Hannah.

She was holding her foam coffee cup in both hands, her lunch barely
touched.  "Yes," she said.

He sometimes hated her calm and her monosyllabic answers.  Sometimes he
wished she would get all ruffled.  Angry, even.  He'd only seen her
that way once, but afterward it had been as if all the doors had shut.
Probably better that way, for both of them, but a guy could wish.

"Well," he said, "it's a hell of a way to do it.  And I don't give a
damn, anyhow.  My daughter's dead, and I'm not likely to forget that
fact."

"Of course you're not."

He barely heard her agreement, because he could almost, but not quite,
hear the three or four sentences she hadn't spoken.  "What are you
thinking?"

Hannah shook her head and sipped her coffee.  "It's a pretty hotel."

"Too fuckin' bad."

"Witt, please."

"Sorry."  He knew Hannah didn't like that word, but he was that mad. 
Mad because he had a feeling someone was trying an end run around him,
and he didn't like that feeling.  Mad because he had a gut deep
suspicion that Hardy hadn't come up with this harebrained idea on his
own.  Hardy was definitely not that stupid.

But then, his opinion of Hardy Wingate had never been that low.  Even
back when he'd objected to Karen dating him, he hadn't thought Hardy
was all that bad.  A little wild, like most boys his age, but not as
wild as some.  It was just that at the time, given Hardy's background,
Witt had feared the boy wasn't going anywhere, and he hadn't wanted
Karen to tie herself down to some miner.  He'd wanted better things for
her.

And he'd feared that Hardy's character hadn't been fully set yet, and
that he might turn out to be a twig off his father's tree.  A useless
alcoholic.  Hadn't turned out that way, obviously, but Witt didn't have
a crystal ball.  He'd just wanted what was best for Karen.

But Karen was dead, and he held Wingate directly responsible, and he
wasn't going to make any excuses for that.  None at all.

And he sure as hell wasn't going to give the guy a million-dollar job.
Jesus, no.  Every time he saw Hardy, all he could think of was Karen.

Hannah stirred, and Witt looked at her, asking, "Aren't you going to
eat?"

"Somehow I don't have much appetite when you get mad."

"I'm not mad."

She shook her head.

"Okay, so I'm mad.  Except that ... that's not exactly the word I would
use, Hannah."

She sipped her coffee and nodded encouragingly, but he didn't have any
more to say.  Finally she said, "Maybe you're not as angry as you are
hurt."

He shied away from that.  It sounded weak, somehow.  "The hurt was a
long time ago."

"That isn't what I meant."  But, as usual, she wouldn't tell him what
she had meant.  That was Hannah.  Like talking to a goddamn riddle.

He sighed in irritation and shoved his lunch aside, his appetite long
since gone.  Reaching for the coffee he still hadn't touched, he popped
a hole in the plastic lid, then swore when it burned his tongue.  Some
days he felt cursed, and this was turning into one of them.

It didn't help when he realized Hannah was looking amused.  "What's so
funny?"  he demanded.

"Not a thing."

"Quit lying to me."

Her amusement faded, but she didn't answer directly.  "Sometimes," she
said, "folks start acting like flies caught in a spiderweb.  Twisting
this way and that and just getting more stuck."

Witt didn't like that image one bit, especially since he had the
niggling suspicion she might be right about him.  "What are you
saying?" The question was truculent, and he expected that in her usual
way she would avoid answering.  She surprised him.

"Look into your heart, Witt.  Do what you know is right."

And the way she said "right" let him know that she didn't mean he
should do what he felt like doing.  Funny how doing the right think was
often the wrong thing in terms of how you felt about it.

"I am doing the right thing.  I ain't letting any murderer build my
hotel."

For once her face wasn't inscrutable.  It was downright disapproving.
Right now he didn't give a damn.  Right now he wasn't prepared to
nitpick the fine line between murder and killing, or the one between
deliberate and accidental.  Because the result was always the same,
regardless: Karen was still dead.

Joni beat her mother home by about twenty minutes, so she started
making lasagne.  As a rule, she hated cooking, but there were times,
like now, when the routine and rhythm of it could soothe her.  She
desperately needed soothing.

All day she'd been acutely aware that Witt and Hannah had gone to
Denver to review the bids.  She had no idea if Hardy had bid and
couldn't even guess what Witt's response would be if he had.  Would
Witt suspect her involvement?  Part of her hoped not, while another
part of her scolded herself for being spineless.  She ought to just
fess up and have it out with Witt.

But now that she'd taken the drastic action of trying to mend fences
with Hardy, all she could think about was how much she loved Witt.

She browned some hamburger, then dumped store bought spaghetti sauce
into the pot with it to simmer.  She put the water on to boil for the
pasta and stirred the ricotta mixture in a blue bowl.

Then, for a bit, she had nothing to do but wait, and waiting gave her
time to think.  For a week now she'd been trying to avoid that, but
life wasn't cooperating.

She loved Witt.  She loved him at least as much as she'd loved her
father.  He'd been a good uncle before her father's death, and she'd
adored him, but from the day she and Hannah had moved up here, after
Lewis was killed, Witt had stood in for her dad.

He'd been there every time she had needed him.  He'd treated her with
every bit as much affection and warmth as he'd treated Karen, and she
and Karen had often pretended they were sisters, not just cousins.

Since Karen's death .  well, since Karen's death, Joni had often felt
she needed to fill that hole in Witt's life, and Witt had seemed to
take her even more into his heart.  It wasn't that she had replaced
Karen for him, but that, lacking Karen, he had lavished even more love
on Joni.

She would have done just about anything for him.  So why had she done
this?  What had compelled her, after all this time, to rock what was a
very dangerous emotional boat?

Remembering her reasons now was surprisingly difficult.  All she knew
was that she had felt compelled, as if some shame deep within her had
demanded she act.  Shame at having abandoned Hardy after the accident
because Witt had blamed him?

Maybe.  Or maybe it was something more.  But she honestly didn't know
what.

And that scared her a bit, the feeling that something was going on deep
inside her that was out of her control.

Hannah came in just as Joni was layering the lasagne.  "Oh, good," she
said.  "I'm starved, and that's just what I'm in the mood for."  She
paused to kiss her daughter's cheek.

"Didn't Uncle Witt buy you lunch?"  Joni's heart had started to race
with anxiety.

"Yes, of course he did.  But he was so upset I couldn't really eat."

"What was he upset about?"  She tried to ask casually, and wondered if
she sounded natural.  She didn't know.  All she knew was that her
cheeks felt hot and her heart was pounding.

"Hardy Wingate bid on the hotel."

"Really?"  That sounded too weak.  Her hands were trembling as she
sprinkled Parmesan and mozzarella over the top of the lasagne.  The
aluminum foil rattled as she pulled it off the roll and covered the
baking dish.

"Here," said Hannah, nudging her out of the way.  "Let me put that in
the oven.  You're shaking."

Joni was beginning to wish she could fall off a mountain.

"What's the matter?"  Hannah asked.  "Didn't you eat lunch?"

"I did.  Sure.  I'm just ... shaky."  Lies.  Oh, God, she hadn't
thought about all the lies she would have to tell because of what she'd
done.

Hannah put the baking dish on a cookie sheet to catch any spills, then
slipped it into the oven and set the timer.  "You'd better go sit
down," she said to her daughter.  "You don't look well."

Joni felt terrible, all right, but only emotionally.  Shame at her
duplicity was filling her.  Her legs feeling weak, she went into the
dining room and sat in a chair where she could watch her mother bustle
around the kitchen preparing to make the garlic bread.

Hannah put the loaf of French bread on the cutting board and sliced it
in two, putting half the loaf back in its plastic bag.  Then she
paused, her knife hovering over the bread and, without looking at Joni,
said, "Why did you give Hardy that bid package?"

"Mom..."  But Joni couldn't speak, neither to tell the truth nor to
prevaricate.  Her heart slammed hard, and she sat mute.

Hannah turned her head and looked at her.  "That's what you did the
night you said you were going to see your friend.  When we had the
snowstorm?  Why did you do it, Joni?"

All the explanations she'd given herself when she made up her mind to
draw Hardy into this were gone from her brain as if they'd never
existed.  Empty, anxious, shamed, she simply looked at her mother.

"I don't suppose," Hannah said after a moment, "that we need to tell
Witt that.  He's mad enough as it is.  I can't see what good it will do
to have him angry with you.  What's done is done."

That didn't make Joni feel any better.  She watched as her mother began
slicing the bread diagonally.

"I suppose," Hannah said presently, "that you'll give me an explanation
eventually."

When Joni finally spoke, her voice was a thick, tight croak.  "I had
reasons."

Hannah nodded, putting her knife aside and going to the refrigerator
for butter.  "I'm sure you did, Joni.  You always do."

Joni couldn't tell if that was a mere statement of fact or a sarcastic
comment.  And, honestly, she didn't really want to know.  She just
wished she could remember why it had seemed so important to her to give
that bid package to Hardy a week ago.  And wondered why all that
determination seemed to have deserted her.

Nothing more had been said by the time they began to dine.  Hannah
offered no information about the bids she had seen, her silence telling
Joni as clearly as any words that her mother wasn't happy with her.

Well, she hadn't expected anyone to be happy with her.  Even Hardy
hadn't been.  But she didn't like feeling cut off from her mother.
Hannah's disapproval had always cut her like a knife.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Joni put down her fork.
"It's wrong, Mom, Witt hating Hardy all these years.  He didn't kill
Karen."

"Mmm."  Hannah said no more.

Feeling almost desperate, Joni said, "Witt's never going to heal if he
keeps on hating Hardy."

"Really."  It wasn't a question and carried the weight of disapproval.
"Have you considered that Witt is grieving in his own way?"

"It's been twelve years!"

Hannah's dark eyes fixed her.  "Joni, do you think I miss your father
any less because it's been nearly fifteen years?  Do you?"

"I..."

Joni's voice trailed off, and her eyes began to bum.

"I think," Hannah'continued, "that you've been arrogant.  You have no
right to decide when someone else's grief should end."

"But..."  Again words escaped her.  "Grief isn't measured by calendars.
And I thought you understood people better than that, anyway.  Witt's
anger at Hardy is the way he keeps himself from being torn up
inside."

Joni looked down, her throat tight and her chest aching.  "Karen
wouldn't like it, Mom."

"No, she probably wouldn't.  But Karen isn't here, and that's the whole
problem."

Joni couldn't even bring herself to raise her head.  She was suddenly
hurting so deep inside that she didn't know if she could bear it.  "We
all miss her, Mom," she said thickly.  "Including Hardy."

Hannah sighed.  "Yes," she said presently.  "We do.  But opening up the
wounds this way isn't good for anyone, Joni.  Not for anyone."

She felt like a stupid child who should have known better, and somehow
she couldn't reach into herself and find the force that had compelled
her to rush headlong into this situation.  Couldn't feel again the fire
that had pushed her.  And that left her feeling defenseless.

But still, despite that, she felt that the situation was wrong, that
Wilt's anger was a poison not a cure.  And that Hardy was being treated
unfairly.

"Hardy was my friend, Mom," she said finally.  "He was my best friend,
next to Karen.  And when she died, I shouldn't have had to lose him,
too."  Then, having said all she could, she went up to her room and sat
in the quiet, staring out the window at freshly falling snow.

It hurt, she thought.  It still hurt like hell.  And maybe that was
what had compelled her to reach out to Hardy.

Because, dear God, even after twelve years, something inside her was
still bleeding.

A couple of days later, Witt ran into Hardy at the hardware store.  It
wasn't unusual for that to happen; in a town the size of Whisper Creek,
where there was only one hardware store, one pharmacy, one bank and one
auto-parts store, such encounters on a Saturday were inevitable.
Usually they both just turned away and pretended the other didn't
exist.

But today Witt was in a different mood.  When he saw Hardy buying some
screws, he didn't walk away.  Instead, he approached.

"What the hell" he said bluntly, "did you think you were doing bidding
on my hotel?"

Hardy dropped a dozen screws into a small paper bag.  He didn't reply
immediately, as if trying to decide how much he should say.  Finally he
shrugged.  "I'd like to build your hotel."  "In your dreams."

Hardy raised his gaze slowly and met Witt's angry stare.  "Exactly.  In
my dreams."  Then he went back to counting another dozen screws.

Witt didn't like being ignored.  And he didn't like being made to feel
as if he was behaving badly.  Hardy's calm just annoyed him more.  "You
have some nerve, boy."  "I'm not a boy anymore, Witt.  Maybe you'd
better keep that in mind."  "Oh, I do keep that in mind, just like I
keep it in mind that my daughter would be a woman now--but for you."

Hardy dumped more screws into the bag, then folded the top of it
carefully.  Only then did he look at Witt.

"Yes, she would," he said quietly.  Brushing past Witt, he headed for
the checkout.

Leaving Witt feeling like an angry ass.  What had he expected?  That
they were going to duke it out in the aisle?

Still disgruntled, he went to get the epoxy he'd come for.  Fact was,
he'd been gnawing on his anger like an old bone since he'd learned that
Hardy had bid on the hotel.  It was an anger he never entirely got
over, but it had been a long time since it had been this fresh and hot.
Mostly, he kept it buried as long as Hardy Wingate stayed out of his
way.

But Hardy had just gotten very much in his way, and his anger was like
the volcano was erupting again, consuming him with its red-hot heat.
After all these years, it was unresolved.

Nobody had paid for Karen's death except him.  The drunk driver hadn't
even lived long enough to be arrested.  And Hardy .  Hardy, who hadn't
taken good care of Karen, who'd been indirectly responsible for her
death, was still walking around whole and healthy.

That stuck in Witt's craw like a boulder.

Out on the street, with his bag of screws in his hand, Hardy hurried
away from the hardware store.  He should never have let Joni tempt him
with the prospect of building that hotel.  All he'd managed to do was
push Witt to the brink again.

He didn't want to do that.  And it struck him that he must have been
harboring some kind of hope that Witt would get over his bitterness or
he never would have placed that bid.  Stupid fool.  After twelve years,
Witt wasn't likely to change his mind about anything.

Trying to sidestep a dark feeling that was threatening to overwhelm
him, he forced himself to consider why it was he cared about Witt's
opinion.  The man had never liked him.  Never.  So why should it matter
so much that he was angry with Hardy?

Because, Hardy realized with a sense of shock that seemed to rock him
to his very soul, he was never going to be able to forgive himself
unless Witt forgave him.  Christ.

"Hardy?"

He looked up and saw Joni hurrying toward him down the snow-packed
sidewalk.  Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure
Witt wasn't standing in front of the hardware store watching.  He
wasn't.

"Are you crazy?"  he asked Joni.  Reaching for her arm, he urged her a
little way down a side street in case Witt emerged from the store.
"Your uncle's in the hardware store."

"Oh."  She looked up at him, blinking those huge blue eyes of hers,
making him wonder if something about her was going to remain eternally
a child.  Because right now.  He shook his head.  Joni was no child,
and he wasn't going to patronize her by thinking of her as one.

"He's hopping mad about that bid of mine," Hardy told her.  "He was
trying awful hard to pick a fight with me."

"I'm sorry."

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she invariably
apologized too late.  She always had.  Joni had always been inclined to
follow her impulses and to regret many of them later.  But he bit back
the criticism and said only, "That's okay.  I should have known better
than to bid."  Then he summoned a wry smile.  "Sometimes this town just
isn't big enough for both Witt and me."

He'd hoped to get a flicker of a smile in return, but all he got was a
sigh.  She kicked the toe of her boot against the snowbank beside the
walk and finally looked up at him again.  "It was stupid."  she said. 
"My mother figured it out."

"Figured out that you gave me the request package?"

"Yes.  She asked me why T'd done it."

"And?"

Another sigh.  "And all those good reasons I had just kind of
evaporated.  I couldn't even remember them, I just know this situation
isn't right."

"To tell you the truth, I don't remember the reasons you gave me,
either."  He was actually beginning to feel some sympathy for her.  "I
do remember that your intentions were good."

"The road to hell and all that."  She looked so downcast.  "Well, I
just wanted you to know that my mom figured it out, so it probably
won't be long before Witt does, as well.  I guess that won't make any
difference in how they feel about you.  But it's going to make my life
miserable for a while.  Which I guess I deserve."

There was a small coffee shop down the street, a place frequented
mostly by some old hippies who had migrated here to live a more rural
life and spent small fortunes on organic foods.  The cafe was part of
the Earth Mother Co-op, but anyone could shop there.  He took her
hand.

"Let's go get something hot to drink.  That wind is cutting right
through my jacket."  Mainly because he'd been in a hurry and had
grabbed the nearest jacket at hand, one that was better suited to the
fall than the winter around here.  He hadn't planned on standing
outside having a conversation.

"Okay," she said.  The circles that moved through the Earth Mother
Co-op and the circles in which Witt moved almost never intersected. 
Small town or not, there were a few social boundaries over which gossip
seldom passed.  Witt would never hear about the two of them having
coffee.

The co-op was warm, heated by a Franklin stove that was always well
fueled.  The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and the aromas of
grains stocked in open barrels filled the air, along with the delicious
scent of fresh coffee and baked goods.

"Man," Hardy remarked, "I'm going to have to buy a loaf of bread."

Joni was apparently of like mind.  She ordered a cinnamon roll with her
coffee.

"Have you ever noticed," Hardy asked, "that many of life's most
important conversations take place over food?"

Some of the sadness lifted from her eyes.  "It's true.  Mom and I
always have our conversations over coffee or dinner."

"Yeah.  Seems more sociable, somehow."  But his mind wasn't really on
the coffee the waiter put in front of him, or on the aroma of Joni's
cinnamon roll.

"Okay," he said after a few moments.  "If Witt asks me if you gave me
the bid package, I'll tell him no."

"You don't have to lie for me."

"No, I don't.  But I will.  There's no point in having that ugliness
fall on your head.  I'm a grown man.  I didn't have to bid."

"No," Joni said firmly.  "I'll take my licks.  I deserve them."

"You don't want this kind of trouble with your uncle."

"Why not?  Maybe it'll clear the air."

Hardy shook his head.  "Nothing's going to clear the air, not after all
this time."

Sitting back, he sipped his coffee and wondered what the hell he was
doing sitting here with Joni Matlock.  Then he wondered, as he always
did, if he would have been sitting here with Joni under better
circumstances if he'd broken up with Karen when he'd first noticed his
attraction to Joni.

Probably not, he told himself.  None of them had been old enough to
sustain a long-term relationship.  If Karen hadn't died, he would have
broken up with her.  Joni might have agreed to date him, but probably
wouldn't--out of loyalty to her cousin.  And except for the possibility
that Karen would still be alive, nothing would have changed.  Not
really.

But what good did it do to ask himself these questions?  All he could
do was wish Karen hadn't been in the car with him that night.  And
wishes were worthless.

Joni's mood seemed to be rising as the sugar in her roll began to hit
her system.  She looked less worried and tired, and more like her old
self.  Finally she even smiled at him and said, "Okay, it was a stupid
idea."

While he would be the first to admit that Joni too often acted on
impulse, and that sometimes her reasons weren't the most sensible, he
didn't like to hear her put herself down that way.  Casting his mind
back over the years, he could remember dozens, maybe hundreds, of times
when she'd put herself down.  It was kind of strange coming from a
woman who, as far as he could tell, ought to be spoiled rotten.  Witt
and Hannah both doted on her to an extreme degree.  Maybe that was why
she was so impulsive.

But it didn't explain why she was so quick to call herself stupid.  A
woman who had a graduate degree in pharmacy shouldn't be thinking of
herself that way.

He shifted in his chair and leaned over the table a little, on an
impulse of his own asking her, "Why do you always call yourself stupid?
You're not stupid at all."

Her eyes were strangely haunted as they met his.  "Maybe not," she said
finally.  "But I'm not the world's brightest bulb or I wouldn't keep
getting into fixes like this.  Well, I'll take what's coming to me.
Maybe it was a stupid idea, but I was trying to make things better.  I
guess I ought to be smart enough to realize that if twelve years isn't
making it better, nothing else is likely to."

She pushed her roll aside and stared into her coffee cup.  When she
spoke again, her voice was muffled.  "I hate to see people I care about
hurting."

"We all do, Joni.  But sometimes we've just got to let them hurt
because there's nothing we can do.  There's no way to make Witt stop
hurting."

"But what about you?"  she asked.

His heart turned over, and that was exactly what he didn't want to
happen.  Feeling a pull toward Joni was bad enough given the situation,
but feeling any more was suicidal.  Rising suddenly, he tossed a few
bills on the table to cover their check.  He picked up his coffee and
looked down at her.  "Been nice talking to you, Joni.  But let's not
make a practice of this.  It's not good for anyone.  Thanks for trying
with Witt."

Then he turned and walked out, feeling her eyes on him every step of
the way.

Born to hurt, that was what he was, he thought.  Born to hurt everyone
he knew.

He didn't make it but half a block before he ran into Sam Canfield.
They'd gotten friendly after Sam had moved to Whisper Creek a few years
back to take a job as a deputy.  Sam's wife had died a couple of years
ago in a skiing accident, leaving Sam looking haggard and haunted.

Sam was a tall man, far leaner than he used to be, and since his wife's
death, he seemed to have hunched in on himself.  His face had taken on
deep lines, and his gray eyes had lost their sparkle.  Although he was
only thirty-five, his dark hair had begun to show streaks of gray.

"Hey, buddy," Sam said, his voice dragging Hardy's head up from his
gloomy study of the slippery sidewalk.  "You look like the world's
coming to an end."

"Nan."  It was Hardy's usual response.  He wasn't comfortable admitting
that sometimes he would like to cut his own throat, or find a hole in
reality that would allow him to just slip out, like the fire door in a
theater.  The idea sounded stupid even to him.

"Right," said Sam, who'd been around the block of life often enough to
recognize that for what it was.  "Got some time?  I'm thinking about
stopping at the cafe for lunch, and I don't mind telling you, I'm tired
to death of eating alone."

Hardy was agreeable.  He didn't have anything that pressing today, and
his mother, who was feeling a little better, had begun to insist she
could make her own lunches, thank you very much.

They sat facing each other in a corner booth.  Sam ordered a turkey
sandwich and salad.  Hardy went for a burger and fries.

"I try to eat healthy," Sam remarked.  "The problem is, it's a lot
harder to do when you're living alone."

Hardy nodded, leaning back to let the waitress put mugs of coffee in
front of the two of them.  Sam, he thought, was looking better than he
had a while back.  Some of the gauntness that had appeared after his
wife's death had filled out.  But there was still a haunted look in his
eyes from time to time.  Hardy decided not to mention it.  He was never
quite sure how to deal with grief.  Mention it?  Ignore it so as not to
reawaken it?

"I hear you bid on Witt's hotel."

Hardy's head snapped up.  "You know, the grapevine in this town is
unbelievable.  Where'd you hear that?"

"From one of Witt's cronies.  My guess would be he's been sounding off
a little."

"Probably."  Hardy shook his head and decided to drink some coffee
before he answered.  But with the cup halfway to his mouth, he paused.
"You know, this town is the damnedest place."

"That's one of the things I like about it," Sam remarked.  He cradled
his cup as if his hands were cold.  "Something happens around here,
damn near everyone knows who did it.  Makes my job easy.  On the other
hand, everyone's going to know you were hanging out with Joni."

"I bet."  Hardy flashed a smile, then sighed and sipped his coffee.  "I
thought going into the coop would be safe."

Sam shrugged.  "I dunno.  How many people saw you and Joni head in
there?"

"Well, you did, apparently."

"I'm not saying a word about that anywhere.  Soon as I measured the
gossip rate around here, I figured a closed mouth was my best
protection."

"Other folks don't feel the same."  "Little enough to occupy them. 
Work and talking about the neighbors is it.  Most of it's not
meanspirited, though.  Just interested."

"Witt would have a cow."

Sam grinned.  "Now, that's something you don't see every day."

Hardy laughed; he couldn't help it.  Sam was putting things in
perspective.  "I'm worried about Joni, though.  She loves that man like
a father."

"Then don't be having coffee with her in broad daylight."  Sam paused,
sipped his coffee.  The waitress came with their meals, asked if they
needed anything else, then went back to the other customers.  Sam cast
his gaze around, apparently assessing the others.

Then he leaned across the table and said in a low voice that barely
carried over the cacophony of the people talking and eating, "Maybe I
recognize it because of my ... loss.  But I've seen how you look at
that woman, Hardy.  From clear across the street.  Like a man who wants
something so bad he can hardly stand it."

Hardy's first reaction was shock.  He couldn't believe he'd been so
transparent.  Worse, he didn't want to believe that the aching inside
him was that strong.  He'd spent twelve years avoiding Joni like the
plague, and for damn good reason.  The whole idea that he was carrying
some stupid kind of torch made him rebel.

He opened his mouth to tell Sam he was imagining things, but the lie
wouldn't come.  He couldn't even tell it to himself anymore.  Part of
the reason he'd been avoiding Joni was because he was afraid of what
would happen if they got too close.  Sort of like matter and
antimatter.  One humongous uncontrolled explosion, and then . 
nothing.

Because all he could be feeling was a yearning for a hope lost.  He
didn't even know Joni anymore.

"I don't need to do anything about it, Sam."

"Maybe not."  Sam let the subject go and tucked into his lunch.  Hardy
followed suit, figuring that if they both had their mouths full they
couldn't talk about anything uncomfortable.

But that didn't keep him from thinking uncomfortable thoughts.  Later
as he walked home, he wondered just how self-deluded he was.

The first words Witt said to Hannah as he stormed into her house were,
"Joni gave that bid package to Hardy, didn't she?"

Hannah didn't know how to reply to the certainty in his tone.  She
didn't want to outright lie, but she also wanted to protect her
daughter.  In the end she said nothing at all.

"Don't bother to deny it," Witt said as if she had tried.  "I talked to
all the architectural firms.  None of them passed the package on.  You
and Joni were the only other people with access."

Hannah sat in the armchair and watched Witt pace a tight circle through
the living and dining rooms.  This house wasn't big enough for him, she
thought irrelevantly.  He dwarfed it, seemed confined by it.  And right
now he looked like a tiger pacing in a cage.

"Why did she do this to me, Hannah?  She knows what I think of
Wingate."

"She didn't do anything to you.  Hardy made a bid.  You can ignore
it."

He rounded on her.  "She betrayed me."

Hannah, who rarely argued with anyone, and who usually had little to
say about the folly of her fellow human beings, couldn't ignore that.
"That's going too far.  You weren't betrayed."  "No?"  He glared at
her. "How would you feel if she went behind your back to someone who
killed your daughter."

"Witt, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous.  That boy is the reason my daughter is
dead."

"You daughter is dead because of a drunken driver."

"She's dead because Hardy Wingate encouraged her to slip out at night
with him!"  Witt roared the words, and Hannah heard the windows rattle.
Another irrelevant thought slipped through her brain: time to caulk the
windowpanes again.

This side of Witt appalled her a little, and worried her.  She'd known
him since she'd married his brother, and Witt wasn't prone to anger. 
He was ordinarily a reasonably quiet, self-contained man, calm in
situations that had others shouting.  And the degree of his anger,
after all this time, troubled her.

"Witt..."  Hannah spoke quietly.

He paused in his pacing and looked at her.  The redness of his eyes
made her heart ache.  "What?"

"I think Joni was trying to help."

"Help what?"

Hannah hesitated, still reluctant to offer opinions of this kind.  But,
she decided, Witt really needed to take a good long look at himself.
"To help you heal."

Witt practically gaped at her.  "Help me heal?  How the hell is this
supposed to help me heal, for the love of God?  She just ripped the
wound wide open again."

"Think about that, Witt.  She couldn't have ripped it open if it had
been healed.  And if you want to know what I think..."

"That would be refreshing," he said with a biting sarcasm that made her
cheeks redden.  "What I think is that your wound not only never healed,
but is been festering for twelve years.  And it's making you sick in
your soul, Witt."

She was braced for an explosion, but it never came.  For the longest
time he didn't say a word.  Then, finally, he sat in the other armchair
and studied his hands.

"I've lost everyone, Hannah," he said quietly.  "I lost my wife to
cancer, I lost my brother to a mugger and I lost my daughter.  I lived
with the first two.  I can't live with the last."

"I can see that."

"And it doesn't help me at all when my niece goes running around behind
my back to the man who was responsible for Karen's death."

Hannah smothered a sigh, finally asking, "Tell me, Witt.  Please
explain this to me.  Why do you hold Hardy responsible?  Because all
that happened was that he and Karen were in a car in the wrong place at
the wrong time when a drunk came along.  It's just like with Lewis,
Witt.  Lewis was in the wrong place at the wrong time when that mugger
came across him.  It's no different."

"It is different."

"That's what I don't understand."

He suddenly ran his fingers through his graying hair, then leaned back
in the chair and closed his eyes.  When he spoke, he sounded drained.
"It's different.  They were running around behind my back.  Hardy was
encouraging her to disobey me and run around behind my back."

The use of that phrase twice, after what he had said about Joni,
chilled Hannah.  The idea that he might be lumping her daughter in with
Hardy frightened her more than anything ever had.  And she wondered how
she could prevent that.

"Karen," she said yet again, "chose to disobey you, Witt."

He shook his head and sat up straighter, looking at her.  "Hardy
Wingate was the only damn thing she ever disobeyed me about."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that."

Hannah shook her head, "Wilt, no parent ever knows all the things their
kids do when they're not looking.  Every child does things that their
parents would be upset about if they knew.  Joni's told me things about
high school that, if I had known them at the time, I probably would
have chained her in her bedroom."

The faintest flicker of humor appeared on Wilt's face, giving Hannah an
instant of hope.  But then il vanished and was replaced by something
cold.  "Hardy's influence," he said flatly.  "He was a bad
influence."

"Hardy wasn't involved in most of Joni's hijinks."

' "Then maybe she was the bad influence on Karen.  Maybe she encouraged
Karen to defy me."

"Will!"  Hannah was appalled.  She couldn't believe what she was
hearing. Her heart began to beal painfully, and she' felt as if
something inside her were crumbling.  "Witt, no."

He jumped up from the chair and began pacing tight circles again. 
"Whal am I supposed to think?  Here I have proof that Joni's been
running behind my back to Hardy.  Why wouldn't I think she was a bad
influence on Karen?"

"You cut that out right now, Witt Matlock.  Your Karen was a lovely
girl, but she wab no angel.  No child that age is, unless there's
something wrong with her.  Hardy didn't manhandle Karen into going with
him.  Karen went because she wanted to."

"I knew her better than that."

"I seriously doubt it."  The desperation in Hannah's voice was tempered
by a surprising dryness.  He looked at her, something in his face
suggesting he was about to speak, but then his mouth clamped into a
tight line.

When he did finally speak, his voice was as rough and dry as gravel.
"She wouldn't have disobeyed me, except for him."

"No," Hannah agreed.  "She probably wouldn't have."

"So it's his fault she's dead!"

"No, it's not."

"Cut it out, Hannah.  I don't want riddles."

"I'm not riddling.  If Karen hadn't been wildly attracted to Hardy, she
wouldn't have disobeyed you, no matter what Hardy encouraged her to do.
And if you're honest with yourself, you'll admit it.  She wanted to be
with Hardy more than she feared your disappointment in her.  That says
something.  Heavens, the two of them were probably imagining themselves
as Romeo and Juliet!"

Witt heard something unexpected in that.  "Are you blaming me for
Karen's death?"

Hannah's heart nearly stopped in her breast.  "No," she managed to say
after a moment.  "No.  It wasn't your fault.  Whether or not you
approved, Karen was going to go out with Hardy.  And whether or not you
approved, they were going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time
that night.  That's all

I'm saying, Witt.  It's not your fault.  It's not Hardy's fault.  It
was the fault of one drunk driver.  "

But he didn't look as if he was buying it.  Which didn't exactly
surprise Hannah.  He hadn't bought it during the last twelve years, why
would he change his mind now?  But she didn't want him chewing Joni up
and spitting her out.  And right now, she feared Witt was capable of
that.  She'd seen him angry before, furious the night his daughter
died, but never before had she seen him angry with this cold edge.

"You know," she said slowly, trying to placate him, 'it was wrong of
Joni to give the bid request to Hardy.  "

"Well, hallelujah," Witt said sarcastically.  "The woman sees sense."

"Don't you talk to me that way, Witt Matlock!"

He had the grace to look a little embarrassed.  "Sorry."  "And well you
ought to be.  As I was saying, Joni j was wrong.  But it was a minor
wrong, Witt.  Minor.  All you have to do is decline the bid."

"Sure.  And have you disappointed.  And have that niece of mine upset
with me.  You think I don't see what she's up to?  She figured she
could manipulate me into accepting Wingate's bid for her sake.  What's
she doing?  Sleeping with him?"

"Witt Matlock!"

"Wouldn't surprise me.  Wingate's always been hell on wheels.  Why
wouldn't he enjoy getting back at me that way?"

"Getting back at you?"  Hannah was beginning to wonder if Witt was
losing his mind.  This really didn't sound like him at all.  Yes, he'd
carried an anger at Hardy all these years, but nothing this paranoid.
And he'd never talked about Joni this way.  Never.

"Yes, getting back at me," Witt growled.  "Maybe he thinks he's going
to get even for me being angry with him all these years.  Thinks he can
do it by taking my niece away."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Nobody's taking Joni away from you.  And she's
not seeing Hardy."  Although at the back of Hannah's mind there was a
niggling doubt, given the situation.  But she couldn't believe Joni
would hide something like that from her, regardless of what Witt might
think.  The two of them were too close now for that.

But her heart was beginning to break, because as she watched Witt and
listened to him, she began to think he might create a rupture between
himself and Joni.  That he might make the same kind of breach he'd made
with Hardy, one that might never heal.  After all this time, she
certainly knew how long he was capable of bearing a grudge.

And for the first time in all the years she had known him, Hannah began
to wonder if Witt was the good man she had always believed him to be,
or if he was a stranger to her.  This side of him .  this side of him
seemed to belong to someone else.  It didn't fit with all she knew of
him.

That he held Hardy responsible for Karen's death was sad, but it wasn't
a major thing, because Hardy wasn't a member of the family, hadn't ever
been a close friend.  From Witt's perspective, Hardy was a wild young
man he had never really known.  It was easy to carry a grudge against
someone like that.

But Joni .  Joni and Witt had been close for a long time.  Surely Witt
couldn't treat her the same way he had treated Hardy?

She opened her mouth, wanting to prevent that eventuality at all costs,
ready to spill her shame and her secret and take the consequences.

But Joni chose that moment to come into the house.  She froze when she
saw Witt's angry face and glanced at her mother questioningly.  Hannah
nodded and kept silent with difficulty, waiting to see what tack Witt
was going to take.

"Hi, Uncle Witt," Joni said brightly, her outward cheer belied by the
tension around her blue eyes.

He glared at her.

Joni instinctively pulled back.  Of course, Hannah thought; she had
never been glared at by Witt that way.  It was a look that would make
anyone step back.

"Uncle Witt?"  Joni said tentatively.

Hannah waited on tenterhooks, her fingers digging into her palms as she
saw the way Joni's chin first trembled, then thrust out.  Her daughter
might be too impulsive, Hannah thought, but Joni had never refused to
take the consequences of her actions.  Nor had she ever denied
responsibility.  But Hannah had the awful, awful feeling that that was
not going to be enough this time.

Witt looked as if accusations wanted to burst out of him.  Then he
looked as if it all hurt too much and he couldn't voice anything at
all.  They were both wrong, Hannah thought.  Both of them.  And in that
instant, she didn't know which of them she wanted to comfort more.

"You..."  Witt's voice was hoarse.  He cleared his throat and spoke
again.  "You gave the bid package to Hardy."

"Yes," Joni said steadily.  "I did."

"Why?"

For a second Hannah's heart lifted.  Witt was going to listen to Joni's
explanation.  It wasn't going to be so bad.

"Because," Joni said, "I love you, Uncle Witt."

His head jerked up and he thundered, "Don't give me that crap!"

Joni's temper rose just as fast as his.  "It's not crap.  I love you.
And what you're doing is wrong.  It's wrong and it's hurtful, not just
to Hardy, but to me, too."

"You?  You?"  He whirled on Hannah.  "See?

What did I say?  She's sneaking around with Hardy behind my back.
Sleeping with him like some slut!  "

"Witt!"  Hannah's voice cracked with horror.  "Don't you dare!  Don't
you ever!"

"I'm not sleeping with anyone," Joni shouted, trying to divert her
uncle's attention back to herself.  Hannah knew what she was doing,
didn't know how to stop her.  But it had always upset Joni when Witt
was annoyed with Hannah.  Or vice versa.

Witt rounded on Joni again.  "And I'm supposed to believe that?  Hell
will freeze over first!  You didn't do this for me.  I know better than
that.  You know better than that.  You know how I feel about Hardy."

"And it's wrong, Uncle Witt!  It's wrong!  As long as you stay mad at
Hardy, you're never going to heal."

"What a bunch of psychological hogwash!  Well, let me tell you
something, young lady.  I don't care what your reasons are!  I don't
give a damn.  You can sleep with that good-for-nothing piece of shit,
you can marry him for all I care.  What I care about is that you went
behind my back.  You betrayed me!"

"No!"

"Yes.  And from this day forward I don't have a niece anymore.  Do you
hear me?  From this day on I don't know who you are!"  He turned on
Hannah.  "Or you either.  I wash my hands of both of you."

Then he turned and stomped out the front door into the snowy night.

Hannah looked at Joni and saw she was trembling.

Looking down at her own hands, Hannah saw that she was, too.  And right
now, her heart felt as if someone had driven an ice pick into it.

"Mom?"  Joni said.  Her voice was plaintive, small, seeking
reassurance. "What did you think was going to happen?"  Hannah asked
wearily.  Her throat felt tight, her eyes burned, she ached for both
Joni and Witt, and she didn't feel she knew Witt at all anymore.  Nor
could she say what hurt worst.

"I knew he'd be mad."  Joni's voice was broken, shocked-sounding.  "But
Witt ... Mom, that didn't sound like Witt."

"He was wound up tighter than a spring," Hannah agreed.  God, she
wanted to crawl away to bed and end this night now.

"He doesn't usually say such hateful things."

"He doesn't usually get hurt this way."  Hannah refused to ease Joni's
conscience on this one.

"I've got to talk to him."

"Let him cool down first."

"No," said Joni, heading for the front door.  "I can't let him think
I... No, I've got to talk to him now."

The door slammed behind her, and Hannah thought numbly that Joni hadn't
even been wearing a jacket.  She was going to get awfully chilled out
there.

But just a few moments later, Joni burst back through the door.  "Mom!
Mom, Witt's down in the snow.  Something's wrong with him!"

Joni watched as the ambulance bearing Witt and Hannah pulled away.
Hannah had told her to follow in the car, but for long minutes Joni
couldn't even move.  Heedless of the cold wind that was cutting through
her flannel shirt and making her skin burn and ache, heedless that her
stocking feet were cramping and icy from standing in a snowbank, she
stared after the disappearing ambulance.

A heart attack, Hannah had said.  A heart attack.  Joni felt a crushing
weight on her own chest as the thought struck her that she might have
killed her uncle.  He might the, and it would be all her fault for
upsetting him so.

Something inside her seemed to cut loose and tumble into free fall. 
Her stomach plummeted as if she were riding a super-fast elevator . 
except that it didn't stop.  It just kept on falling.

She might have killed Witt.  He had been so angry, and it had all been
her fault.  Her selfish, stupid, impulsive fault.  She been all hung up
on what was right, what was best for all of them, and she hadn't
stopped for one minute to consider that maybe she didn't know what was
best.

She had the worst urge to just collapse into the snowbank and cry until
she could cry no more.  To give in to tears and let them wash away the
terrible feelings of guilt and shame.

But they wouldn't do that, she knew.  Nothing was going to wash away
this mistake.  This time her impulsive action had cost more than she
had considered in her wildest imaginings.

Turning at last, she went back into the house.  The heat indoors felt
searing on her cold skin.  Her soaked socks left wet footprints on the
rugs and plank floor.

Her mother would need her.  No matter her iniquity, she had to be there
for Hannah.

She changed swiftly into dry jeans and socks, checked to make sure all
the lights were out, then headed out, grabbing her parka, keys and
purse.  Fear filled her, making her shake, making it difficult to get
the keys into the ignition of her car.  Please, God, let Witt be all
right.

She was never going to forgive herself, she thought as she drove.
Never.

Another pang struck her, a blast of fear that felt like a cyclone
ripping through her.  For an instant, just an instant, she had to close
her eyes at the force of it.

The next thing she knew, her car was sliding off the road into a
snow-filled ditch.

"Damn it!"  All the violent, tangled emotions she was feeling erupted
as she shouted the curse and pounded her hand on the steering wheel. 
"Damn it!"

She had to get to the hospital.  Hannah needed her.  But pressure on
the accelerator only spun the wheels.  She wasn't going to get out that
way.

Grabbing her purse, she turned off the car, got out and locked it.  She
would walk to the damn hospital.  She'd failed everyone in her life,
but she wasn't going to fail Hannah in this.  She was going to be there
for her.

The wind was cold, whipping down from the mountains to sting her cheeks
and find every cranny in her parka.  The denim of her jeans began to
feel stiff against her legs, began to chafe as the moisture escaping
her body froze in the fabric.  Just what she deserved, she told herself
angrily.  Maybe less than she deserved.

As she hiked toward the hospital, she grew colder, and more fatigued.
Hypothermia, she noted.  Well, she could deal with a little of that. 
Was it so awful, anyway?  Maybe they would find her frozen body beside
the roadside in the morning.

But that thought, twisting into her brain, had an unexpected effect on
her.  It made her realize how childish she was being.  How childish she
had been.  It was as if some part of her just kept refusing to grow
up.

As if some part of her had died with Karen.

A tear stole out of the corner of her eye, burning her cheek.  That was
what was wrong with her, she realized.  She had only the pretense of
adulthood.  An adult wouldn't have given the bid request to Hardy.  An
adult would have realized that the problem lay between Hardy and Witt,
and that she had no business interfering.  An adult would have known
that reawakening the anger was hardly likely to heal the breach.

She heard the crunching of tires on the ice and snow behind her, and
she moved over closer to the snowbank lining the road to give the
driver more room to pass.  But the truck didn't pass.  It pulled up
right alongside her and began pacing her.

She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the ground, refusing to look and give
encouragement to some creep.  Man, wouldn't it be perfect if she were
murdered on the way to the hospital to be with Witt and Hannah?  Talk
about irony.

But that was a childish thought, too.  A thought, she decided with
savage self-perception, that resulted from a juvenile desire to avoid
the consequences of her own actions.  A desire to make everyone sorry
they were mad at her.

"Joni?"

Recognizing the voice, she jerked her head up and looked at Hardy
Wingate.  He was driving his pickup right beside her.  "Are you okay?" 
he asked.  "What are you doing walking out here?  I saw your car in the
snowbank when I was on my way home, and I went to your house to see if
you were okay.  I got worried when no one was there."

"I'm fine."

"Then why are you heading to the hospital?"

"Witt had a heart attack."

His truck kept rolling slowly next to her.  "Jesus," he said finally.
"Joni, get in the truck.  I'll drive you."

"I can walk."

"I don't know about that.  You're shivering so hard I can see it.  Come
on, get in the truck."

It struck her that she was still behaving childishly, refusing a ride
for no better reason than that she felt she needed to be punished.
Giving in, she climbed in.  Hardy turned the heat up, giving her a
blast of it.

"I'm glad I saw your car," he remarked.

"Why?"

"You'd probably have frozen to death out here.  It's down to twelve
below, Joni."

"Really*" The idea was mildly interesting.  It didn't often get that
cold here, even at night.  That explained why she was getting
hypothermia

"What happened to Witt?  You said heart attack, but..."

Joni hunched her shoulders and realized she was still shivering, that
even the inside of her parka felt cold now.  "We had a fight.  He ...
um ... he..."  A shudder ripped through her, and she had to bite her
lower lip to hold the tears back.  "He found out about the bid?  That
you gave it to me?"

"Yes."

"Christ.  I wonder who told him."

"I don't know but he, um, he ... well, he disowned me.  Then he stormed
out.  I went after him, and he was lying in the snow groaning.  Mom
said it was a heart attack."

"So you were following them to the hospital?"

"Yeah."  She turned her face away from him, afraid he would read her
shame and ugliness there.  Her childishness.  "It's ... my fault."

Hardy didn't say anything right away.  He focused on getting his truck
over the hill just before the hospital, but when he pulled into the
parking lot and up in front of the emergency-room exit, he turned
toward her.  "People get really really angry all the time, Joni.  And
they don't have heart attacks."

"But it was my fault."  "Sure, and you make the sun rise in the
morning, too."

The sarcasm of his tone was like a slap in her face.  "Hardy..."

He shook his head.  "Maybe someday you'll realize you're not the center
of the universe."  Then he flashed the most disarming grin.  "I am."

She wanted to fall into that grin.  She wanted desperately to let it
wrap her in warmth and hold at bay the reality she was facing.  But she
couldn't allow it.  Responsibility, shame and guilt stopped her. 
"Thanks for the ride, Hardy."

"I'll go back and pull your car out of the snow.  Do you have your
keys?"

She shoved her hand into her pocket and passed the keys to him.

"Okay.  I'll check in with you later."

She stood on the pavement for a half minute, watching him drive away,
and wondered why she felt that she had just somehow been blessed.

The feeling didn't last long.  It couldn't.  Not when she had to turn
and go into the waiting room.  Hannah was there, looking more worn and
worried than Joni could remember since her father died.

"How is he?"  she asked.

"They're having trouble stabilizing him."

Joni looked into her mother's eyes, trying to read more information
there and seeing only fear.  "That's not good is it?"

Joni wanted to apologize to her mother, to beg forgiveness with
everything that was in her soul, but from the look in Hannah's eyes,
she knew this was the wrong time.  Hannah didn't want to have to deal
with her confession and guilt right now.  At this moment Hannah didn't
want to think about anything at all except Witt.

Reaching out, Joni took her mother's hand.  "I'm sorry, Mom."  She had
to say at least that much, although she vowed to say no more.

Hannah squeezed her fingers but didn't reply.

Joni closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, wondering if
anything would ever be the same again.  If Witt would ever smile at her
again, or if he would continue to blame her.  It was all her fault he'd
had the heart attack anyway.  Maybe the best thing she could do was go
away.  Leave him alone.  Leave Hannah alone.  Stop messing up their
lives with the stupid stunts she pulled sometimes.

God, at her age she should have learned something.  She should have
learned that whenever she got a fixed idea like this in her head, she
was probably bound for trouble.  It wasn't the day-to-day stuff that
was her downfall, it was her big ideas.  Like when she had tried to fix
up her college roommate with the basketball player.  lisa had had a
crush on him for months, and Joni happened to have two classes with
Bill. They chatted a lot before and after class, and Joni had foolishly
thought they were friends.

Even more foolishly, she'd developed the idea that lisa and Bill would
be good for each other.  So, after sounding Bill out a little .  or so
she thought .  she had broken lisa's confidence and told Bill that lisa
had a crush on him, and that they ought to go out together.

Bill had agreed to ask lisa out.  Unfortunately, he had done so only
because he liked Joni, and when lisa found that out, she had been so
humiliated that she never spoke to Joni again.  To this day, Joni
suspected lisa still hated her.

That was the kind of mess she was always getting herself into.  In her
case, the road to hell was indeed paved with good intentions.

Well, she'd learned this time, she promised herself.  She had learned.
And if Witt survived.  The thought that he might not live struck her
with full force again, and she opened her eyes to look at her mother.
Hannah was pale, and the way her lips were moving, Joni guessed she was
silently praying.

And suddenly, as the reality of the situation fully came home to her,
Joni began praying, too.

The next two hours were the longest of Joni's life except for the night
she had sat in this same emergency room and waited for word of Karen's
and Hardy's condition.  And she remembered all too clearly how that
night had ended.  Disbelief was no longer part of her makeup.  People
she loved and cared about did die, like her dad, like Karen.  But this
time was even worse, because this time she felt responsible.

Memories came back to haunt her: the look on Hardy's fate when he'd
come out of the emergency room and walked past her and her mother
without saying a word.  She had noticed the cuts and scrapes on his
face, and known instinctively that Karen had to be so much worse.

She remembered Witt's face two hours later, when he had emerged from
the I.

C.

U and said flatly, emptily, "She's gone."  She remembered how that
felt, as if the universe had carved a huge, empty hole in her, as if
everything inside her were sinking into a black well of ice.  Her heart
had known what her mind did not yet grasp: the magnitude of her loss.

Her dad's death had been different.  She'd been eleven at the time and
remembered him coming in to kiss her good-night before he left for
work.  He always did that, even if she was sound asleep, but that night
she had roused enough to say, "I love you, Daddy."

He'd scooped her up into a bear hug, murmuring, "I love you, Honeybee."
The last words he would ever speak to her.

Morning had brought the news, too awful to comprehend.  For days she
had refused to believe it, sure that her mother was lying to her.  She
might have been only eleven, but she'd been aware that her father spent
time with other women.  She'd been able to smell it on him and read the
sadness in her mother's face.  So when she was told that he was dead,
she at first clung to the desperate hope that her parents had separated
and that her mother was lying to her.

But four days later, faced with the horrifying reality of her father's
lifeless body in a coffin, with the nightmare of watching that coffin
being lowered into the cold, dark earth, she had known the agonizing
truth.  Daddy was gone.

Forever.  That word, bandied around so carelessly before, had suddenly
taken on a dimension that stunned her mind.  Forever.  No more hugs
from Daddy--forever.  No more knock-knock jokes from Daddy.  No more
kisses or smiles or Saturday hikes in the woods.  No more games of
catch and softball.  No more smell of his shaving soap.  But worst of
all, no more comforting Daddy arms to hug her.

She had learned the meaning of forever then.  And the knowledge had
stayed with her to the night of Karen's death.

Now here she was staring it in the eye again, and some part of her knew
she wouldn't be able to handle it if Witt died.  She could handle
anything but that.  Even if she never saw him again, she would be okay
as long as she knew he was still on this earth.  That awareness would
comfort her even if he were gone from her life.

What she couldn't do was risk killing him.  He had disowned her.  She
had made him so angry that he had disowned her, then had a heart
attack. She decided that she would stick around just long enough to be
sure he was going to be all right.

Then she would leave Whisper Creek.

It wasn't as if she could avoid him in this town.  And she didn't want
to come between Witt and Hannah.  They meant too much to each other
after all these years.  They were two old friends who relied on each
other so much that it would be utterly unconscionable to separate
them.

So she would leave.  It was the cleanest, easiest solution for them
all. Hadn't her mother been hinting that she ought to try out the great
big world before she buried herself in this small mountain backwater? 
Of course.  And Hannah was right.

The arrival of Sam Canfield distracted her from her thoughts.  He
strode into the room, a look of concern on his face, and pulled up a
chair facing her and Hannah.  "I just heard about Witt.  Is he okay?"

"We don't know," Hannah said.

Sometimes Joni hated her mother's restraint and calm.  Anyone else
would be pacing the floors, crying, worrying.  Hannah sat there calmly,
the fear in her eyes the only proof that she was feeling anything at
all.

It would have been easier, Joni thought, if Hannah had gotten
hysterical.  At least she and Sam would have had something to offer.
Some way to be useful.

"Earl Sanders called me," Sam said, referring to the sheriff.  "I guess
he heard the call on the dispatch.  He'd have come himself except his
wife and daughter are pretty sick.

Hannah nodded.  "There's a nasty stomach virus going around."

How, wondered Joni, could she talk of such a thing at a time like
this?

"Well," said Sam, "I'm aiming to stay away from the sick.  Would you
ladies like some coffee?  I happen to know my way to the staff
lounge."

"Thanks," Hannah said.  "That would be real helpful."

Joni wanted to shake her head but realized it was going to be a long
night.  "Thanks, Sam.  I could use some."

He went off to get the coffee, leaving the two women to look at each
other.  Hannah reached out suddenly and patted her daughter's leg.  "No
news is good news," she said.

"I guess."  The weight in Joni's chest was growing.  "Mom, I'm going to
leave."  "All right.  I know you have to work in the morning

"No, I mean I'm going to leave town.  Just as soon as we know about
Witt."

Hannah's dark eyes fixed on her, a long, steady stare.  "What brought
this on?"

"I did a stupid thing.  Witt doesn't want to see me anymore.  And...
and I don't want to give him another heart attack."

"You didn't give him this one."  Hannah took her hand and squeezed it.
"Honey, people don't have heart attacks just because they get mad."

"I know that."  Joni drew an unsteady breath.  "I still feel
responsible. And now that he's had one ... well, it won't do him any
good to upset him."

"Joni..."  Suddenly Hannah shook her head.  "Look, I'm not really up to
discussing this at the moment.  I'm too distracted.  Just promise me
you won't leap before you look.  We'll talk about this tomorrow, all
right?  Tomorrow."

Joni realized she was being selfish again, selfish and impulsive.  Of
course this discussion could wait until her mother's mind was at rest
about Witt.  "Tomorrow.  There's no rush," she reassured Hannah.  "I
won't do anything sudden."

"Good."  Hannah gave her a wan smile.  "We ought to hear something
soon."

She would know, Joni thought, clinging to Hannah's greater experience
with medical things.  Half wishing she had followed in her mother's
footsteps and become a nurse.  Or maybe in her father's and become a
doctor.  A pharmacist was pretty useless at a time like this.

Sam returned with the coffee.  Joni sipped hers slowly, telling herself
she needed the caffeine but hating the way the coffee was making her
stomach burn.  Finally she put the drink aside and jumped up, pacing
the waiting room.  All she could think was how sick Witt must be if it
was taking this long to stabilize him.  How touch and go it must be. 
How every minute of waiting seemed to bring the horrible possibilities
even closer.

Then Dr.  Weiss came into the waiting room.  "Hannah?  We've got him
stabilized."

Hannah sagged with relief.  It was that sag that told Joni just how
tense Hannah had been.  And that was when Joni realized her own knees
were turning to water with relief.  She collapsed on a plastic chair.

"Thank you," Hannah said.

Weiss nodded and went to sit beside her.  "As far as we can tell at
this point, he had a cardiac arrhythmia."

"How bad?"

"Bad enough that it almost killed him."

"And the prognosis?"

"Pretty good if he doesn't have any more trouble tonight.  He'll be on
medication for the rest of his life, but it's fairly effective stuff.
I'd like to see him improve his diet, and before long I want to send
him to Denver for an arteriogram, to be sure we haven't missed a
blockage.  But he should recover completely."

They were allowed to go in and see Witt, but Joni hung back, afraid of
distressing him.  "I'll see him another time," she told her mother.
Lying.  She was lying.  She was never going to see Witt again.

Then she hurried out of the emergency room into the frigid, dark
mountain night.

Hardy towed Joni's car out of the snowbank.  He considered taking it to
the hospital and returning her keys, then decided against it.  He
didn't know how Hannah Matlock felt about him, but on the off chance
she shared Wilt's opinion, he didn't want to add to her upset in the
midst of her other worries.

So he towed the car back to Joni's house and parked it in her driveway.
Then, having no other choice, he went back to the hospital to wait the
night out.

It was cold, and he didn't want to keep his engine running for fear
fumes might overcome him, so he sat in the main lobby, keeping an eye
on the emergency-room entrance.

It was just after midnight when he saw Joni come hurrying out, heading
for the road.  Jumping up, he hurried outside and called her name.  At
the same instant, Sam Canfield came out of the emergency room and
called her.

"I'll take her home, Sam," Hardy said, waving to the deputy.  "You look
after Hannah."

Sam nodded and went back inside.

Joni never missed a stride.  Hardy had to run to catch up with her. 
When he did, he had to stop her by seizing her hand.

"Joni, wait up.  I'll drive you home."

It was a dark night, star shine gleaming off snow and without a moon,
and by rights when she looked up at him, her face should have been a
pale blur with dark holes for eyes.  Instead, he felt the full force of
her anguish like a gut punch.  It was like Karen had died all over
again.  "Witt?"  he said instinctively.

"He's going to be okay."

"Thank God."

She tried to tug her hand from his, but he wouldn't let her.  "I'll
take you home, Joni."

"I'm not going home.  Not ever."  The words were forceful, but full of
pain.

"No?"  He felt momentarily flummoxed.  He couldn't exactly force her to
go home, but he was damned if he was going to leave her wandering
around out here all night in the cold.  God, she would be dead in an
hour.  "Where are you going to go?"

"Anywhere."

"Right.  That's a great plan.  Are you going off half-cocked again?"

The look she gave him should have withered him.  She tugged her hand
again but he still wouldn't let go' "Think about this, Joni.  Just stop
feeling sorry for yourself and think about this."  "Feeling sorry for
myself?  What makes you think I'm feeling sorry for myself?  I nearly
killed Witt!  The best thing I can do for him is stay away."

"Maybe.  Maybe."  He sighed, feeling his earlobes turning numb.  "Look,
let's have this conversation in my truck.  At least we'll be out of the
wind before one of us gets frostbite.  We'll talk it over, and you can
make some kind of plan."

Apparently, either because of the cold or because her upset had cleared
enough that her brain was kicking into gear again, she didn't feel like
arguing anymore.  She went with him to his pickup and climbed in.  The
leather seats were like sitting on ice cubes.  He turned on the
ignition, the Chevy coughed to life, and he hoped like hell the heater
would start blasting soon.

"Let's be practical about this, Joni," he said.  "You can't hike down
the mountain tonight, and I don't think you're in any shape to drive."
That gave him another pang.  Suddenly he didn't want to take her home,
where she would have access to her car.  He didn't know if she was
feeling suicidal, but she sure wasn't being rational.

She still didn't say anything.  Hardy found himself thinking a stupid
thought: that he was once again in the unenviable position of having
the life of someone Witt loved in his hands.  He hadn't been able to
save Karen, but maybe he could save Joni.  Witt could disown her all he
wanted, but he wouldn't stop loving her.  Witt didn't stop loving
easily.  There had been enough proof of that in the last twelve
years.

"Okay," said Hardy, not knowing what else to do.  "You can come stay
with my mother and me until you get this all sorted out."

The heater had finally begun to blow air that was perceptibly warmer,
and almost as if it were thawing Joni, she gave a huge shudder and
nodded.  "Barbara won't mind?"

"Hell no.  She'll be glad of someone to talk to besides me.  You want
to stop and get some clothes?"

"I guess I better.  Where's my car?"

He had been afraid she was going to get around to that.  He was
suddenly wishing he'd left it in the snowbank.  "In your driveway."

"I'll drive myself to your place, then."

He shook his head, his heart inexplicably thudding.  "Not tonight.
You're too upset, okay?  You can get the car in the morning."

He feared she would argue, but she didn't.  She merely nodded.  And
that was so unlike Joni that a deeper fear began to gnaw at him. 
Maddening as she'd always been at times, he didn't want to see her act
like a whipped puppy.

But he didn't say anything about it.  Instead, he put the truck in gear
and headed for her house.  And he found himself a little amazed that he
was once again all tangled up with the Matlocks.

Life could be such a bitch sometimes.

 Oarbara Wingate welcomed Joni warmly, even though she had been
sleeping.  Once a strong woman, illness and the years had taken a toll
on her.  She appeared frail, almost tiny, and her hair had turned
snow-white.  Only her lively dark eyes were the same.  She came down
the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing, and urged Joni into the
kitchen for something warm to drink.

Hardy filled her in on the night's events, sparing Joni the effort.

Barbara shook her head.  "That Witt Matlock.  He always had a tendency
to go overboard."

As did Joni.  Hardy looked at her, thinking she was an awful lot like
her uncle.  Which wasn't surprising.

"Well," said Barbara as she brought out a box of instant cocoa and put
the kettle on to boil, "he'll come round.  He always does."

Hardy wasn't inclined to agree with her, having been the object of
Witt's wrath for more than a decade.  And he didn't know that he was
all that concerned about it, anyway.  But Joni was, and it was Joni he
worried about.

"He disowned me," Joni said, her voice trembling.  "He said he never
wanted to see me again."

"I'm sure he did," Barbara answered.  "What were you thinking, child?
You had to know he was going to be furious."

Joni bowed her head.  "I don't know, Mrs.  Wingate.  I don't know
anymore.  He's gotten mad at me before, but not like this."

"Hmm."  Barbara tore open three packets of cocoa mix and poured one
into each mug.  "Sounds to me like you were counting on his love for
you. Not a wise thing to do, Joni."

Hardy wanted to silence his mother, to tell her to lay off Joni, who'd
been through quite enough tonight.  But Barbara was a mother, and for
mothers silence was rarely golden.  And Hardy had never figured out a
way to get her to keep quiet about anything.

"Maybe," Joni admitted.  "Maybe I was."

Barbara nodded and paused to touch the younger woman's shoulder before
she poured boiling water into the mugs and passed them around.  The
three of them sat there for a few minutes, stirring cocoa, waiting for
it to cool enough to drink.

"You know," said Barbara, "this is almost like deja vu."

Joni looked up, and Hardy asked, "What?"

"Well, Karen used to sit right there and drink cocoa with me," Barbara
said.  She smiled at Joni.  "You two are very different in appearance,
but I can still see a resemblance."

"Karen used to do this?"  Joni prompted.

"Well, yes.  When she was in high school, sometimes she'd slip out of
the house and come over here.  You remember Hardy had that job at the
movie theater?  He was out late some nights, and I guess she was pining
for him a little.  She'd come over here, and we'd sit and talk for
hours."

Joni was amazed.  "I never knew."

"Me neither," Hardy said.

"Well, we talked about private things.  At least, things she wanted to
keep private.  She wasn't very happy with her dad.  Too strict, she
said.  Now, I didn't put much stock in that.  I think all children that
age think their parents are too strict.  But she especially didn't like
the way he talked about Hardy.  " He doesn't know Hardy," she'd tell
me.  I had to agree."  Barbara smiled fondly at her son.  "Witt never
did see Hardy clearly.  I think he was always seeing Hardy's dad, in
his mind's eye."

Joni nodded.  "I think so, too."

"Anyway, we'd sit here and talk, and she'd tell me all the things that
upset her, and then she'd go home.  She was a nice girl.  I liked her."
She nodded at Joni.  "I think I'd like you, too, if we had a chance to
talk."

"Thank you."

cade.  And he didn't know that he was all that concerned about it,
anyway.  But Joni was, and it was Joni he worried about.

"He disowned me," Joni said, her voice trembling.  "He said he never
wanted to see me again."

"I'm sure he did," Barbara answered.  "What were you thinking, child?
You had to know he was going to be furious."

Joni bowed her head.  "I don't know, Mrs.  Wingate.  I don't know
anymore.  He's gotten mad at me before, but not like this."

"Hmm."  Barbara tore open three packets of cocoa mix and poured one
into each mug.  "Sounds to me like you were counting on his love for
you. Not a wise thing to do, Joni."

Hardy wanted to silence his mother, to tell her to lay off Joni, who'd
been through quite enough tonight.  But Barbara was a mother, and for
mothers silence was rarely golden.  And Hardy had never figured out a
way to get her to keep quiet about anything.

"Maybe," Joni admitted.  "Maybe I was."

Barbara nodded and paused to touch the younger woman's shoulder before
she poured boiling water into the mugs and passed them around.  The
three of them sat there for a few minutes, stirring cocoa, waiting for
it to cool enough to drink.

"You know," said Barbara, "this is almost like deja vu."

Joni looked up, and Hardy asked, "What?"

"Well, Karen used to sit right there and drink cocoa with me," Barbara
said.  She smiled at Joni.  "You two are very different in appearance,
but I can still see a resemblance."

"Karen used to do this?"  Joni prompted.

"Well, yes.  When she was in high school, sometimes she'd slip out of
the house and come over here.  You remember Hardy had that job at the
movie theater?  He was out late some nights, and I guess she was pining
for him a little.  She'd come over here, and we'd sit and talk for
hours."

Joni was amazed.  "I never knew."

"Me neither," Hardy said.

"Well, we talked about private things.  At least, things she wanted to
keep private.  She wasn't very happy with her dad.  Too strict, she
said.  Now, I didn't put much stock in that.  I think all children that
age think their parents are too strict.  But she especially didn't like
the way he talked about Hardy.  " He doesn't know Hardy," she'd tell
me.  I had to agree."  Barbara smiled fondly at her son.  "Witt never
did see Hardy clearly.  I think he was always seeing Hardy's dad, in
his mind's eye."

Joni nodded.  "I think so, too."

"Anyway, we'd sit here and talk, and she'd tell me all the things that
upset her, and then she'd go home.  She was a nice girl.  I liked her."
She nodded at Joni.  "I think I'd like you, too, if we had a chance to
talk."

"Thank you."

But none of the hurt in Joni's gaze eased, and Hardy wished he could
think of something to say that would make her feel better.  "Witt'll
get over it," he said finally.  "Mom's right.  You're blood kin, Joni. 
He won't stay mad at you forever."

"Maybe not.  But for right now ... right now I'm going to stay away
from him.  I don't want to give him another heart attack."

Barbara clucked but finally said, "You might be right for a little
while.  He needs some recovery time.  After that ... after that I
somehow don't think he's going to be quite so angry."

But it was obvious Joni didn't believe that, and Hardy couldn't blame
her.  Witt had a track record of staying angry for a long, long time.

Barbara leaned over and covered her son's hand with hers.  "Can you go
up and check to be sure the heat registers are open in the guest room?
I can't remember, but I may have closed some of them."

Hardy went willingly, sensing that his mother wanted some private
conversation with Joni.  Maybe she could think of something to help.

But when he got to the guest room, he paused suddenly, unable to take
another step.  The anguish he had seen on Joni's face hit him again, a
one-two punch.  And he realized that not even twelve years had made him
care any less about that woman.  Not one bit less.  He was still drawn
to her as he had been back then.  Still found furtive thoughts of
drawing her close, of feeling her body pressed to his, lurking around
the corners of his mind.  He still wanted her.

And that was a damnable thing to be feeling at a time like this.  An
ugly thought gripped him, an almost atavistic pleasure that Witt had
disowned her, because now Hardy didn't have to stay away from her.  But
the thought so appalled him that he trampled it into the mud at the
back of his brain.  God, maybe he was every bit as disgusting and
terrible as Witt thought.

Feeling about as low as slime, he opened the registers to take the
chill off the guest room.  Then he took a moment to compose himself,
well aware of how perceptive his mother's eyes could be.  Well aware
that Joni had more than enough on her plate right now and didn't need
one more damn thing.

When he returned to the kitchen, he found Joni and Barbara still
sitting at the table, still sipping cocoa.  If they'd been talking
about anything, he couldn't tell.  He certainly didn't get the feeling
they'd stopped talking on his account.  So he took his seat again and
waited to see what would unfold.

"Tell you what," said Barbara a few minutes later, as if completing
some earlier thought, 'you can stay here with us for a while, Joni. 
"

"Oh, no," Joni said hastily.  "Mrs.  Wingate, I couldn't do that.  It
would be such an imposition."

"No imposition at all," she said firmly.  "I could use somebody to talk
to in the evenings besides Hardy."

Yeah, right, thought Hardy.  Like the whole ladies' group from the
church didn't keep her in a positive social whirlwind.  This house was
full of middle-aged women most evenings.  But there was something more
important than that.  "Mom, maybe it wouldn't make things better for
Joni if she stays with us.  You know how Witt feels."

"Witt doesn't have to know.  I'm not telling him, and neither are you.
And I don't think Hannah will, either."

"But I was just going to leave town," Joni protested.  "Find a job
somewhere else."

Barbara shook her head.  "Not right now you aren't.  Your mother will
probably need your help the next few weeks.  Because you know who's
going to take care of Witt, don't you?"

Hardy looked at Joni and saw a trapped expression in her eyes, as if
she were some small animal caught in a snare.

"Besides," said Barbara all too wisely, "running never got rid of a
problem.  You won't feel one bit better if you put a continent between
you and Witt.  When that idiot decides to come around, you need to be
here."

Joni shook her head, but she didn't argue any further.  A short while
later, Barbara returned to bed, leaving Joni and Hardy at the table.

"How do you feel?"  he asked her.

"Terrible.  I feel like I'm messing up everyone's life."

"You're not messing up mine," he said gently.

"Right.  You really want me under your roof."

"I invited you, didn't I?"  Then he said something calculated to annoy
her, hoping it would drive away some of the self-pity she was drowning
in.  "I'd do the same for a stray cat."

Her head jerked up, and he saw her blue eyes flare, and for an instant
she looked so much like Witt that he was amazed.  But just for an
instant, because the person she truly resembled was Hannah, and after
the flare, her composure returned.  "You're a jerk, Hardy."  It was a
phrase from their high school days, a way she had teased him over
nonsense.

And he gave the same reply he always had.  "I work at it."

A smile flickered over her tired, pinched face, then faded like autumn
color.  "There's no way to fix this," she said.  "No way.  I was so
stupid."

"Well, I was, too.  Nothing you did would have made a lick of
difference if I hadn't submitted that bid."

"Why did you?  You were so certain this would happen."

What could he say to her?  That a part of him hadn't wanted to
disappoint her?  In the scheme of things, that was probably as
important as not being able to pass up such a great opportunity, no
matter how remote.  He would never have forgiven himself for not
trying.  But it would have been even harder to forgive himself for
disappointing Joni.

He couldn't tell her that, though.  So he sighed and shrugged and said
ruefully, "I guess I'm every bit as impulsive as you are."

She nodded slowly.  "I feel guilty."

"For giving me the bid prospectus?"  He already knew that and wondered
why she needed to say it.

"Yes, but for other things, too.  I feel guilty for still being alive
when Karen's dead."

"Me too."  He'd recognized that a long time ago and figured he deserved
the self-inflicted emotional flogging.  Like Witt, he would probably
never forgive himself for going against Witt's wishes.

"I felt like this was something I needed to do for Karen," Joni
continued, her voice low and thick.  "I felt I owed it to her.  It
sounds so silly now, but..."  She shook her head.  "Twelve years is a
long time.  You'd think we'd all be past this crap by now.  But I'm
not, Hardy.  I'm not at all.  I feel like something inside me is frozen
in time.  And I guess I gave you the bid package to make time stop
standing still...."

Her voice trailed away into tears, and she pushed her mug aside,
putting her head down on the table.  He hesitated a few moments,
listening to her sobs, then, helplessly, he went to her, kneeling
beside her chair and gathering her into his arms.

She turned to him, seeking comfort, clinging to his neck while her
tears soaked the shoulder of his flannel shirt.  He let her cling,
enjoyed her clinging, and realized that her grief was reaching him in
places that had been ice-cold for a long time.  Making him ache. 
Making him want to cry, too.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed over and over.  "I'm sorry."

He didn't know exactly what she was sorry for, so he guessed at it from
the things she'd said.  Sorry that Karen's death had had such an
emotional impact on her that she somehow had been unable to grow past
it?  She wasn't the only one with that problem.  Witt certainly hadn't.
And Hardy himself .  well, in some ways he'd been frozen in the ice of
that night, too.  It was like they were all going through the motions,
a bunch of automatons who'd had something essential cut out of them.

Her tears were hot as they soaked his shirt, and he welcomed them.  At
least one of them could still feel something besides anger.  Because
Hardy was angry.  He didn't like to look at that, and he pretended it
wasn't so, because he didn't want to be like Witt.  But he was angry
through and through at the rotten blow life had dealt him and Karen.
Angry through and through that she had died so young and he'd been left
to face her father's wrath.  Angry that he couldn't get past those
fateful moments in time.

Angry that the only way he could ever have Joni was to hold her while
she wept.  Angry because he knew Witt was going to forgive her but
would never forgive him, and he would have to give her back to her
uncle.  And angry at himself for having such muddled, selfish
thoughts.

When all was said and done, Hardy Wingate hadn't liked himself at all
since the moment he had realized that he wanted Joni more than Karen.
And he had hated himself since Karen's death.  God, what a tangle.

"Sorry," Joni said again.  But her sobs were easing, and finally she
pulled back from him, hunting up a napkin to dry her tears.

"Stop being sorry," Hardy said, and was relieved that the words didn't
sound harsh.  He hadn't wanted them to be, but in his current emotional
turmoil, he couldn't be sure that anything he said was going to come
out right.  "You don't have to be sorry for crying.  You don't have to
be sorry for feeling guilty you're still alive--God knows, I'm feeling
it, too-and you don't have to be sorry for anything else."

She didn't answer him, just sat there scrubbing her cheeks with a paper
napkin until they looked red.  "It's weird," she said minutes later.

Deciding she was through crying and being held, he straightened and
pulled out a chair beside her.  just in case.  "What is?"

* "What a mess we all are.  People die, Hardy.  Even young people. I've
known others who've lost sisters and school friends.  Witt lost his
wife and brother.  You and I both lost our fathers.  But there was
something about what happened with Karen...."

Maybe in his case, thought Hardy, it had something to do with the fact
that he had a big ugly secret inside him.  One that would probably
plague him forever.  He didn't know about Witt and Joni, though.  What
would they have to be feeling so guilty about?

But the suggestion made him think about Witt a little differently.
Maybe Witt wasn't just being unreasonably angry at Hardy over something
that Hardy, had he had a choice, would have given his own life to
prevent.  Witt hadn't gotten that angry at the mugger who killed his
brother.

Then he realized that he was sitting there silently, lost in thought,
not saying a word to Joni.  "Sorry," he said, shaking himself.  "I have
a tendency to get lost inside my own head sometimes."

"It's okay.  I do sometimes, too."

"I don't know what to say," he admitted.  "Maybe it is weird how we've
all reacted.  That frozen-in-time feeling you mentioned ... yeah, I
feel it, too.  When you said it, I all of a sudden recognized the
feeling.  I've been living with it for a long time and didn't even
realize it.  It's as if something stopped that night."

"Exactly.  That's what I was hedging around when I came up with all
those other reasons for what I did.  I knew something was wrong.
Something... Jeez, Hardy, none of us have been completely right for
twelve years.  Maybe it has something to do with the way Witt's
reacted.  I don't know.  I just know ... I've been marking time.
Waiting, always waiting.  Going through the motions."

"Yeah."  He felt that way, too.  So much of his life was spent just
going through the motions.  As if more than Karen had died that
night.

"Anyway..."  Joni shook her head and wiped at an errant tear.  "I made
something happen.  I made us all ... I don't know.  But it wasn't what
I hoped would happen.  I didn't think I'd nearly kill my uncle."

"I'm not sure you can blame yourself for that heart attack, Joni.  I
don't think anybody can build up enough crap in their arteries in ten
minutes of being mad to cause a heart attack."

"Maybe not.  But the stress ... that played a part, Hardy.  So I'm
going to be leaving.  Just as soon as I can find a job somewhere
else."

He didn't know how to argue with her, though he very much wanted to.
The little time they'd spent together since she'd hatched her scheme
had made him realize that he was still very interested in her.  That he
still liked her a whole lot.

Not that that mattered.  He didn't deserve her and never would.  He was
too hollowed out by his guilt, and by the recognition that if he just
hadn't been such a chickenshit, Karen wouldn't have slipped out with
him that night.

He couldn't inflict himself on anyone else.  And Joni sure as hell
deserved a whole heart, not the gutted remains of one.  But a man could
dream, and dreaming about Joni was easy.  Even now, with her eyes all
red from crying and her nose stuffy, he still wanted her close.  Closer
still.  But he had no right to reach out, certainly not just to satisfy
himself.

He also reminded himself, in a moment of blinding wisdom, that he
didn't really know Joni anymore.  He knew his memory of her, but those
twelve years had still passed, no matter how familiar she seemed to
him.  He didn't really know the woman she had become.

All of those thoughts were hopping around in his head like a case of
fleas, distracting him from the Joni who was sitting there beside him
right that minute.  It was a bad habit of his, to grow introspective
even in the midst of conversation.  He hadn't always been that way, but
since Karen.  Everything in his life seemed to be "since Karen."  God.
They were all basket cases.

But Joni, too, seemed to have turned inward.  She sat with her forearms
on the table, the forgotten cocoa between them, twisting her fingers as
she frowned.  An array of emotions swept over her face, moving too fast
for him to identify.  She was thinking about Witt, of course, about his
heart attack.  And castigating herself for her part in it.

He couldn't really blame her for feeling that way.  The heart problem
must have been brewing for a long time, but the explosion of rage had
probably precipitated it.  He wanted to reach out and take her hand, to
give her silent comfort, but he didn't know if he would be
overreaching.

Shit.  Why was he making so much out of this?  She was a friend, albeit
one he hadn't been close to for a while, and she needed a temporary
port in a storm.  That was the only way to look at it.  Anything else
was wistful dreaming based on things long gone.

"Look," he said, "you don't have to sort it all out tonight.  You go
home in the morning and talk to your mom.  She knows Witt better than
anybody, and she can help you make up your mind about what to do."

She lifted her head and looked at him so sadly he felt his chest ache.
"Which room is mine?"

"Top of the stairs, left."

"Thanks."  She rose to leave, but in the kitchen doorway she paused and
looked back.  "I know what I have to do.  I have to leave.  I can't
stand this situation anymore."

Then she turned and was gone.  And he sat there, wondering if she might
not be right about it after all.

Hannah was home and sound asleep when Joni returned at seven in the
morning.  She must have stayed at the hospital most of the night, Jodi
thought.

Joni, who'd slipped out of Hardy's house before she had to face either
him or his mother, started a pot of coffee, then sat at the dining-room
table while it perked.  At least she didn't have to go in to work.  She
wouldn't have trusted herself to count pills or do anything else
accurately.  She was exhausted, and far too upset.

Part of her wanted to go over to the hospital and see Witt.  She wanted
to stand beside his bed and, when he opened his eyes, tell him she was
sorry.  The rest of her knew that would be both foolish and risky.  If
he was still angry with her, he wouldn't be able to handle it.  No,
going over there would be a selfish thing to do.  Purely selfish, and
she'd already been too selfish about this situation.

It was time to put Witt first.  And Hannah.  To make sure that they
were okay.  What did it matter that she had some wild, crazy feeling of
having been encased in glass for twelve years?  Frozen in time.  Heck,
she was surprised that Hardy hadn't told her she was crazy.

Anybody else would have.  And they would probably have been right.

Regardless, she was getting the hell out of this town.  Soon.  Away
from all this.  Into a world where everything hadn't stopped because
one person had died.

The coffee finished brewing, and she got up to pour herself some. 
After she filled the mug, she turned back toward the dining room and
was startled to see her mother, wearing a white terry-cloth robe,
standing there.  "Where were you last night?"  Hannah asked, dark rings
beneath her eyes.

"I stayed with a friend."

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

"I can't seem to do anything right anymore."  The words came out
bitterly.  "I'm sorry.  I figured you'd be too preoccupied with
Witt."

"Not too preoccupied to notice you weren't here when I came home.  I
went to your room to fill you in,"

"How is he?"  "Much better.  Mind if I get to the coffeepot?"

Joni wasn't accustomed to that kind of sarcasm from her mother, and it
hurt.  She stepped quickly aside to clear the way, then returned to the
table.

Hannah joined her.  The two of them sat there quietly for a while, then
Hannah offered, "They said Witt probably didn't suffer too much
permanent damage to his heart.  There's some, of course.  They think he
might have been having the attack when he came over here so angry."

"I'm sorry."  Joni couldn't bring herself to look at her mother.

"What I'm trying to say is, his extreme rage may have been part of the
heart attack.  Often, in the early stages, people get very angry."

Joni nodded but didn't feel any better.  "Still, he wouldn't have had
anything to get angry about except for me."  "He might have found
something else.  Regardless, I don't want you to take anything he said
too much to heart.  A lot of that may have been his illness, not
you."

"Maybe."  She lifted her head.  "I'm still going away, Mom.  I can't
hang around and cause him another heart attack.  I need to get out of
this town.  I need to get away from all this.  I'm never going to
escape Karen's death if I don't.  Anyway, no matter what you say, Witt
disowned me.  He said he never wanted to see me again."

Hannah compressed her lips, as if holding in some overwhelming emotion.
"You have to do what's best for you, Joni.  I've always said that,
haven't I?  But before you decide to cut Witt out of your life
permanently there's something..."  Her voice trailed off, and she drew
a deep breath.

It was so unlike Hannah to be hesitant that Joni looked up, forgetting
her preoccupation with her own feelings.  "Mom?"  Her concern grew to
fear as she saw tears well in Hannah's dark eyes.  Her mother never
cried.  Never.

"Mom?"

Hannah drew a quick breath, compressing her lips again as she sought
control.  When she spoke, her words were strained and her lips
trembled. "I had a lot of time to think last night, honey.  A lot of
time.  I thought about you as much as Witt.  I thought about what he'd
said and how it made you feel.  And I thought about some of the things
I've done that ... perhaps weren't so right."

"Mom, you've never"

Hannah interrupted her.  "You don't know everything about me, Joni.  No
one does.  And as I was sitting there last night, waiting to hear about
Witt, I realized that, well, I may have done a very bad thing to you.
And to Witt.  That maybe he wouldn't be so bitter if I'd told him the
truth.  Only now I can't, because it would upset him so much.  It might
kill him.  And you ... maybe I've cheated you out of something
irreplaceable.  Maybe the last twelve years would have been easier on
everyone if you both had just known..."

Hannah's voice trailed off again as she fought to hold back tears. 
Joni jumped up from the table and went to get the box of tissues from
the end table in the living room.

When she came back with it, Hannah thanked her and snatched one to blow
her nose.

"I'm sorry," she said, dabbing at her eyes.  "I feel like such a sham.
I'm so full of shame."

"About what?"  Joni found it absolutely impossible to believe her
mother had ever done a thing to be ashamed of.  It just didn't fit
Hannah's character at all.

Hannah expelled a long breath and took a sip of coffee, as if she
needed something to reinforce her.  "You can't tell Witt this right
now. Promise me."

"I promise.  I don't expect to be speaking to him any time in the near
future, anyway."

"You may change your mind.  The thing is ... you need to know this
before you make any decisions.  Maybe you should have known it all
along.  Joni, Witt is ... Witt is your father."

1 he room still looked the same.  The humming of the refrigerator
hadn't changed, nor had the scent of Hannah's rose potpourri, or the
smell of hot cast iron from the woodstove.  Everything was the same,
familiar.

But it had all changed.  It was never, ever going to look the same
again, Joni realized.  It was as if the surprise of Hannah's statement
had driven her mind out of her body and placed it on some high, icy
pinnacle.  She was still using her own eyes, ears, nose and mouth, but
she was removed.  She was thousands of mental miles away.

Speaking felt almost as if she were trying to manipulate a
ventriloquist's dummy.  "You're lying."  The words came out flat. 
Thick. Strange.  The voice belonged to someone else.

"No," Hannah said, her voice catching.  "It was ... it was a mistake.
Neither of us meant to..."

"You cheated on my father."  Which gave her an interesting perspective,
Joniontheicy-mountain thought with incredible clarity.  She had always
wondered why her mother had tolerated her father's cheating.

"Once," Hannah said.  "Only once."

Once was enough.  Once might have been a million times.  What did any
of it matter?  All she had was her mother's word.  the word of a woman
who had lied to her for twenty-six years.

Her thoughts were starting to get confused, starting to hurt.  The icy
mountain was no longer far enough away, and she felt herself coming
back to the dining room that would never look the same, the mother who
would never look the same and a heart that felt as if it was going
shatter.

"You lied to me," she said to Hannah.  Her tone was glacial.  "You
cheated and you lied.  And Uncle Witt cheated on his brother.  My God,
the two of you have a whole lot to be proud of, don't you?"

"Joni..."

But Joni had had enough.  Shoving her chair back from the table she ran
upstairs to her room and bolted the door.

She was Witt's daughter.  The thought hit her like a bowling ball, and
she fell facedown on her bed.  Witt was her father.

Funny how only twenty-four hours ago that thought might have made her
happy.  Funny how bad it felt now.

Then she gave in to the tears and cried until she could cry no more.

Hannah wept her way through two cups of coffee.  She didn't weep often.
In fact, in her entire adult life, she had wept three times.  The first
was when she discovered Lewis was cheating on her.  The second was when
Joni was born.  And the third was when Karen died.  She hadn't wept for
Lewis when he died.  Whatever she had felt for him was long since dead
by then, the marriage a convenient front for him and his career.  A
safe haven for Hannah, who somewhere deep inside didn't especially care
for men and didn't want to be bothered by them.

Except for Witt.  Witt had somehow always been different.  Well, so had
Lewis, until she had learned the truth about him.  But Witt had never
let her down the way other men had.  Never.  Until last night.

She had to mend that rift somehow.  She had to find a way to keep Joni
from running away until Witt was well enough that they could talk.  And
maybe there was a bit of selfishness in that, too.  Hannah wasn't blind
to her own faults.  But with Witt so ill, she needed the comfort of
Joni more than ever.

Except by choosing to tell the truth as a way to keep the family
together, she might have successfully driven Joni away for good.  She
didn't know.  And she was far too tired from the long night to know if
her thoughts were making any sense.

She had just known that she couldn't let Witt die and Joni run off . 
at least not until they knew the truth.  Witt couldn't hear it right
now, but Joni could.

Maybe, she thought, watching Witt so near death had made her acutely
aware of the passage of time and of all the things she had put off for
too long.  Like telling the truth.

She had never told Lewis the truth.  If he'd suspected, he'd never said
a word.  Too much had happened that particular New Year's Eve, and
maybe Lewis had felt too guilty to look too closely at things.  Or
maybe he had never suspected.  She'd certainly never been unfaithful to
him again.

Not that she would have thought of it as being unfaithful, not when
Lewis was busy having affairs.  Hannah had been protecting herself by
playing Caesar's wife, and she cherished no illusions of martyrdom.

But now.  Oh, God, now.  Maybe she had been wrong to spring this on top
of the pain Joni was feeling from last night.  But she had feared
allowing any time to pass, time in which Joni might harden her heart to
Witt.

And Witt .  if he weren't so sick, she would shake him until his teeth
rattled.  How dare he treat Joni that way?  What was the matter with
him? Why was he nursing an anger so old it ought to have died by now? 
Why couldn't he see reason on the subject?  Why was he willing to risk
driving Joni away--and her, too--by clinging to his hatred?

She loved Witt.  She'd always loved Witt.  And she'd always believed he
was a better man than this.  It hurt her to her core to think she might
have been mistaken in him all these years.

Oh, she had known he didn't like Hardy Wingate, and why.  But for a
long time now she'd thought his dislike of Hardy was just a deeply
ingrained habit.  Until that day at the lawyer's office when he'd been
so angry about Hardy's bid, she hadn't realized that the feeling was
still very much alive in him.  Alive and strong, strong enough to sweep
Joni up in its wrath.

God, what was she going to do?  If Witt wasn't ill, she would tell him
the truth, tell him to come to his senses before he lost his other
daughter.  Maybe he would even listen.  But she couldn't take the risk
now.  Maybe not for a long time.

Her stomach was burning from so much coffee, and she forced herself to
get a glass of milk.  She shouldn't have kept this secret for so long,
she realized.  She and Witt had been widowed only a few years apart,
and as soon as they were both free of their marriages, she should have
told him.  She should have allowed him to be a real father to Joni,
instead of just an uncle.  And she should have allowed Joni to develop
that relationship with him.

Now, in the midst of a crisis, she was using the truth as a lifeline.
That wasn't fair to Joni.  Not fair at all.

But she hadn't known what else to do.

A couple of hours later, Joni left the house without speaking to her
mother.  She considered getting into her car and driving until she felt
she had put enough distance between them.  Instead she decided to
walk.

The day was gray and the chilly air was damp, hinting at more snow, but
it wasn't terribly cold.  Striding up and down the hilly streets, she
kept waiting for her mind to stop feeling numb.  She passed by people
without saying a word, people she knew.  Some of them stopped her and
asked what was wrong.  When they did, she gave them a wan smile and
said she just wasn't feeling well.  They expressed sympathy about Witt,
then let her go on her way.

She lost track of time, lost track of where she was or how far she had
walked .  not that she could get lost in a town this size.  The day was
passing around her, and she didn't even notice.

Part of her realized that something was wrong with her, that she had
withdrawn inside herself until she was barely a pinprick in her own
mind.  It was as if she needed to go away inside herself until she
could adjust to the revelations and shocks of the last twenty-four
hours.

As if she couldn't afford to feel a thing right now for fear the
emotions would shatter her into a million pieces.

A long time later there was suddenly a broad, parka-covered chest
blocking her path.  Reluctantly she looked up from the snowy gravel
road she was walking along and saw Hardy Wingate.

"Joni, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit.  Half the town is talking about the way you're walking up
and down the streets like a zombie.  Your mother called me--me--and
asked me to catch up with you."

Joni blinked, still feeling as if she were a long way away and Hardy
was talking to her from the other end of a tunnel.  "Why?"

"Why?  Because she's worried about you.  Because she's had a dozen
calls today about you.  You think nobody's noticed?  It's a small town,
Joni.  You can't walk these streets in a daze for hours without folks
getting worried."

"I'm fine.  I'm just thinking."

"Right.  You're also freezing.  Get in my truck."

She felt something then, the first thing she'd really felt since this
morning's shock.  "Who died and made you God?"

"Nobody.  But apparently you don't have the sense to take care of
yourself.  Now get your butt in that truck before you freeze it off."

"Fntnot going home."

"I don't care.  Come to my place.  Go to a hotel.  But get yourself in
before you freeze.  Christ, don't you even realize that you're
staggering like a drunk person?  You're hypothermic."

She couldn't even summon the energy to stay angry, much as she wanted
to.  Nor could she get into the truck under her own steam.  Nothing
wanted to coordinate right, so he had to pick her up and put her in it.
She hated him for that.  She hated her mother for calling him.  She
hated the whole damn world.

The truck jolted over the rough, icy roads, then up the hill to Hardy's
house.  "You can stay with us," he said.  "Until you figure things out
or want to go home, you stay with us."

"Thanks."  But she didn't care.

"Joni?  What the hell is going on?  This can't all just be because Witt
pitched a fit.  You knew he was going to have a fit.  And surely you
don't think that was the cause of his heart attack?"

"I don't care anymore."  "Yeah?  Well, you're sure doing a great
imitation of someone who cares a whole hell of a lot about something.
People who really don't care don't try to commit slow suicide."

"I wasn't committing suicide."

"Then you're stupider than I could've thought."

He pulled into his driveway, then helped her out of the truck.  Inside,
he put her at the kitchen table.  "I'm going to make some hot soup.
Just stay there."

She watched him move around the kitchen with the ease of someone who
was used to it.  Once that might have interested her.  Now she just
felt numb.  Numbness was good.  Numbness protected her.

When he put a huge bowl of chowder in front of her, she didn't even
have the will to pick up the spoon.  It was, she found herself
thinking, a little difficult to accept that your entire life had been a
lie.

"Joni?  Eat."

Obediently, she picked up the spoon.  The chowder was tasteless, but it
was hot, and as it settled in her stomach she felt everything inside
her beginning to thaw.  Her emotions began to thaw, too, splintering
like the ice on a spring river, shifting, cracking and thundering as
they collided.

Suddenly she was crying again.  She dropped the spoon into the soup and
closed her eyes, letting the huge, silent tears roll down her cheeks.
They felt as hot as flames, searing her.  "Do you want to talk now?"

Hardy's voice made her open her eyes.  She saw him through a blur, as
if he were underwater.

"Joni?"

"It doesn't matter."  The tears fell more heavily, as if they were
coming through a dam that had broken.  No sobs wracked her; there was
just the steady flood from her eyes.  "Damn it," Hardy said.  He jumped
up from the table and began to pace the kitchen.  "Joni... God, I'm
going to kill Witt.  I'm going to kill him."

She didn't answer that.  What was the point?  It wasn't Witt, anyway. 
It was her mother.  Apparently Witt hadn't even guessed at the truth. 
But her mother had known and had kept the secret way past reason.  She
could understand Hannah not telling her while

Lewis was still alive, but what had been the excuse after that?

"It's not Witt," she said finally.  Although it was.  Snaking from
somewhere deep inside her was a burning fury that a man who had grieved
twelve years for his daughter was ready to throw her, his niece, away
like so much trash he didn't need anymore.

Her tears stopped flowing, as if there was no more moisture inside her.
She felt them drying on her face, making it feel stiff.  Hardy stopped
pacing and returned to the table.

"Talk to me, Joni.  I can't help if you don't tell me what's going
on."

"You can't help.  No one can help."

"But it's not Witt?"

"No.  Witt's just ... I don't know.  All I know is that if I don't get
away from Karen I'm going to scream!"

Hardy looked at her, searching her face.  On the surface, her remark
was patently ridiculous.  Get away from a girl who'd been dead for more
than a decade?  Yet he felt the truth in the words, however the
sentence was phrased.  Karen was probably more a part of their lives
dead than she would have been if she'd lived.  "Will you get away from
her if you leave town?"

She hesitated, then shook her head.  "I guess not.  I won't really get
away from Witt, either.  Damn Hannah!"

"What did Hannah do?"

What to say?  Telling him the truth would only make it worse.  It was
better to let it lie.  Yet she heard herself speaking, even as she
fought to keep the words inside.  "Witt is ... my father!"

Hardy reeled.  He wondered how a secret like that could have been kept
in a town this size for all these years, then realized.  Not even Witt
had known.  "Jesus."

He began to understand why Joni had been wandering the streets like a
lost waif.  If Barbara had told him something like that, he didn't know
how he would have responded.  It would be easy to laugh it off and say,
"Well, at least I know I'm not the spawn of the town drunk," but he
felt deep inside that he wouldn't feel that way at all.  He would feel
as if everything in his life was a lie.  As if he couldn't trust his
own mother.  As if he didn't really know who he was.

"I'm sorry, Joni," he said, finding the words about as inadequate as
anything could be.

"Yeah," she said, a bitter edge in her voice.  "My mother's a cheat and
a liar, my uncle's a cheat and an ass, and Karen's not just my cousin,
but my sister.  Which I guess means I'm never going to get away from
her.  Or Witt.  Or anything ... anything else."  Her voice broke, then
faded.

Hardy watched helplessly as Joni's entire face crumpled into a grimace
of anguish.  But she didn't weep again.  Apparently she had no tears
left.  "I take it Hannah told you that this morning?"

She nodded.

"Jesus H. Christ.  Why now?  Wasn't there already enough going on?"

"She doesn't want me to leave."

"God."  Frustrated, he shoved his chair back from the table and started
pacing again.  "I can't believe she used that as a weapon.  Not now."

"I don't think she meant it to be a weapon."

He looked over his shoulder at her.  "It doesn't matter, does it?  It's
still a crater in your life."

"Yeah."  She drew a shaky breath.  "Nothing feels the same.  I don't
feel the same.  I feel... I don't know how I feel."

"I'm sorry Mom isn't here," he said.  "She always has good ideas.  I'm
just... Hell, Joni, I'm just flummoxed.  I don't know what to say."

"Neither do I."  Her mouth trembled.  "Everything just blew up in my
face.  All I can think is ouch."

He nodded.  "Big ouch.  Damn."  Shaking his head, he paced some more,
trying to absorb all this.  Trying to absorb the fact that he'd invited
another one of Witt's daughters into his house.  Oh, man, wasn't that
going to make a stink.  "When's she telling Witt?"

"Not now.  He's too sick."

"It might be wise to be two counties away when she does."

"If she does."  It was odd, but having spat the horrible truth out to
another person, she could almost feel the world stabilizing under her a
bit.  Not that she was going to get over this quickly, but she didn't
feel quite so rocky as she had a few minutes ago.  But nothing,
absolutely nothing, was ever going to be the same again.

"It's amazing," she said slowly, "how fast your life can be permanently
changed.  All it takes is an eye blink."

"Like when the drank driver hit Karen and me."

"Exactly."  She didn't even mind him drawing Karen into the
conversation again.  "I just wish I had known sooner."

She picked up her spoon, sipped a little more chowder and thought she
was doing well.  She was going to be all right.  Things no longer
seemed as dire as they had that morning.

What had really changed, after all?  They were all the same people they
had been twenty-four hours ago.  All that had changed were a few
perceptions.  Little things, really.

Just little things.

But as she watched her hand start to tremble again and felt her throat
tighten until it hurt, she knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

Perceptions, were everything.  And hers had been irrevocably
shattered.

 Witt looked a lot better that afternoon.  He was off the respirator,
and his color had improved.  Hannah, with a professional eye, watched
the heart-monitor log steady lambda waves.  There was a little glitch
in them, which she didn't have the expertise to interpret, but she
imagined it must come from the bit of heart muscle that had died last
night.

He was sound asleep, so she sat by his bed, waiting for him to wake. 
In all the uproar last night, and then this morning with Joni, she had
scarcely admitted to herself just how much she feared losing Witt.  She
loved her daughter more than life, but Witt was .  Witt was the
stability in her world.  He was the shoulder she had always been able
to lean on, the ear that was always willing to listen.  He'd stood by
her and Joni after Lewis's death, stalwart and ever ready to help them.
She didn't know how she would have handled any of that, except for
Witt. She would have been alone with her guilt, grief and shame, and
what could she have done?  Lean on Joni?

Joni had no idea how much Witt had spared her just by being there to
support Hannah and to play father to Joni.

Joni, like all children, had taken her childhood for granted.  She
would never guess how much she had been sheltered and protected from,
or how fast she might have had to grow up if Hannah had had no one else
to lean on.  But Hannah did.  And she was honest enough to know that
even if she had tried not to lean, in subtle ways she still would
have.

So Witt had preserved Joni's childhood.

But Witt was like that.  Frustrating as he was with his attitude toward
Hardy Wingate, annoyed as she was for the way he had treated Joni,
Hannah knew what a strong, generous and loving man Witt Matlock was.

Witt had raised his younger brother Lewis after their parents died.  It
was Witt who had gone to work in the mine to ensure that Lewis could go
to medical school.  And even after Hannah had married Lewis and could
have supported him the rest of the way through school, Witt had
continued to send the same monthly contribution, saying Hannah
shouldn't be responsible for Lewis's education, despite the fact that
Witt had started his own young family.

The end result was that when Hannah got pregnant with Joni and had to
stop working for a while, Lewis had been able to finish school.  Hannah
and Lewis had been grateful, more grateful than they could say.  Once
they were making some decent money, they'd tried to pay Witt back, but
he refused, saying it wasn't a loan.

And Witt had continued to work at the mine.  Then Witt's wife had died,
leaving him a single parent with a young daughter.  Not too long after
that, Lewis had been killed.  It had been as natural as breathing for
Hannah and Witt to get together and buck each other up.  And neither
one of them ever mentioned that night.  The night Joni was conceived.

Maybe that had been a mistake.  Maybe they should have been more honest
with each other.  Maybe if she'd told him years ago that Joni was his
daughter he would have gotten over Karen better than he had.  Or maybe,
at the very least, he wouldn't have disowned her last night.

Hannah sighed, trying to banish the thoughts that were whirling in her
head like a bunch of angry bees, all trying to get her attention.  What
was done was done.  She couldn't change it.  Now she could only hope to
mend it.

Along about three, Witt stirred.  He moved his arm, then his eyes
sprang open, as if panic had seized him.  Hannah heard the beep of the
heart monitor speed up, and she reached out immediately to touch his
hand.

"Witt, it's okay.  You're okay."  She rose and stood beside him, making
it easier for him to see her.

"Hannah."  He whispered her name, a raspy sound.  "I'm right here,
Witt. Do you remember what happened?"

"No...."

"You had a heart attack.  But you're fine now.  You're going to be just
fine."

But she saw the fear in his gaze, and she knew it wasn't going to be
fine.  How could it?  It would be a long time before he stopped fearing
that he could drop dead at any instant.

"What day is it?"

"Sunday.  You had the heart attack last night.  It's three o'clock in
the afternoon."

He nodded and closed his eyes.  "Work.  Call Shep."

"I'll call him."

Then he turned his face to the wall and wouldn't speak another word.

And Hannah sat there for a long time, wondering just how much the
stubbornness of one man was going to cost her.

Not knowing what else to do with a woman who was brokenhearted over
problems he could do nothing to solve, Hardy coaxed Joni back into his
office cum-studio and showed her the model he was building for his next
big bid.  Much to his relief, she was actually interested in it.

In fact, it seemed to delight her.

"It's like a wonderful (tollhouse," she said.  She wasn't exactly
jumping up and down, but it was the most emotion he'd heard out of her,
other than grief, since he'd picked her up off the street a few hours
ago.  To his way of thinking, that was a major improvement.

"That's kind of the idea," he said.  "Some people just build exteriors,
but I like my models to open up so the customer can get a feel for the
interior, too.  It takes a lot more time, of course, but I think it
pays for itself."

"Did you do this for Witt, too?"

He nodded and pointed to the far corner of the room.  "That's a copy of
the model I did for him.  Go ahead and look at it."

"I never would have thought of making a hotel look like this," she said
as she touched one corner of the model with her index finger.  "Never."
"I wanted it to resemble one of those grand old hotels.  Or even a
large bed-and-breakfast.  I was thinking homey."

"I like it."

He pulled out the stool at his worktable and started gluing some
slivers of wood onto his new model, pretending to work when he was, in
fact, watching Joni with an eagle eye.

He was seriously worried about her and didn't want her to be alone for
a second.  The problem was figuring out how to keep her from being
alone without making her feel as if she were under guard.

And it terrified him, when he was honest about it, to once again have
the life of one of Witt's daughters in his hands.

He tried to tell himself he was being too melodramatic, but he didn't
believe it.  Not after finding Joni wandering the streets in a near
daze, half-frozen.  He wanted to believe she would have found her way
home eventually, but he wasn't sure of that at all.  Right now he had
the feeling she never wanted to lay eyes on Hannah or Witt again.

So maybe she would have gone to one of her girlfriends' houses.  Maybe
she would have discovered, even in her shocked state, that she still
wanted to live.

Or maybe not.  That possibility was keeping him on tenterhooks.

She seemed enthralled with the model, so he allowed himself to relax a
bit and give a little more attention to what he was working on.

"It must take you a lot of time to build these," Joni remarked, moving
on to another model.

"It keeps me busy.  I generally do the modeling in the evening and on
weekends."

"How come?"

"If I've got a job actually under way, I have to spend most days
supervising and keeping things moving.  So I try to treat the modeling
like a hobby."

She came back to his worktable and sat across from him.  "What exactly
do you do?"

"I'm an architect, and I act as my own general contractor.  Which means
I figure out designs for jobs, figure out the cost of building them,
then bid on them.  If I win the bid, I hire people to do the work and
supervise them."

"That must keep you busy."

"When I'm on a job.  I'm between them now, so I've got a little time on
my hands."

She nodded.  "That won't last, will it?"

He shrugged.  "It might.  So far I've been jolting along, doing jobs,
then sitting on my hands for a bit.  It's okay.  It's keeping me busy
enough.  And if things started to overlap a whole lot, I'd have to hire
some permanent employees to help out.  I'm not sure I want to do that
yet."

"Why not?"

He shrugged.  "Right now it's all my baby.  I'm on top of everything. 
I don't have to rely on other people to do it right because I don't
have the time to check up on them."

"I guess I can see that.  Do you think you'll ever want to expand?"
"Maybe.  I could see it if there was a lot of good work available.  If
well, if I ever had a family, it'd probably be a good thing to do."  He
stole a quick glance at her, wondering how she would respond to that.
And, as always when any such possibility passed his lips or entered his
mind, he found himself thinking of Karen.  As if Karen's death meant
the end of all that for him, too.  As if somehow he would be cheating
on her if he married.

How the hell had his mind gotten into such a mess?

But apparently Joni's was in the same mess with him, because the first
thing she said was, "You don't date much, do you?  Not since ...
Karen."

He really wished he could laugh off the question or tell her she was
crazy.  Unfortunately, he knew he would be wasting his breath and
wouldn't be fooling either of them.  She'd hit the nail on the head
when she had said it was as if they were frozen in time.

"I feel guilty," he finally admitted, thinking how stupid that
sounded.

But she nodded as if she understood.  "We're sick, Hardy.  You know
that?  Most people would have gotten past this by now.  Most people
figure out how to get on with their lives."

He wanted to defend himself.  Or maybe he wanted to defend her more. 
He knew the mire he was living in, but he couldn't see any blessed
reason why Joni should be living in it, too.  She hadn't been driving
the car. She hadn't been planning to dump Karen.  He had plenty to feel
guilty about, but Joni didn't have one single thing to apologize for.

"I'm getting on with life," he finally said.  "Most of it."

She surprised him with a faint smile.  "Yeah.  Most of it.  It's the
rest of it I've started worrying about.  I got to thinking that maybe
Witt was the reason I couldn't move on.  The way he nursed his anger
against you, the way I was supposed to avoid you, it kept it alive.
Kept it fresh."

He gave a sideways bob of his head, not quite a nod, more of a "maybe."
"And now that you've broken the taboo?"

Her smile died completely.  "It didn't make anything good happen, did
it?  Which, I guess, just goes to prove that Witt is always right.  If
Karen had listened to him, she wouldn't be dead.  If I had just
listened to him, he wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed."

He didn't like the sound of that, but he didn't exactly know how to
contradict her in a way that would convince her.  This was going to
require some thinking.  Heavy-duty thinking.

"I wish my mom hadn't told me that Witt is my dad."

He nodded, giving her room to speak.

"I mean, it's not just that I'm not who I always thought I was.  I'm
not sure that even makes a difference.  Part of me thinks it doesn't
make any difference at all to me.  It won't change my genetic makeup,
or my personality, or the color of my hair."

"Right."  He said it gently, waiting to hear the rest.

"But it changes me emotionally, Hardy.  And I don't like the way it
changes me.  I don't like the way it makes me feel about my mother.
God!  All I can think is that she was a cheater, too."

"Too?"

"My dad cheated on her.  A lot.  I figured that out by the time I was
around eleven.  I could smell it on him sometimes when he came home.
Another woman's perfume.  Another woman's body.  I kept waiting for my
mother to say something, but she never did.  And by the time I was
eleven, I'd figured out that she knew about it, too.  But she never
said a word."

Hardy felt his chest squeeze.  "That's awful."

"It was ... confusing.  Instinctively I knew what he was doing was
wrong.  I didn't need anybody to tell me.  And I'd get so mad
sometimes, but I couldn't say anything.  Somehow I knew I'd just get
into trouble if I did.  So I kept my mouth shut.  And for a long time,
I hated my dad."

Hardy wanted to reach out to her, but the model was between them. 
Maybe a good thing.  Getting close to Joni was dangerous to what little
peace of mind he'd managed to find over the years.

"Then I got indifferent.  Developed the attitude that it wasn't my
problem.  But I never had a whole lot of respect for my dad.  Now ...
now I don't have any respect for my mother, either.  Maybe she didn't
cheat all the time like he did.  Maybe Witt was a onetime thing.  But
he was her husband's brother.  And Witt ... my God, he's so
self-righteous sometimes, but he was still capable of cheating with his
brother's wife."

"It does sound sordid," Hardy agreed, trying to keep his tone neutral.
At the moment, he felt the best thing he could do for Joni was let her
rant.  And maybe, at some point, convince her to see a therapist.
Because she had been seriously wounded, wounds so deep he wasn't sure
she could get past them without professional help.

She jumped up from the table and started pacing the room, weaving among
tables and desks, not even sparing a glance for the wide windows with
their view of the snow-covered backyard.

That view was one that often brought him peace.  But not today.  Today
it made an icy backdrop to a friend's crisis.

"Maybe," he said carefully, "it was one of those accidents."

"Accidents?"  Her laugh was harsh, bitter.  "You don't get in bed with
someone by accident."

"Well, okay, it was a poor choice of words.  One of those moments of
passion.  One of those moments when neither one of them was up to
snuff.  Up to saying no, for whatever reason.  A little too much to
drink, whatever.  Maybe it happened and they've both regretted it ever
since."

"So?"

"I'm just saying that maybe your mom didn't consciously cheat on your
dad.  Maybe she never meant to.  Or..."  He hesitated, then plunged on.
"Or maybe she just did it in a moment of rage to get even."

Joni shook her head, disgust written all over her face.  "Saying no
isn't that difficult, Hardy.  I've said no plenty of times."

"Yeah?  Maybe you just haven't met the right guy under the right
circumstances."

You know, he found himself thinking as his words cast the room into
utter silence, at his age he ought to have better control of his tongue
than that.  Now how the hell could he apologize for his remark in a way
that would undo it?

But before he could think of anything, Joni was glaring at him.  "Just
need the right man?  Jeez, Hardy, you sound like one of those jerks in
a bar!  It's not about raging hormones, it's about love and caring."

He knew better, but he supposed that, given her history, she was going
to be inclined to feel that way.  "Sure," he said, trying to smooth it
over.  But she was not so easy to placate.

"You men are all like my dad.  You want something, you take it, and
never mind who it hurts."

"Now wait"

"It was probably all Witt's fault," she said, charging forward without
regard to his interruption.  "All his fault. He probably seduced my
mother."

"Whoa.  Are you saying Hannah was a helpless pawn?  Because I'll tell
you, Joni, I really don't think she'd like that description.  What's
more, she's not the type to be a helpless pawn.  You're just going to
have to get used to the idea that your mother and your uncle, for
whatever reason, had a passionate affair, albeit probably a brief one.
They're human.

And like all the rest of the damn human race, they make mistakes.  "

"Yeah?  Then how come you weren't allowed to make a mistake?  How come
I wasn't?  Where the hell does Witt get off being so damn
judgmental?"

"He's hurting."

She made a disgusted sound.  "Yeah.  That's a great excuse.  He's
hurting, so he spends twelve years lashing out at other people."

"Only at me, Joni.  Only at me."

She waved her arm almost wildly.  "What right does he have to do that?
What right?"

Hardy looked down at his hands, still holding carefully shaped pieces
of wood hardly bigger than toothpicks.  He should never, ever, have
allowed Joni into his life again, he thought.  Never.  His chest was so
tight he could hardly breathe, and she was bound and determined to keep
raking at the past until all the wounds were open again.  Witt
evidently couldn't handle bleeding all over again, and Hardy wasn't
sure he could, either.

"Look, Joni," he said, trying to keep his voice level.  "I've spent
years trying to get past that night.  I may not have done a perfect job
of it, but I spend every day of my life trying to look forward and not
back.  And I really don't want to rake this all up again."

"Sure."  She put her hand on her hip and looked at him with
disappointment and disgust.  "We'll all go back to living in our glass
cages, crippled by feelings we can't deal with."

"I've dealt with it.  I've been dealing with it for twelve goddamn
years!"  He didn't mean to shout the words, but they came out that way.
And she shouted right back.

"Right.  Dealing with it.  And you can't even date!  God almighty,
Hardy, we're all of us messes and we won't even admit it."

"You...?"

"Me.  Yeah, me.  I've been feeling guilty every day since Karen died.
Guilty I'm still alive.  Guilty I can still have fun.  Guilty that I
wanted her boyfriend, and I find myself wondering if those jealous
thoughts had something... something..."

She broke off, turning her back to him and hunching her shoulders.  Her
words struck him like bricks, awakening all the guilt he'd been
carrying, leaving him feeling almost sick.

"Joni ... Joni, being jealous doesn't kill people.  Not unless you pick
up a weapon and do it yourself."  She had wanted him, too.  He'd
guessed it.  And he'd been about to ditch Karen.  Oh, God, he hated
himself.

He couldn't say any more.  Couldn't bring himself to talk about this
with her another minute.  All the things he'd thought he'd buried were
clawing their way out of the graveyard of his soul and shrieking at
him.

It was far from over, he realized as lead settled in his heart.  Far
from over.  Joni was bound and determined to rock the precarious
balance they'd all managed to find.  She was determined to claw her way
out of the past, no matter what the cost.

And he didn't know if he was for her or against her.  He didn't know if
he could survive it.

Getting to his feet, he walked out of his office, grateful to see that
his mother had come back from her lunch date.  "Joni's in my office,"
he said abruptly.  "Keep an eye on her.  She's terribly upset."

Barbara's face creased with concern.  "Where are you going?"

"Out.  Anywhere."

"Hardy..."  But Barbara stopped herself and, with the wisdom of a
mother, let him go.

But there was something she could do.  Squaring her shoulders, she
marched into the office to deal with one problem she could attack.  It
was time for tough love.

Joni was sitting slumped at the table, such a picture of dejection that
Barbara unwillingly felt a twinge of sympathy.  Then she thought of the
look on her son's face as he'd stormed past her, and she hardened her
heart.

"Why are you doing this to Hardy?"  she demanded.

"I'm not doing anything to him," Joni said, looking up with red-rimmed
eyes.  "He's the one who dragged me back here."

"Only to help you.  Well, why don't you climb out of that pit of
self-pity you seem so determined to sink into, and look around you at
what you're doing to other people."

"What I'm doing?"

"What you're doing.  You're hurting my son.  He's spent twelve years
paying for an accident he couldn't prevent.  Paying for a crime that
was committed by someone else.  Hardy's spent twelve years beating
himself up, twelve years being haunted by one single night that wasn't
his fault.  Where the hell do you get off rubbing his nose in it all
over again?  Why in God's name can't you just leave him in peace?"

Joni's face was as white as the snow outside the window.  Her blue eyes
were dark, so dark they were like windows on a grave.  "Peace?"  she
repeated thickly.  "What peace?  None of us have had any peace since
that night."

"You're not helping."

"Maybe not."  Joni's head sank again, as if it were being weighed down.
"But if we don't ever face it, Mrs.  Wingate, we're never going to get
past it."

"And you're the self-appointed catalyst for all this healing you think
everyone needs, huh?"

Joni shrugged but didn't answer.

Barbara, who had seen the pain written clear on Hardy's face, wanted to
stay angry with Joni.  Wanted to tell the young woman to get out of her
house and never come back.

But as she stood there glaring at Joni's bowed head, her anger began to
soften and her kinder side to come to the fore.

As difficult as it had been on Hardy, he'd at least been able to get
away from memories of Karen occasionally.  To forget it for a few days
or even weeks at a time as he became involved in a project.  Or took a
trip.  But Joni.  Joni dealt with it every day because she saw Witt
every day.  Even if he didn't say anything about it, how could Joni see
Witt without remembering Karen?  God knew, Hardy couldn't.

A sigh escaped her, and she sagged into a chair at the table.  Hardy
must have been sitting in it when he decided to depart in a hurry,
because it hadn't been pushed back under the table, but sat askew.  It
was a silent testament to his agitation, because Hardy always put
things back in their proper places.  Even chairs.

"I'm exhausted," Barbara said after a while.  "I'm not coming back from
that pneumonia as fast as I'd like."

"I'm sorry," Joni said quietly.  "You were very ill.  And I shouldn't
be here."

"No, you stay.  I don't mind you being here."

Joni lifted her head.  "How can you say that?"

"After getting so angry, you mean?"  Barbara shrugged.  "Getting angry
isn't usually a permanent state of affairs.  Not for me, anyway.  I
said what I needed to, and now I'll put it behind me."

"I wish I could be like you."

Barbara smiled faintly.  "I think you have a bit of your uncle in
you."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because much to Barbara's
horror, tears began to roll down Joni's face.

"He's going to be all right, you know," she said reassuringly.  "It was
just a little heart attack.  He might not like giving up his bacon and
eggs at the cafe three mornings a week, but he'll get used to it."

"It's not that," Joni said, tears still flowing, her voice thick with
them.  "It's not that.  It's ... it's that I just found out ... Witt is
my father."

Barbara was shocked.  It wasn't that such things were unknown to her. 
It was that it seemed so unlike Hannah Matlock.  And Hardy.  Her first,
numb thought was, why had that made Hardy so angry?

"That ... must have been quite a shock for you, Joni."

Joni nodded.

And difficult in so many other ways, Barbara realized.  Karen was
Joni's sister.  Witt was her father.  Her mother had kept a terrible
secret from her for years.  So many, many things must be running
through Joni's mind and heart right now.

Barbara felt a wave of forgiveness fill her.  Never having been in the
position, she couldn't fully comprehend what Joni must be thinking. 
But she could comprehend how confused and hurt she must be feeling.

"Let's go make some tea," Barbara suggested.  It was her panacea for
everything.  A cup of tea, a couple of shortbread cookies .  the warm
coziness of it made nearly anything look a little better.

Joni followed her mutely, breaking her silence only once to offer to
help.  Barbara handed her the box of cookies and asked her to put a few
on a plate.

Water boiled fast at this altitude and never quite reached the
uncomfortable temperatures of lower places.  The tea steeped slowly
because of that, but when it was ready it was exactly drinking
temperature.  Barbara heated a little milk in the microwave, but she
was the only one who used it.

She poured the tea into the pretty Blue Willowpatterned cups that
matched the teapot--an heirloom from her grandmother, one of the few
her late husband hadn't managed to destroy--then sat near Joni,
waiting.

She couldn't have said what she was waiting for, only that she knew
somehow that Joni would have to start it.

But for a long time Joni sipped her tea in silence.  She didn't even
reach for a cookie.  Barbara thought of all the reassuring, comforting
things she could say but realized they wouldn't really help at all.

But at last, into their second cup of tea, Joni sighed and spoke.  "Am
I overreacting?"

"Overreacting?"  Barbara repeated the word with surprise.  "I hardly
think so.  This has to be a terrible shock for you.  It has to make you
wonder what else you've always believed about yourself might be
untrue."

"Exactly.  Exactly."  She repeated the word, drawing it out almost
wearily.  "I mean, part of me says it was a long time ago and doesn't
make any real difference.  Witt has been like a father to me ever since
my da--ever since Lewis died."  She stole a glance at Barbara.  "I'm
sorry.  After the way Witt has treated Hardy, you probably don't want
to hear about it."

"I'm sitting here, aren't I?  I can separate the Witt you know from the
idiot who's been unkind to my son."

"Then you're better than I am.  Because I can't.  If my dad knew--I
wonder if he knew?--then Witt hurt him.  He certainly hurt Hardy.  And
he hurt me when he disowned me."

"Well, yes."  Barbara had never been one to deny the obvious.  "You
know, before Karen's death, I believed Witt Matlock was a good and kind
man."

"And now?"

Barbara shook her head.  "I don't know.  Maybe he's ... crazy with
grief.  Crazy with ... guilt?"  She said the word tentatively, as if
trying out the concept.

"Grief?  After twelve years?  I don't know, Mrs.  Wingate."

"Barbara, please.  I agree, twelve years seems like a long time.  But
I've never lost my only child.  Or what I believed was my only child.
That might be very different."

"Maybe.  I don't know.  I still miss Karen.  Sometimes I ache just to
hear her laugh.  Sometimes I close my eyes and remember the way we used
to stay up half the night talking.  But to stay so angry, to let it
consume you so much..."

"But is he really letting it consume him?  Hon, I know he's been angry
at Hardy ever since.  But he never liked Hardy to begin with.  And I
can't say that I'd have felt any different in his shoes."

"Why not?"  "Because if I had a daughter who wanted to hang out with
the slightly wild son of an abysmal alcoholic, I'd have my doubts.
Especially when she was so young."

"That still doesn't excuse the way he's treated Hardy all these
years."

Barbara's gaze was wise and very steady as she looked at Joni.  "Is
that what precipitated all this?"

Joni started to nod, then moved her head in an indecisive shake.  "I'm
not really sure what got me going.  Except that it was like something
inside me started screaming, 'enough of this."  And it started when
Witt decided to look for bids to build a hotel.  All I could think was
that Hardy deserved that job.  That and the fact that I was sick of not
being able to talk to Hardy for fear of upsetting Witt.  I'm not sure
exactly. I mean.  when I did it I thought I knew why.  But it's like I
told Hardy earlier.  " She trailed off.

Finally Barbara prompted her.  "Go on."  "I don't know.  Every time I
say it, I feel so stupid.

But it's like Witt's anger has kept us all emotionally frozen in time.
We can't move on because he won't move on.  Stupid.  Anyway, it doesn't
matter anymore.  He disowned me.  I hurt him so much that he had a
heart attack.  And now .  now I don't even care if I ever speak to my
mother again.  "

"Joni..."

"No, I'm serious.  She kept this secret for all my life, then she dumps
it on me the day after Witt has a heart attack.  Why?  So I can feel
really awful?  As if I didn't already?"

"Maybe she's trying to hang on to you.  To give you a reason to stick
around even though Witt's angry."

"Well, that isn't going to do it."  Joni's chin set even as her eyes
moistened again.  "I'm feeling used, Mrs.  Matlock.  I'm feeling like
Witt matters more than I ever will.  To anyone.  Including my mother.
Everyone's been tiptoeing around him for years.  Years!  When you were
so sick in the hospital, I talked to Hardy for a few minutes in the
cafeteria.  He could barely hold still.  Why?  Because Witt wouldn't
approve. When I went home and mentioned to my mother that I'd talked to
him because I was concerned about you, the first thing she told me was
to remember how Witt felt about Hardy.  What's wrong with this?"

"Plenty."  Barbara wasn't going to lie, even to soothe the younger
woman's upset.  But it seemed to her that Joni was barely scraping the
core of what was bothering her so much.  Witt, after all, couldn't be
so angry every second of the day that it was making Joni's life hell. 
Over these past years, his anger had seemed to become something
quieter, anyway, as long as he and Hardy avoided each other.

No, there had to be something more there.  And Barbara wondered what it
was.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Hardy said to

Joni three days later.  She hadn't left his house except to go to work.
All the rest of the time, except when Barbara made her come down to
dinner, Joni hid in the guest room.  It wasn't healthy, and sitting
around brooding wasn't going to help her solve any of her problems.
Besides, he was getting cabin fever just thinking about how cooped up
she was, despite the fact that he'd been going about his daily affairs
as usual.

She was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing her oatmeal bowl before
putting it in the dishwasher.  "Where?"  she asked.  Snow was falling
outside, and the day was dark and leaden, the clouds so thick that it
felt like dusk rather than morning.  "We're getting a blizzard."

"So what's new?"  he asked impatiently.  "It's winter.  We get two
hundred inches of snow every year.  If I let that stop me, I'd never
get out the front door."

"True."

But her answer was listless, almost lifeless.  And he was more worried
about her than he wanted to admit, even to himself.  "Let's just get
out.  But first come help me clear the driveway."

She shrugged.  "Okay."  Indifferent.

He had a snow blower so most of the work was relatively easy, but there
were a few places that needed the shovel.  Joni took care of those for
him while he wielded his monster machine.

Then, because he was already out and the physical exertion was feeling
good, he cleared the driveways of a couple of his neighbors who didn't
have snow blowers When they finished, Joni at least had some color in
her cheeks, even if it did come from the cold.

Inside again, they made hot drinks.

"I figure," he said, "we could go shopping in Vail."

"Expensive."

"Well, we don't have to buy anything.  Or we could go into Denver."

"Maybe Barbara would like to come along."

But Hardy didn't want her along.  He wanted to get Joni out of here and
away from things for a while.  "She's not up to a major expedition
yet," he replied.  It was true; she wasn't.  It was also a good
excuse.

"Okay."

"Or would you rather go to the Springs?  It's probably a lot wanner."

"I don't care.  You're driving."

He wished she would summon at least a little interest in the project.
But hell, that was the whole problem.  Joni didn't seem to be
interested in anything at all anymore--other than her problems.  Last
night he'd tried to get her to join him and Barbara in a game of
dominoes, or cards, but she'd merely shaken her head, finished the
dinner dishes and disappeared upstairs.  She was way too withdrawn, and
something inside him demanded he find a way to get her out of this
pit.

It was with no plan at all that they finally climbed into his sport
utility vehicle, and he supposed that was okay, because the snow was
flying thickly now, and the day getting even darker.

"Feels like it should be around four o'clock," he remarked.

"Mmm."

He had to suppress an urge to shake her, just to get something out of
her besides indifference.  Instead of heading toward Vail or Denver,
though, he decided to head south into the dryer, warmer part of the
state.  The snow might let up, and an opportunity to do something
interesting might turn up.

"You still don't downhill ski, do you?"  he asked.

"No."

He'd been on the downhill-skiing team in high school.  He and Karen had
enjoyed a lot of trips to a nearby slope where the lift tickets didn't
cost an arm and a leg, mainly because there were no resort facilities
around.  Witt's hotel could change all that, he found himself thinking.
A good place for people to stay near the slopes could be the first
chink to turn this town into something besides a mining company town.

Regardless, it had been a bad question to ask her, because it led
directly back to Karen, and through Karen to Witt.

"I prefer cross-country," she said as if making an effort.

A little spark of hope ignited in his breast.  "Yeah?  I like that,
too. In fact, the older I get the less addicted I feel to rushing
downhill at sixty miles an hour."

She gave him a fleeting smile.

He returned his attention to driving.  A narrow, twisty road, parts of
it once a stagecoach road, wound its way through the canyon, demanding
all his attention as they made hairpin turns on slick pavement that
perched on a ledge above a shallow river.  "Can you imagine what it
must have been like to get to Whisper Creek in the old days?"

"Yeah."  She sighed, then made another effort.  "It's hard enough
now."

"Yeah, but back then..."  He shook his head.  "I guess a lot of people
did it, though.  Have you ever walked the old coach road?  Those ruts
are so deep, even after all these years.  And you can see places that
must have been really dangerous, where rocks stick up at the edge of
the track, or where the angle is really steep.  Walk a little of that
and you can imagine how your bones would have jolted running over it.
Or how many broken wheels they must have had."

The road was getting even slicker, and he gave up on conversation as he
devoted all his attention to driving.  This was stupid, he thought
finally.  Stupid.  Yes, they had blizzards all the time, and snowfall
sometimes seemed almost constant, but in this kind of weather he
shouldn't have gotten the insane idea to take a trip.  He should have
just taken her out somewhere in town, and to hell with the gossip.

"Witt's home."

The sound of her voice startled him, and his hand jerked a little on
the wheel.  He felt the tires lose traction for an instant, then grip
again.  No, he should never have suggested this insanity.  "Out so
soon?" he managed to ask.

"Hannah took him home last night."

He nodded, wondering what he should say, if anything.  "I'm glad he's
okay.  How'd you hear about it?"  Maybe .  maybe she was talking to her
mother again.  He hoped so.

But she dashed his hope.  "I work in a hospital, remember?  Everyone I
know mentioned it."

He felt stupid.  Then he felt irritated with himself.  It was none of
his business whether she ever spoke to her mother again or not.  But in
his way of viewing the world, he felt very strongly that family was
important, and that you owed your mother a great deal for raising you.
He couldn't imagine any situation that would cause him to cut his ties
with Barbara.

But maybe that wasn't what Joni was doing.  For all that she talked
about leaving town and never seeing any of them again, maybe all she
really needed was some time to adjust to all the shocks.

But she wasn't talking much anymore about anything, and that gave him
serious cause for concern.  At least talking about things meant you
were still connected to the world.  And sometimes saying things out
loud made you see how crazy you were being.  He certainly had enough
experience with that.

" So..."  He hesitated, then decided to take the bull by the horns. 
"Are you going to visit him?"

"No!  What, are you kidding?  He disowned me."

"I'm sure he didn't mean it to be permanent."

"I'm sure I don't care.  You don't do that to someone you love."

He agreed with her.  But Witt had always been a hardass, at least about
some things.  Totally unreasonable.

"Well," he said presently, "I'm kind of reluctant to comment on Witt.
He's always been something of a mystery to me.  I mean, there I was in
high school.  Yeah, my dad was a drunk.  But my mom wasn't.  She was a
hardworking woman.  And I was getting decent grades, participating in
sports, keeping my nose pretty much clean--and he hated me.  I know I
got a little wild at times.  But even in retrospect, all these years
later, I don't think I got that wild.  It was mostly the kind of
hijinks you expect from kids that age."

"I thought you were a pretty good guy," Joni said.  "And you sure took
good care of Karen."

Did her voice waver a little on that?  He wasn't sure, and, at that
moment, he didn't want to know.  He had some things roiling around
inside him, especially after she said that she thought he took good
care of Karen.  "I don't know about that.  Taking her out behind her
dad's back could be regarded as reckless.  And sneaky.  I'm none too
proud of that.  Or of the fact that if I hadn't done it, she'd probably
still be alive."  Or of the fact that he'd been getting ready to break
things off with her.  Christ, he wished he didn't have to remember that
along with everything else.

"I know."

He wished she had disagreed with him, even though it wouldn't have
convinced him otherwise.  He knew his responsibility in this mess; but
it would have been nice if someone, anyone, had disagreed with him.

"I mean," she said a little while later, "I know you feel responsible.
But you didn't make that guy get drunk.  And Karen being out with you
Hardy, if it was her time, it was her time.  She could have been in the
car with Witt."

He glanced toward her.  "You really believe that?"

Her eyes met his briefly.  "I'm trying to," she finally said.

Trying to.  Yeah.  Maybe he needed to get his butt into therapy.  Soon.
Figure out just exactly what he was responsible for and how to deal
with it.  Because he sure as hell wasn't dealing with it real well.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "I really don't think it's your fault that
Karen died.  I really don't.  It's just that ... well..."  She trailed
off, then muttered a sharp word under her breath.  "Forget it.  I guess
we're all guilty.  You for seeing her over Witt's protests, me for
being jealous of her, Witt for being overprotective, because if he
hadn't been, you'd have been able to see Karen at her house, and you
wouldn't have had to be in the car that night at all.  Did Witt ever
think of that?  Did he?"

"Joni..."

She waved a hand, silencing him.  "If anyone's responsible for
anything, maybe it's Witt.  He drove her to date you secretly.  And
ever since, he's been blaming you for something you couldn't
prevent-and blaming me for being alive!"

Her last words came out as a near shout, filling the car, then leaving
in their wake a silence so profound that Hardy could hear his own
heartbeat in his ears.  Blaming her for being alive?  Had Witt been
doing that?

Christ!  If he could have gotten to Witt Matlock in that moment, he
probably would have come close to killing him.  How could that son of a
bitch have spent the last twelve years making Joni feel that way?  How
could he have been so cruel?

"Joni..."

"It doesn't matter.  But I just figured out something."

"What?"  "Another reason why my mother told me Witt is my dad.  All
these years, I've been feeling that he wished I'd died instead.  I
guess she sensed that.  Maybe she even guessed it was true."

"So what difference does telling you make?"

"So I'd know that if I'd died, Witt would have lost a daughter
anyway."

"Jesus."  He breathed the word and had to prevent himself from closing
his eyes against the strength of the pain he was suddenly feeling for
Joni.  He didn't dare give in to it, though.  The snow was getting
worse, and getting deep on the road.

He spoke.  "When we get to Wetrock, I'm going to pull in someplace for
a meal.  Then we can decide if we want to try to get home tonight."

"I need to.  I have to work tomorrow."

"It'll probably clear up.  But I'll tell you something, Joni.  I'm not
killing another one of Witt's daughters by doing something stupid."

The words appeared to hit her forcefully.  From the corner of his eye
he saw her stiffen a bit, then, after a bit, relax again.  "Fair
enough," she said finally.  "Fair enough.  But keep in mind, I'm not
really his daughter.  He disowned me."

Like that was going to make any big difference to him.  She was still
Witt's daughter.  And all he wanted to do was get her safely home so he
didn't have to go through any part of that nightmare ever again.

He concentrated on his driving after that, letting the miles pass in
silence.  Only the tall reflectors along the shoulder were telling him
where the road was now.  His hope that they would escape the storm by
heading south had apparently been misguided.  It seemed to be getting
worse.

"I should have checked the weather report," he muttered as snow
suddenly whirled before him, completely blinding him for a moment.

"I told you we were having a blizzard."

"You did.  But I wasn't expecting one this big."

"It's hitting three states."

"Great.  No end in sight."

"Not unless you want to drive to southern New Mexico."

He realized she wasn't criticizing him.  In fact, it almost sounded as
if she was teasing him.  Hardly daring to believe it, he glanced at her
and saw that she was smiling.  A faint smile, but a real one
nonetheless.

"And all I wanted," he remarked, "was a cup of coffee and maybe some
lunch away from all the prying eyes, flapping ears and wagging tongues
in Whisper Creek."

A brief laugh escaped her.  "It feels more like the Donner
expedition."

He dared another glance her way.  "What made you feel better?"

"Realizing what's been wrong all these years.  Realizing Witt resented
me, even though he didn't say so.  It wasn't me, Hardy.  It was
Witt."

What a hell of a condemnation.

"Man, that guy's got his head screwed on all wrong."  It was all he
could say, because he couldn't imagine resenting someone because they
hadn't died in a car wreck.  Christ almighty!

They reached Wetrock at last, and he pulled in to the first passable
restaurant they could find.  The parking lot was nearly empty, because
sensible people-unlike him--had listened to the weather forecast. 
There was a waitress, though, and a lot of empty tables, so they could
have privacy while they watched the snow blow outside.

The waitress came immediately with cups and a pot of coffee.  "You
folks are lucky," she said.  "We're only open because we're family
owned and operated.  Everybody else is closing."

Hardy looked at her with a sinking sensation in the Vt of his stomach.
"It's that bad?"  Very little stopped traffic in these mountains for
long.  People were used to this kind of weather.

"Gonna be," she said as she filled their cups.  "Take your time
ordering.  No rush.  And if you need it, there's a motel a little ways
up that still has some vacancies."

"Maybe I should call and reserve a couple of rooms," Hardy said,
looking uneasily at Joni.  She shrugged, then nodded.

"I'll call 'em," the waitress said.  "Fred'll do it for me.  Two
rooms?"

"Please."

"I'll let you know what he says."  She handed them some plastic menus,
then disappeared into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Joni," Hardy said.

"Don't be.  I watched the weather, but I had no idea it was going to be
this bad.  I figured it'd be the usual."

Which was nice of her to say.  "Did I ever tell you about the time I
got caught in Deer Lodge, Montana?  Well, actually, I got caught in
Missoula, too."

She shook her head.  "What happened?"

"I was coming back from a trip to Boise.  Late May.  Anyway, it started
to snow heavily as I was coming down out of the mountains, so I decided
to spend the night in Missoula.  By morning it looked pretty good, so I
set out again.  Big mistake.  By the time I got to Deer Lodge, I
figured I was lucky to still be alive, so I pulled in to this little
motel.  Talk about rustic."  He smiled reminiscently.  "Got so bad I
had to share the room with two truckers who couldn't get any farther. 
We wound up cooking one hell of a dinner together with stuff we got
from the grocery across the way."

"Sounds like it turned out to be fun."

"It did, actually.  I heard some pretty tall stories, especially after
those guys started drinking the beer."

She smiled at that, making him feel a bit better.

They ordered, burgers and fries, since nothing else on the menu looked
very tempting.  The waitress was bored and spent more time chatting
with them than Hardy would have liked, since it effectively prevented
him from conversing privately with Joni.  Although they would have
plenty of time later, he reminded himself.  They were going to be
staying at the motel down the road.  The waitress, who finally got
around to telling them her name was Sally, had managed to get them two
rooms.

Half an hour later they headed down an empty road to the motel.  The
cars parked in lots and along the street were drifting over with
snow.

"I feel like such a jerk," Hardy said.

"You're not.  If I'd known it was going to be like this, I'd have said
so.  It'll let up soon."

Maybe, maybe not.  He wasn't betting on anything until he had a chance
to watch the weather report.

The motel turned out to be nice enough, though.  Not exactly a Holiday
Inn or a Courtyard by Marriott, but clean enough and new enough that he
didn't feel like the walls would be sticky.  Their rooms adjoined, with
a door between them, which was either good or bad, depending on how you
looked at it.  Good because neither of them would have to go out in
this weather just to pass a few words, bad because

Well, it was a temptation.  He might as well do himself the courtesy of
admitting it.  Joni Matlock tempted him.  Something about her drew him
the way a flower drew a bee.  He could almost imagine himself buzzing
around her, dipping in for quick, sweet tastes.

But that could never be, so he wasn't doing himself any favors by
thinking about it.  He would just have to watch it and remember that he
was supposed to be wearing the white hat this time.  No more corrupting
Witt's daughters.

Hell, that set him back on his heels.  Still.  Even after three days to
think about it.  Witt's daughter.  What the hell was he doing hanging
out with another of Witt's daughters?

Joni disappeared into her room, so he disappeared into his and figured
it had better stay that way.  Except he thought of something.

He knocked on the adjoining door.  After a minute she unlocked her side
and opened it.

"I need to go out and see if I can get us some food for tonight and
tomorrow morning," he told her.  "There was a Safeway around the
corner, I think.  I'll be back in a bit."

She nodded.  "Okay.  Thanks."

The door closed again, the lock turned.

Good, he told himself.  But the truth was, he really didn't feel it was
good at all.

He took the car.  The supermarket was a block and a half away, and he
gave thanks for four-wheel drive by the time he got there.  The snow
was getting very deep, and if the plows were working, they sure weren't
bothering with the side streets.

The store was still open, though there was almost no one inside except
a bored cashier and an unhappy looking manager.  Hardy grabbed a cart
and started along the aisles, grabbing canned foods that could be eaten
without cooking, a selection that he hoped was broad enough for Joni to
find something she liked.  Peanut butter, jelly, a loaf of bread, paper
plates, napkins, plastic utensils, a can opener, some chips and
pretzels.

He paused, looking down at his stock, and realized he'd bought a lot
more than two people would need for one night.  But he wanted variety.
He didn't want them to be stuck with peanut butter or cold baked beans.
Whatever they didn't eat, he could take home.

Milk and soda, which he could keep cold in a little snow in the ice
bucket, or in the sink.  Well, heck, why not get one of those small
foam ice chests to keep it in?  If he did that, he could get cold
cuts,

too.  He realized he was distracting himself, trying not to think about
Joni, about Witt, about the mess everything seemed to be turning into
all over again.  About how he was hiding out with Witt's daughter,
which felt like a reprise of twelve years ago.  Damn, he wished Joni
hadn't told him that.

Rounding a corner, he came upon some T-shirts.  Touristy stuff,
ballyhooing Colorado, the Rockies and skiing.  Still, neither of them
had a change of clothes, so he grabbed a couple of the biggest ones he
could find.  Socks, too, he realized.  They would both be glad of some
fresh socks.  Hell, he'd be glad of some fresh Jockey shorts, but there
weren't any here.

He was stalling again.  Forcing himself to face that fact, he headed
for the checkout.  Then he remembered reading material.  Heading back,
he picked up a couple of magazines, a thriller and a romance novel.  It
was appalling to realize that he had no idea if Joni liked to read, or,
if so, what she enjoyed.

It seemed crazy to buy a bag of ice in the middle of a snowstorm, but
he needed it for the cooler.  Ten minutes later he was parked in front
of his room again.

He was surprised, when he entered with the plastic bags hooked over his
fingers, to find the adjoining door open and Joni standing there.

"I was beginning to worry," she said.

He held up the bags.  "I went overboard."

"You planning to feed an army?"  She looked wary.

"Nope.  Just wanted to give us some choices."

Next he brought in the ice chest and stuffed it with soda cans and
milk.  "No hot drinks, I'm afraid."  "I already took care of that.  I
called the office and Fred offered us a hot plate and drip coffeemaker
he keeps around."

"Hell.  I didn't buy any coffee or tea."

She leaned back into the room, grabbed something from the dresser, and
held up a box and a can, going, "Ta-da!"

He laughed.  "Fred?"

"Yup.  He's a real sweetie.  Apparently we rate because we're friends
of Sally's."

"I need to meet more waitresses."

"It might smooth the road a bit."

He finished unpacking the groceries, setting things on the top of the
dresser against the wall.

"A T-shirt," he said, holding up the two he'd bought.  "I figured they
could double as nightwear.  Take your pick."

"How thoughtful!"

She wanted the teal one, and he was happy to settle for the navy blue
one.  She seemed equally pleased by the thick, warm socks he offered
her.  "Sorry, no undies."

"I can just wash mine in the sink and hang them over the heater to
dry."

The thought of her tiny panties spread out on the heater made his mouth
grow dry.  It occurred to him that even though the adjoining door was
open, he would be wise not to cross the threshold.

The fact was, he thought as he passed her the magazines and books, he'd
been trying not to think about Joni Matlock for an awful lot of years.
And all of that not thinking seemed to be bubbling up inside him
suddenly, reminding him of what he'd wanted for so long but could never
have.

And that was indeed the simple truth of it: he could never have her.
Witt would blow a fuse, would make her life even more miserable, would
make Hannah's life miserable, maybe would even make Barbara's life
miserable.  So no matter what the opportunity, he had to keep a
reasonable distance from Joni.  And that meant not having any sexy,
yearning thoughts about her.

It also meant not getting himself into stupid fixes like this one.
Christ, what had he been thinking this morning, taking off in the car
with her?  Did he have some kind of self-destructive urge?  Did he want
things to get worse instead of better?

"You'd better call your mother," he said to Joni.  The suggestion came
more from his need to have a few minutes away from her than because he
was really worried about Hannah.  If Hannah cared for Joni, she should
have called some time over the last three days.  But she hadn't.  And
he found it hard to believe that Hannah didn't know where her daughter
was staying.

On the other hand, maybe Hannah knew but figured Joni needed time by
herself.  Maybe she was just giving her daughter some space.  Could be.
It still unsettled him.

"No, I'm not going to call her," Joni said.  "Why would she even be
worried?"

"Oh, I don't know.  But she might."

"Forget it.  I'm not talking to her right now."

At least she wasn't saying she wasn't going to talk to her mother ever
again.  "Okay.  I need to call Barbara."

Joni disappeared into her room, carrying her clothing and the reading
material.  She closed the adjoining door behind her, giving him
privacy. He found himself wondering why he suddenly felt so cut off. 
And how long that door would stay closed.

But for the moment, at least, he was glad it was closed.  It gave him
some mental space.  It made a visible barrier, which he needed.  And it
would also allow him to talk privately to Barbara.

She answered on the third ring.  "Where have you gone?"  she asked,
first thing.  "Do you know how bad this storm is going to be?  They're
calling it the storm of the century."

Great.  Absolutely great.  More of his karma, he supposed.  "Joni and I
are down in Wetrock.  I thought I'd get her out for some lunch, a
change of scene, only we got stranded."

"How lovely."  Barbara's voice implied that he was insane.  "I know, I
know.  I should have paid closer attention to the weather.  But it's
too late now."  "Maybe you never should have invited her to stay with
us.  You know, Witt is a powerful man in this town.  He's a supervisor
at the mine, and an awful lot of people look up to him.  Now this.  You
know what he's going to think!"

"He's not going to think anything, because he's not going to know.
Nobody knows we're here together.  And besides, he's disowned her."

"Right.  And pigs fly.  He got angry.  He's not going to stay angry,
not with his own niece."

"You sure about that?  He's managed to stay angry with me for twelve
years.  The man doesn't seem to have a forgiving bone in his body."

Barbara sniffed and fell silent.  "I'm sorry," she said after a moment.
"I'm glad you invited Joni to stay with us.  She needs someone right
now.  As for Witt ... well, his whole problem is that his mother died
when he was sixteen.  He never got over having to grow up too soon, and
he could have used a little more parenting.  An extra spanking or two.
Well..."  She paused.  "All right.  I suppose you want me to call
Hannah?"

"It crossed my mind."

"All right.  But I'm not going to tell her Joni's with you.  She can
dot the i's and cross the t's however she wants."

"That's fine by me, Mom."

"As for you," she said sternly, "have the good sense not to do
something you might regret."

"Trust me, I've learned that lesson."

Maybe.  Maybe, if he said it often enough, it would actually penetrate
his lame brain.  Maybe he could hypnotize himself into believing it. 
But all he could think right now was that he was on the verge of making
the worst mistake of his life.

 Joni turned on the TV and was glad to see they had cable. 
Immediately she hunted for the Weather Channel, and what she saw didn't
make her feel any better.  The predictions were far worse than they had
been that morning.  A major storm was stalled over five states, dumping
record amounts of snow, and it wasn't expected to budge for at least
another twenty four hours.  That meant they might be stuck in this
motel yet another night.

The idea made her uneasy for a lot of reasons.  The first and foremost
was that she really didn't want to be cooped up with nothing to do but
think for two days.  It hadn't been so bad at Hardy's house, because
she had her job to distract her, and if it had gotten really bad, she
could have gone out for a walk.  But after three days of basically
running on automatic and thinking the same thoughts over again, she
didn't know if she could stand two whole days of her own company.

Then there was Hardy.  He could certainly distract her.  But she was
afraid of the ways he could do that.  Afraid of the barely acknowledged
longings in her own heart and body.  Well aware that giving in to them
might be the biggest mistake of her life.

He wouldn't want her, of course.  Being with her must be like rubbing
salt in a wound.  She was rather surprised that he could stand it at
all.

Sighing, she went to pull the curtains back and look out at the snow.
It was really blowing hard, looking like a dense, white whirlwind. 
Even if it stopped overnight, there was a chance the plows wouldn't be
able to clear all the roads until late tomorrow.

She ought to use the time to take a nap.  Since her mother had dropped
the bomb, she hadn't slept well at all, tossing and turning for much of
the night, and having nightmares when she did sleep.  Too much stress,
too much anxiety, too many shocks.

She turned to look at the double bed, thinking how good it would feel
to just stretch out.  Maybe, with the TV on, she could keep herself
distracted until sleep managed to catch up with her.

She propped herself up against some pillows and stared at the TV,
flipping through channels, hoping to find something that would hold her
interest just enough to keep her from thinking, but not so much that
she couldn't fall asleep.

Of course she was out of luck.  It was the middle of the day.  The
movies were all old and too familiar to appeal to her, the soaps had
never really engaged her, and the other programming didn't catch her
eye. Finally she returned to the Weather Channel, telling herself that
she might as well get ten-minute updates on the storm.

Which reminded her that she needed to call her boss and warn him that
she probably wouldn't be in tomorrow.  He was understanding, and three
minutes later she was staring at the tube and trying not to think.

But she thought anyway.  Much to her own dismay, she remembered a
fantasy that she'd had in high school.  She and Hardy got stranded in a
snowstorm.  The way in which Karen was removed from the picture varied.
Sometimes they'd been going to pick her up at the airport.  Sometimes
they'd just gone on an errand together, while Karen stayed at home to
do something.

And then they got caught in a blizzard.  The car went off the road.
Nearby was an old cabin, where they went for shelter and found enough
wood to build a fire in the fireplace, and some canned goods that
looked safe to eat.  And while they were stranded, Hardy always
discovered that he was crazy about Joni and wanted to be with her
instead of Karen.

Those fantasies had seemed harmless back then, simply because she knew
she would never act on them.  Drawn as she was to Hardy, Karen was her
best friend and cousin.  She would never, ever, have done anything to
hurt Karen.

But since Karen's death, those fantasies had come back to haunt her in
the most awful way, making her feel like a terrible person.  Making her
wonder if her wishing Karen out of the way in all those secret
fantasies hadn't had something to do with what happened.

That was magical thinking, and she knew it.  But she couldn't escape
the guilt.

Then there was Witt.  She sometimes wondered if she imagined that look
in his eye, that look that seemed to say, "Why are you here and not
Karen?"  He'd never said anything like that, but she'd felt it.  Felt
it so strongly it hurt.

And now he'd disowned her.  God.  The man who had grieved unstoppably
for twelve years for his daughter had tossed her away as if she
mattered no more than a used paper napkin.

That hurt.  And she didn't want to think about it.  Not at all.

There was a knock on the adjoining door.  For an instant she considered
pretending to be asleep, then decided that was childish.  What could it
hurt to talk with Hardy for a while?  He'd never expressed any interest
in her at all, other than as a friend.

Rising, she went to unlock the door and open it.

"Sorry to bother you," he said, "but I'm bored.  Nothing on TV.  So I
thought if you wouldn't mind sharing one of the magazines or
books...?"

She felt herself color.  "I'm sorry!  I forgot all about them."  Forgot
that she had taken them with her into her room.  "Come on in.  They're
on the table."

"I wish I'd gotten a deck of cards," he said as he followed her in.
"But I didn't run across any, and it never occurred to me to look."

"That's okay."

He went to the table and picked up an entertainment magazine.  But he
didn't walk out immediately.  Instead, he stood there holding it,
looking at her.  "The weather's going to be bad for a while."

"I saw."  Talking about the weather.  After all they'd been through
together, one way or the other.  It seemed .  strained.

"Yeah."  He stood there, looking uncertain in a way that seemed to
touch her past all the feelings that had been swamping her for days. 
"You know..."

"Yes?"

But he hesitated a few moments longer.  "Why don't we just make some
coffee or tea and kibbitz our way through one of the movies that are on
or a soap opera."

She had to admit that TV didn't sound so boring when she thought about
watching it with him.  "Sure."  And she smiled, the first really easy
smile she had given in days.

He seemed to catch his breath, then nodded.  "Let's go."

She wondered what had made him catch his breath that way, but his face
offered no clue and for some reason she was afraid to ask.  Maybe he'd
just had a twinge of some kind.  After all, he must have gotten very
tense while they were driving through the storm.

They decided on tea, then fluffed the pillows on his bed so they could
sit up with a bag of chips between them.  It was, Joni thought, almost
like a pajama party.

Except no pajama party with Hardy Wingate could ever be innocent.  Not
in her mind, which seemed bound and determined to play nasty little
tricks on her, by making her notice how long his legs looked encased in
those worn denim jeans.  How soft the denim looked.

She dragged her gaze away and tried to focus on the soap--she didn't
even know which one of the daytime programs they had tuned in to--where
one of the characters was having a major crisis over whether his wife
was really having an affair with a guy she used to be in love with but
had ditched because he was a ne'er-do-well.  Or at least that was the
impression she was getting.

Then the scene switched to the wife--or she assumed it was the wife,
anyway--who was indeed meeting secretly with her former lover, but not
to have sex, or so she said.  It was just to help him with some
personal angst he was having with another exgirlfriend.

Joni looked at Hardy.  "Why does this remind me of my own life?"

He laughed, and his eyes sparkled.  "Maybe because it really does
resemble real life.  We all go through periods that would make good
fodder for these shows."

"We do?"  Joni didn't know if she wanted to believe that.  She supposed
it was true.  "Well, I guess my problems are trivial by comparison."

"Comparison to what?  This show?  That's not a good comparison to make,
Joni.  Your problems are real, and they hurt.  If you want to pace the
room, rubbing your arms and dumping all over me, be my guest.  You're
entitled."

But she didn't want to do that.  "I've been doing enough of that," she
said.  "I'm sick of myself."

He nodded.  "Been there.  It's an awful feeling, isn't it?  The
problems won't go away, but you can't stop thinking about them until
all you can do is feel disgusted with yourself."

"You've done that, too?"

"I sure as hell have.  There've been times when

I've wanted to run to the far ends of the earth.  Trouble is, all your
problems just go with you.  "

She shook her head.  "I don't know about that.  I'll just stay away
from Hannah and Witt.  If I don't have to be around them, I don't have
to think of how... duplicitous they are.  I mean ... I still can't get
over it.  If they'd been total strangers, I could understand it
better."

"Yeah."  He sighed and slouched down lower on the pillows.  Apparently
he wasn't even going to pretend to watch the show anymore.  "You know,
I can't imagine how it happened.  You know I'm not real fond of Witt. 
I sometimes think he's one of the biggest jackasses in creation.  But
only about how he's treated me.  Otherwise, I've always figured him for
a real straight arrow."

"Me too.  He goes to church twice a week and teaches Sunday school
every spring."

"That doesn't mean he isn't human."

"True."  She sighed and looked down at her hands, which were twisting
in her lap.

"It just kind of boggles my mind," Hardy continued.  "Witt worked hard
to put Lewis through med school.  I mean, he practically gave up his
own life from the time he turned sixteen.  A guy who'd do that wouldn't
be really keen on committing adultery with that same brother's wife."

"You wouldn't think so."  Joni's tone was almost bitter.

"No, I wouldn't.  And Witt's never been one to hang around married
women, either.  At least, not in my memory.  Mainly he hangs around
your mom, since his wife and Lewis died."

"Yeah.  Probably hoping for another sip of honey."

She must have shocked Hardy a bit, because both his eyebrows lifted.
But he didn't say anything about it, just went on with what he'd been
discussing.

"So anyway," he continued, "I can't see Witt doing something like that
carelessly.  Casually.  I can't see your mom doing it, either.  She's
had guys drooling after her since she moved up here, and she's
indifferent.  Doesn't even go out.  So she's not given to fooling
around, either."

"But all this is since Lewis died," Joni pointed out.  "Neither of us
knew them before I was born."

"But I've heard enough about Witt.  He gets a lot of respect in Whisper
Creek.  A lot.  He's one of those guys everybody is sure walks on
water.  Well, everybody except me.  So..."

"Yeah.  So?  Neither one of them has casual affairs.  But they still
created me."

Hardy nodded.  "Exactly.  And I would sure love to know what
precipitated it.  I think the circumstances must have been
extraordinary in some way."

Joni hadn't thought of it that way.  She'd been so focused on how
sordid it was, how icky it made her feel somehow to learn that her
uncle was her father.  "The whole idea makes me want to take a bath."

"Really?  But ... what would you think if the two of them wanted to get
married now?"

"I wouldn't have a problem with it.  Frankly, I've been wondering for
years why they didn't.  Maybe this is why.  Maybe they feel too guilty.
Or maybe Mom doesn't want to tell him the truth about me after keeping
it secret for so long.  I don't know.  Either way, it doesn't make me
feel any better.  It was different back then.  They were cheating on
somebody they were supposed to love."

He nodded.  "Yeah.  They were.  They were also younger."

"And they've also managed to keep their hands off each other for
twenty-six years now.  So what was the problem back then?"

"Maybe you should ask."

Joni shook her head immediately.  "No way.  I don't want to know.  I
don't want to see either one of them ever again."

If Hardy didn't believe her, he at least had the sense to keep the
feeling to himself.  Joni scrunched down on her pillows and pretended
to stare at the TV screen.  Ask her mother?  Hell would have to freeze
over first.  She didn't want to know the sordid details.  She didn't
want to know anything about it at all.

Because the whole damn thing just hurt too much.  It hurt to be Witt's
daughter.

"Hardy?"

"Hmm?"

"What did Karen think of Witt?"

He hesitated, and reluctantly she looked at him.

"Well," he said finally, "you were closer to Karen than anyone.  What
did she say about him to you?"

"Very little.  Probably because he was my uncle.  What did she say to
you?"

"Well ... she said he clung to her too much after her mother died.  She
said she felt like he was suffocating her sometimes.  I think that's
part of the reason she ran around with me instead of listening to
him."

Joni thought back over the years, trying to remember.  "I think he did
suffocate her a little.  But probably not as badly as she thought. He'd
lost his wife and brother.  I think he was terrified he'd lose her,
too."

"Maybe so.  I was too young to think of it in those terms back then."
He scooted farther down on his pillows.  The TV show was forgotten.  "I
thought he was being overbearing and unreasonable.  I'm not sure
anymore if I wouldn't be the same in his shoes."

She looked at him curiously.  "Are you always so generous?"

He shrugged.  "I try to be fair."

"Fair?  He hasn't been fair to you."

"Doesn't mean 7 can't be."

Which, thought Joni, was actually a profound statement, one she'd been
losing sight of lately.  One she needed to keep in mind.  "You've grown
up to be a very nice man, Hardy."

Much to her amazement, he reddened.  The sight tickled some deep place
inside her, making her smile.  And teaching her that he wasn't used to
personal compliments, which struck her as a bit sad.

Then he seemed to get interested in the TV again, so she turned her
attention in that direction, pretending to watch.  Giving him space to
get over his embarrassment.

A few moments later, hardly aware of what was happening, she sank into
deep slumber for the first time in days.

Hardy dozed off, too.  It wasn't that he was short on sleep, but it was
the kind of day where a nap seemed inevitable, and there really wasn't
anything to hold his attention.  Soap operas slid into talk shows, and
he slipped into sleep.

When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was the howl of the wind
outside.  It sounded cold.  Then he realized there was a weight on him.
Turning his head, he found Joni curled up against him, her head tucked
comfortably on his shoulder.  Even in the dim light, he could see the
dreams racing behind her eyelids, and he hoped they were happy.

Oprah was talking to a middle-aged woman with a strong southern accent
about her childhood in Mississippi.  Another Oprah book, he thought. 
At the moment, he wasn't interested.

He was more interested in trying to figure out how to disengage himself
from Joni without waking her.  She needed the sleep desperately, and he
needed the bathroom desperately.  He also needed to move before his arm
became paralyzed.

Then, of course, there was the fact that Joni was sleeping against him,
which was awakening other kinds of needs, needs he couldn't afford to
satisfy.

He was old enough to control those urges, but that didn't keep him from
feeling a deep ache that tried to convince him otherwise.

It was, he thought, a bittersweet agony to lie beside a woman he had
wanted for years and know that he could never touch her.  Witt's
daughter.  Man, if there hadn't been enough shit between them before,
that was the crowning piece.  There'd been no way to get close to her
before, but now it felt as if the cage bars had just turned into a wall
of solid steel.  As if even glancing her way was apt to get him into
trouble.

Part of him figured that was damn unfair.  The rest of him knew that
life wasn't fair, and there was no point in whining.  Joni Matlock
might as well live on another planet.

Deciding there were limits to the torture he had to endure, he eased
out from beneath Joni's head and was relieved when all she did was sigh
and turn onto her back.  Dreams still chased behind her eyelids.

Rising, taking care not to bounce the bed much, he went to peek out the
window.  The early winter night was settling In, but in the motel's
outdoor lighting, the whiteout was visible.  The motel office, catty
corner to their room, was invisible beyond the swirling snow, and all
he could see of his car, parked right out front, was a hazy view of the
grill.

Visibility zero.  A silent chuckle rose in him as he realized those
words could also describe his life.

"Why'd you come back to Whisper Creek?"

The sleepy question, in a voice so sexy it felt as if he had been
physically stroked, came from behind him.  He turned and saw that
Joni's eyes were open.  She still looked sleepy, and amazingly hug
gable

"Sorry," he said.  "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't.  Are you going to answer my question?"

He shrugged.  "I don't know.  It's home."

She shook her head and pushed herself higher on the pillows.  "I'm
serious, Hardy.  The way Witt has treated you ... why didn't you take a
job with some architectural firm in Denver or Chicago?  Why'd you come
back?  You could have made more money, probably built more of your
designs...."  "Is that what you think I should be doing?  Making more
money?"

The question seemed to startle her.  "No.  God, no!  It's just that I
wondered why.  You had a way out."

"So did you."

"True."  She sighed and closed her eyes.  "I came back because..."  She
hesitated.  "You know, I don't really know why.  I told myself it was
because of Mom."

"Yeah, me too.  I didn't want Barbara to be all alone, and I didn't
want to uproot her.  At least, that's what I told myself."

"Yeah.  Exactly."  She opened her eyes again, and pushed her hair back
from her face.  "It's all about Karen, you know.  It's all about this
feeling of unfinished business.  At least for me.  But I guess Witt
finished it, didn't he?"

She bounded up from the bed then.  "I'm going to wash up.  Then I guess
we ought to make some kind of dinner."

Before he could say another word, she'd disappeared into her room.  He
turned back to the window, this time using the cord to pull the
curtains wide open.  Staring out into the teeth of the blizzard, he
thought about what she'd said.

Yes, it was unfinished business that had brought him back.  But not
Karen.  Not Witt.  His mother.

And Joni.

Hannah felt a draft snake around her ankles and wished she could put
more wood on the fire.  But she knew Witt, knew how he hated to be hot,
and right now he wasn't feeling too spunky.

In fact, she thought, standing in the doorway of his living room, he
was downright depressed.  Since she'd brought him home from the
hospital the other day, he hadn't done much except sit and brood.  And
when he wasn't sitting, he was moving gingerly, as if he feared every
step he took might bring on another heart attack.

Right now he was sitting in his easy chair, looking out the window at
the storm.

"Looks pretty bad, doesn't it?"  she said, trying to keep her tone
normal.  She had always hated fake sickroom cheer, and as a nurse had
refused to let herself slip into the pattern.

He moved one shoulder, a halfhearted shrug, but didn't even turn his
head to look at her.

"They say it's the worst storm in at least fifty years."

He didn't answer that, either, and she felt a chill in her heart.  Witt
could always find something to say in response to a remark like that.
Could always remember a worse storm or a worse time.  Sometimes that
habit irritated her, but the lack of it frightened her.  "Nothing's
moving in the mountains," she continued as if she was sure he must be
interested.  "It's supposed to keep on through tomorrow."

No response again.  Part of her wanted to shake him.  Hannah was a calm
woman, accustomed to facing things with a steady eye and without a
whole lot of emotional hoopla.  But right now she was so frightened for
Witt, and so angry with him, that she had the worst urge to just shout
at him until he finally said something, anything other than an
indifferent grunt.

Fat chance.  God.  She raised her gaze over his head and looked out
into the storm.  Joni.  Concern for her daughter filled her,
overwhelming her fear for Witt.  Where was she?  What was she doing? 
Was she safe?  Would she ever forgive her mother?

And Witt .  Witt.  Hannah found herself wondering if she would ever be
able to forgive him for disowning Joni that way.  Witt could be a hard
man, but that was unforgivable.  Or damn near it, anyway.

All these things were roiling around in her heart, and it felt terrible
that she couldn't talk them over with Witt.  For twelve years now
they'd been as close as any two people could be, sharing everything. 
Talking over everything.  They'd been family in the best sense of the
word.

Now, she supposed, they were family in the worst sense.  With a huge
rift and no ready way to fix it, at least not as long as Witt was ill
and refusing to talk.

But years of love weren't that easy to relinquish.  Her heart filled
with sorrow and concern over Witt and Joni, she went to stand at his
side.  She put her hand on his shoulder, offering silent comfort and
commiseration, and wished with all her heart that Joni would call.

But of course Joni wouldn't.  She knew her daughter's temperament all
too well, and Joni could be every bit as hardheaded as Witt.

Lewis hadn't been that way.  Lewis had had other faults.  Serious ones.
But he'd never been hardheaded.  Lewis's inclination to philander had,
in the long run, been a lot harder to deal with than Witt's
stubbornness, and it was good to remind herself of that fact.

The phone rang, and she went to answer it.  To her surprise, it was
Barbara Wingate.

"I figured you might be there," Barbara said.  "I've been trying to
reach you all afternoon at home."

Fear grabbed Hannah's heart.  "Joni?"

"Joni's fine.  But that's why I called.  She and Hardy got stranded
down in Wetrock by the storm.  They're holed up in a motel.  Hardy
wanted me to let you know."

"Thank you."  Relief flowed through her, a warm, spring like breeze. 
The fact that Hardy had asked Barbara to call, though, was as plain as
a nasty-gram.

Barbara spoke hesitantly.  "Joni told me what happened."

Hannah closed her eyes against a flood of humiliation.  "Yes?"

"I just want you to know ... I'll do what I can to get her to talk to
you."

"That's very generous of you."  Very generous from a woman whose son
had been the recipient of unending anger from Joni's uncle.  No, her
father.

"Not generous," Barbara said warmly.  "I'm a mother, too.  Anyway,
Joni's staying with us for the meantime, so you don't have to worry.
I'll look after her.  I just hope Witt doesn't find out."

Me too, thought Hannah as she hung up after thanking Barbara.  Me
too.

And she resented the hell out of that.

Witt hadn't moved a muscle.  If he was interested in who had called, he
didn't express it.  Until the storm had started to get really bad,
they'd had a stream of well-wishers stopping by, and even then Witt
hadn't said much, had barely managed a polite smile.

Hanna wondered how long this was going to go on.  And what she might do
to ease his depression.  It was a normal enough feeling after a heart
attack, that and fear, but rarely had she seen as profound a depression
as Witt seemed to be going through.

Maybe she should call his doctor.

Not that that would do any good today.  As bad as it was, she didn't
want to attempt to get to the pharmacy.  She would probably wreck the
car or break her neck just trying to get down the hill.

And the drugstore was probably closed, anyway.  Everything was closed.
Besides, she reminded herself, reaching into the depths of her memory
for the nurse she had once been, antidepressants took weeks to work.
Nothing she could get today would help Witt right now.

It was nearing suppertime, so she went to make him a bowl of soup and a
sandwich.  He wasn't going to like it very much.  No mayonnaise on the
turkey, only a little bit of mustard.  A can of low-fat minestrone,
when he preferred chowder.

Then, of course, there was the challenge of getting him to eat it.  He
didn't want to eat anymore, either.

For an instant, just an instant, Hannah felt a surge of frustration
that nearly blinded her.  Then she tamped it down, because it wasn't
going to do her a lick of good, not her nor anyone else.

Since Witt seemed glued to his recliner, she opened a wooden TV table
in front of him and laid out his soup and sandwich, along with a spoon
and napkin.  Then she went back to the kitchen to get him a glass of
water.  Later she would make a pot of tea; it was one of the few things
he seemed willing to touch.

When she returned to the living room, he still hadn't moved a muscle.
The food sat untouched, and he continued to stare out the bay window at
the swirling snow.

"Witt.  You have to eat."

Finally a response.  "I'm not hungry."  "Too bad.  Unless you want to
be back in the hospital by nightfall, you have to eat."

"What's the point?"

She was so relieved to have him talking again that she considered
finding some conciliatory answer.  Then she decided to speak her mind.
"Oh, I don't know.  How about that I've had enough of sitting in the
hospital worrying about you?  How about that you'll never get better if
you don't start taking care of yourself?"

"I'm not going to get better."

"Not at this rate."  She went to stand in front of the window, putting
herself right in his line of sight.  "Look.  You had a relatively minor
heart attack.  You suffered some injury to the heart muscle, but not
enough to get worried about.  You can live another twenty or thirty
years, so maybe you'd better decide if you want to spend them all in
that chair.  Or if you want your life back."

Once again he didn't answer.  But he did sit up and look at his lunch.
"What the hell's that?"  he asked, pointing at the soup.

"Minestrone."  "You know I only like New England clam chowder."

"Too much fat."

He made a disgusted sound and settled back in his chair.  "I'm not
hungry."

"Eat the damn sandwich, Witt."

She walked out of the living room, her head high, her shoulders square,
daring him to argue with her.  A couple of minutes later she peered
around the corner and saw he was eating the sandwich.

Thank God.

One hurdle down.  For the moment.  Of course, that could change in an
instant.  Returning to the kitchen, she put water on to boil for tea.
Maybe she needed to get a part-time nurse to help out with this.
Because she wasn't as young as she used to be.  Because she was too
emotionally close to Witt to brush off his depression and irritability
easily.  Because after only three days she was beginning to feel worn
to a nub.  Not so much physically as emotionally.

But she didn't want to do that.  She ought to be able to care for him.
It wasn't as if he were running her in circles, or demanding constant
critical care.  He was just depressed and cranky.  That shouldn't be
too much to deal with.

And maybe she wouldn't have felt it was, except for her problems with
Joni.  Awful as it sounded, she felt Witt was a big impediment to her
working them out.  If he hadn't disowned her, maybe Joni would find it
easier to accept the truth.

Even though the truth was awful.  Hannah knew that and had been
carrying a heavy, dark burden of guilt for twenty-six years.  Ever
since the one night of madness that had created Joni.  Ever since she
had faced the fact that she was no better than Lewis.

And she really wasn't.  She might have succumbed only once, and Lewis
might have done it multiple times, but that was only a matter of
degree.  She had been unfaithful to her husband, and, worse, she had
been unfaithful with his brother.

That bitter knowledge had lain buried in her soul for nearly three
decades, but it had never stopped hurting her.  She supposed it had
been hurting Witt, too, although they had never mentioned it, not even
when they could have, freely, after they were both widowed.

Witt was an upright man.  Sometimes wrongheaded, but very upright.  He
always made the choices that he believed to be correct, even if the
rest of the world could see how wrong he was, as in the case of Joni.
It must have tried him sorely to remember he'd been unfaithful with his
brother's wife.

Which was why neither of them had mentioned it.  Which was why neither
of them had pursued a closer relationship when they had been free to do
so.  She had no doubt that Witt would have thought of it as enjoying
the fruits of his sin.  And frankly, so did she.  A little.  Nothing
changed the fact that at the time they had come together, they had been
sinning against their marriages.

Then there was Joni.  She sometimes wondered if Witt guessed that Joni
was his.  Probably not.  Joni had kindly cooperated in the cove rap by
being born several weeks early.  And Witt had no reason to know that
Hannah hadn't had sex with Lewis in over two months.  Lewis had known
that, of course, but he'd never said a word about Joni's surprising
arrival.  Never asked a question.

Maybe because he'd felt too damn guilty to do so.  When she'd finally
screwed up the nerve to tell him she was pregnant, he'd merely nodded
and said, "Nice."  He hadn't asked a single one of the questions she'd
been dreading.

Probably because it set him free.  Whatever, he'd been a good enough
father to Joni, treating her with every bit as much love, attention and
concern as if she'd sprung from his loins.  He'd certainly been a far
better father than he'd ever been a husband.

She supposed it was because he really liked children.  Lewis had, at
one time, talked about a big family.  Then he'd seemed to become
content with just Joni.

Hannah sometimes thought about that, and wondered whether, if she
hadn't gotten pregnant with Joni, they could eventually have mended
their marriage and had that big family.

She had no way of knowing now, because she still didn't know what had
gone wrong in the first place.  She didn't know if it was her fault, or
his fault, or both their faults that he'd started playing around.  It
was easy to blame herself, though.  She'd been doing that for a long,
long time.

Now she had to wonder if she'd made another really big mistake by
telling Joni the truth.  The problem was, Joni was more flexible than
Witt.  Not by much, sometimes, but even a little was better than
none.

Hannah was watching her family get torn apart by one man's
hardheadedness and grief.  Why shouldn't she use every weapon in her
arsenal to keep either of them from doing something irrevocable?

She only wished she could tell Witt.  But it was too dangerous.  Yes,
he was past the heart attack, but if she upset him, his blood pressure
could go up, so for a while, at least, she had to keep him calm.  Keep
him away from major upsets.

And for the present that seemed to mean ignoring her daughter.

For the moment that made her almost hate Witt.

But she couldn't really hate him, much as she might want to.  She could
be angry with him.  call him names and tell him he was a stubborn old
cuss and she washed her hands of him--she'd done that a few times--but
she couldn't really hate him.  Nor could she abandon him.

She had to trust that Joni would work her way to a point that she was
willing to talk to her mother again.

But looking at Joni's father, the dictionary definition of intractable,
she began to wonder if her daughter had it in her.

* * *

Joni had a crack brained notion.  At least, that was what she called
it. The storm tad taken out the cable TV, which wasn't all that
entertaining anyway

"Saves us from having to watch the news," Hardy had said when it went
out.

so she found some cheap motel stationery, wrote the alphabet on it and
cut out all the letters.

"What are you doing?"  Hardy finally asked.

"Making a Ouija board."

"You're kidding."

"No.  It's crack brained I admit, but it's fun."

"Hmm."

She looked up from the round table that sat near the window.  "Am I
scaring you?"

"Hell no!  I just think it's ridiculous."

"Of course it is.  But it's still fun."

"I don't believe you can communicate with ghosts."  But he was enjoying
seeing her look almost happy.  Well, maybe amused was a better word.
Happiness was beyond reach for the two of them at this time.

"Neither do I."  She leaned back, her blue eyes sparkling in the
lamplight.  He could hear snow crystals beating on the window behind
her.  "But it's fun anyway.  It's silly, it makes you laugh, and that's
all it is."

He still felt uneasy.  Maybe he was a little more superstitious than he
thought.  He glanced around, noting the antiseptic motel room, thinking
it was hardly the place for a ghostly visitation, then asking himself
why the hell such a thought was even crossing his mind.  Because he
never thought about things like that.

Still, Joni was smiling and looking content, humming quietly under her
breath, the happiest he'd seen her in twelve years.  If this was going
to make her happy, even for an hour, he would bite the bullet and do
it--superstitions aside.

The squares on which the letters were written were ragged, because
she'd had to fold and tear the paper without scissors.  But she laid
them carefully out on the table in a circle, along with squares that
said yes and no.  Then she put an upended water glass in the middle.
"This is it?"  he asked.  Why was the back of his neck prickling?

"Yup."

It looked harmless enough.

"I know," she said, misreading his uncertainty.  "This is a girls'
game. I promise I won't tell anybody you played it."

That put h|m on his mettle.  "I'm not even thinking of that."  "No? 
Then why are you looking ready to bolt?"

He pulled out the chair and sat.  "I'll play."  "Great.  The
alternative seems to be sitting around trying to tell each other tall
tales."

He had to laugh at that.  "You mean the one about the spruce tree that
grew so tall the top got burned off by the sun?"  "Sounds like a
combination of Icarus and Jack and the Beanstalk to me."  "I confess.
So what do we do?"

"Just rest your fingers lightly on the glass, like this."  She
demonstrated.  "They should barely be touching it.  Not enough to
create any pressure."

"Okay."  He felt like a jerk siting there with his hands hovering over
the glass.  "Now what?"

"Ask a question.  Anything."

Now he really felt foolish.  Ask a question of the empty air?  What
kind of question?  What did you ask an empty, upside-down water
glass?

"Don't be shy."

He lifted his gaze to her face and found she was teasing him.  "I'm not
shy.  But I am feeling totally ridiculous."

"That's part of the fun."

"Maybe in your book."  He frowned at the glass and his fingertips,
which were barely touching it.  His fingertips, which were perilously
near to brushing hers.  Hmm.

"Okay," he said finally, deciding to be a man about it and just plunge
in.  "Will the storm stop?"

"That's a dumb question," Joni said.  "Of course it's going to stop."

"I'm testing whether it works."

"Fair enough."

They waited.  Nothing happened.

"Ask again," Joni prompted.

"Okay.  Is the storm going to stop?"

Then the absolute weirdest thing happened.  He felt almost as if there
was a pressure on his hand, pushing it.  And the glass zipped over to
the yes square.

Joni laughed.  "Did you feel it?"

"Uh..."  He was reluctant to admit what he'd felt.  "It's
subconscious," he said.  "Like when you're hypnotized.  This is
autohypnosis."

"Probably," she agreed, undeterred.  "That's what I always figured.
It's still fun."

He wasn't so sure of that, but he decided he could do this a while
longer just to keep her smiling.  No .  he could do this all night if
she would just keep smiling.

He guessed that made him lame brained And he didn't care.  "Okay, you
ask," he said, unwilling to talk to the glass again.

She closed her eyes for a moment.  "Will the storm stop tonight?"

The glass moved again, this time to no.  And Joni giggled.

"Hey," said Hardy, trying to enter the spirit of the game.  "Ask
something better.  Like, " Will we be able to get home tomorrow?  "

After a few seconds the glass slid around the table, describing a big
circle, and came back to the no.

"It's feeling contrary," Hardy said.

"It's probably true, anyway.  We know the weather says the storm is
slow moving.  Let's try something we don't know."

He figured they would just get a lot of garbage.

Alphabet soup or nonsense words.  "Do we stick to yes-or-no
questions?"

She shook her head.  "Anything at all.  It just takes longer to spell
out answers than to get the yes or no."

He figured they had plenty of time.  It was only seven-thirty, and when
you were snowbound, those evening hours could get long.  "I'm not in
any rush."

"So ask."

"Hmm."  He had to think about that.  It wasn't as if he had any burning
questions--at least, none he would feel comfortable asking in front of
Joni.  "Well, okay.  Who's going to get the contract for Wilt's
hotel?"

Joni drew a sharp breath, as if the question surprised her.  Or worried
her.  Not that it really mattered, Hardy thought a few moments later as
the glass remained stubbornly still.  He opened his mouth to make a
humorous remark, but then the glass started sliding rapidly around,
touching letters one after another.  Joni had a pad beside her elbow,
and after each letter, she wrote it on the paper.

THEBESTMAN.

The glass stopped moving.

"The best man," Joni read aloud.

"That's suitably opaque and general."

"Yup."  Her eyes sparkled.  "We've got a smart subconscious operating
here."

"Or a very cagey one.  I wonder if we'd get the same answer if we asked
about the outcome of the next election?"

"Probably.  Sexist board."

He had to laugh.  "Wanna try?  Maybe it'll have the sense to answer
'the best man or woman."  "

"After my remark, it probably will."

They took a break to get some soft drinks, and Hardy broke out a bag of
chips.  "You know," he said as he sat munching, "this would be a better
game if we had a list of questions.  I'm having trouble thinking them
up."

"Me too," she admitted.  "What did you girls do when you played it?" 
"It was always at a slumber party, and there were at least six of us. 
And we always used to ask questions like " Does so-and-so like me?  " "
Who will I marry?  " " Will so-and-so take me to the prom?  " Girl
stuff."

"Well, it's too late to ask who's going to take you to the prom."

"And I'm not going to ask it who I'm going to marry."

"Me neither."  He didn't want his subconscious tipping his hand on that
one.  "So we need grownup-type questions."

She reached for a chip and chewed it thoughtfully.  "I don't want to
ask any serious questions."

"Me neither."

"Just silly things that make us laugh."

"I agree."  But neither of them seemed in a real hurry to get back to
the game, he realized, even Joni, who'd conceived it and spent all that
time making up the letters.  The wind was getting more persistent, too,
rattling the window now.  He pulled back the curtain and peeked out,
only to see nothing but white haze.

"It looks really bad," Joni said.  "I can't remember one ever looking
this bad."

"Maybe we're in some kind of pocket that's catching the snow and making
it look worse."

"Could be."  But she pulled back the curtain and looked, too.  "I wish
I'd brought all my snow clothes.  It might be fun to go stand outside
for a few minutes."

"I'm afraid it's too badly drifted."

She nodded.  "It'd be up to my hips.  Makes you wonder if we'll be able
to get out of this room at all tomorrow."

She dropped the curtain and looked at him.  And Hardy, who'd been
resolutely avoiding all such thoughts and feelings, felt the air
thicken with something hot and heavy.

For an instant or two he couldn't even breathe.  But then she looked
away, and the world came back to normal.

"Shoot," she said.  "This game isn't anywhere near as fun as I
remember."

"It's probably more fun with a whole group of people."  "Maybe.  Or
maybe you and I have just gotten too old and stodgy to be silly."

"No way."

Her eyes leaped to his; then she smiled.  "Okay, we're not.  But this
game still isn't any real fun."

She turned from him then and pulled back the curtains so she could look
out at the swirling snow that seemed to light up the dark night.  Her
face fell into a thoughtful expression, then slipped in to one of
pain.

Anger filled him.  It was so damn unfair, he found himself thinking. 
So damn unfair.  Both of them had been caught up in the repercussions
of Karen's death to the point that they had virtually wasted more than
a decade of their lives.  Survivor's guilt?  This was far worse.  This
was a trap built of grief and guilt, and one man's unforgiving
nature.

But as he watched Joni's face tighten and sadden even more, his anger
eased and became empathy.  He watched as a tear rolled down her cheek
and felt his own chest tighten in response.  "Joni?"

She shook her head but didn't look at him.  "I can't stop thinking of
them."

"Who?  Witt and your mom?"

"Yeah."  She swallowed hard.  "I keep feeling like there's something I
should do.  But I can't fix any of it."

He thought about that for a minute or so, trying to figure out how to
tell her that she could fix at least some of it without setting her
off.  Joni had always had a bit of a temper.  It wasn't that he was
afraid of it, but he just couldn't see making her angry when she was so
upset already.

Finally he got up and went to turn off all the lights.  Then he used
the cord to open the curtains fully.  Outside the night was thick with
blowing snow, and the world glowed a pinkish yellow from streetlights
and the motel lights.

"It's breathtaking, isn't it?"  she murmured.

"Yeah.  I love it when you get away from lights, though.  You can't
even really see the snow at all except as a faint shimmer--until it's
right in your face.  Surprising."

She barely spared him a glance.  "You like surprises?"

"Good ones."

"I could do with one of those."

So could he, but he didn't say so, because she might ask him what kind
of surprise he would like, and he already knew that the one he wanted
was out of reach.

She sighed again.  Finally he told her what he thought as gently as he
could.  "I really think you ought to talk to Witt and your mom."

"In the first place," she said bitterly, "I can't talk to him, because
he's just had a heart attack and I can't upset him.  Anyway, if he'd
blamed you for twelve years for something that wasn't your fault, why
do you think he'd be any more forgiving of me?"

"Because he's your father?"

"He doesn't know that.  And there's probably a damn good reason why my
mother didn't tell him.  Something like that would have infuriated
him."

Hardy shook his head, resisting an urge to go hug her.  "You can't know
that.  Nobody can.  Because nobody's given him the chance to
respond."

"I know how he'll respond?"  She laughed bitterly.

Part of him wanted very much to argue with her; it seemed she was
leaping to conclusions.  Another part of him recognized unhappily that
he couldn't.  Witt had given him no reason to assume that he was a man
who could ever forgive and forget.  While he could tell himself that
Witt would feel differently about Joni, since she was a member of his
family, he couldn't guarantee that.

And since he couldn't guarantee anything, he would be wisest to keep
his mouth shut.

He really wished he could make things better for her somehow, but
without a magic wand tucked in his boot, he figured there wasn't a hell
of a lot he could do except listen.  And maybe nudge her a little.

"You can talk to your mom," he reminded her.  "She's probably sick at
heart at the way you cut her off."

Joni hunched one shoulder, a childish gesture, but he ignored it and
waited for her to say something.

"Maybe," she said finally.  "But what's the point?  I'm not going to
forgive her.  She cheated on my father.  With his brother."

"That is a big pill to swallow.  But ... didn't you tell me that he had
cheated on her?"

"He cheated on her constantly.  Maybe because he found out she cheated
on him.  How would I know?  And what difference does it make, anyway?
Two wrongs don't make a right."

"I guess not."  He could sense the dead end coming, but he didn't put
on the brakes just yet.  "But it was a long time ago, Joni.  A long
time ago.  You need to forgive her."

She turned and looked at him from red-rimmed eyes.  "A long time ago?
You forget.  I just learned about it, Hardy.  For me it's right now."

He couldn't deny that.  He supposed he wasn't keeping his sights on
that fact well enough.  It was too easy to slip into a "Witt has always
been this way" mode of thinking, because to him Witt had always been
this way.  But he hadn't always been this way to Joni, and Joni's
mother's indiscretion might be more than a quarter century old, but it
was new to Joni.  "I'm sorry."

She shook her head and returned her attention to the snow outside.
"Don't be sorry.  You're being reasonable and I'm not.  I hurt too much
to be reasonable right now."

"Fair enough."  Didn't mean he didn't still want to find some way to
ease her pain or make her feel more optimistic about the whole mess.

"You know," she said, "part of me just wants to walk out into that
blizzard and disappear."

His heart nearly stopped.  "No."

"Oh, I won't.  I won't give them the satisfaction."  She sighed, and
another tear trickled down her cheek.  "I'm sorry, Hardy.  I wanted to
have fun this evening instead of being such a drag.  That's all I am
anymore, a big drag."

"That's not true.  You're having a rough time is all."

"So?  Doesn't mean I can't still try to be pleasant.  Doesn't mean I
have to spend all my time moaning about what's happened."

But even as she spoke the last word, her voice broke, and her tears
began to roll with a vengeance.  She put her hands to her face.  "Oh,
God, it hurts so bad.  I feel like I've lost everything that matters in
life.  Witt.  My mom... Even the memory of my dad."

Well, it was just too damn bad that she was Witt's daughter, and too
damn bad that touching her was dangerous.  Rising, he rounded the table
and drew her up into his arms, hugging her snugly and letting her cry
into his shoulder.

She felt, so good against him that for a few minutes all he could do
was swallow and hang on to his selfcontrol.  And feel like a beast that
it was even a problem when she was so distraught.

It seemed so wrong to be aware of her curves pressed firmly against
him, of the fullness of her breasts and the tininess of her waist, when
she was weeping.  But the desire he was feeling had been thwarted for
years by circumstances out of his control By his feelings of guilt.
But now, in these moments, it was a raging monster that refused to be
tamed.

But he tamed it finally and found a few words to offer in comfort. 
"You haven't lost your dad," he said gently.  "No way.  Whether he was
your biological father or not, he loved you and raised you.  He was
your dad in every way that counts, and no one can take that away.  No
one."

That seemed to make her cry harder, and he started to feel truly
helpless.  Maybe he should just shut his damn yap.  Maybe it would be
best to just let her cry it out and work her own way through her
problems.  What the hell did he know, anyway?  His life was hardly a
sterling example of having it all together.

But holding her felt too good to let go, so he stood there, stroking
her hair and feeling her hot tears soak his shirt.

It didn't last all that long.  Maybe fifteen minutes.  Then she was
drying her puffy eyes and mumbling apologies for being a baby.

"Hey," he said, catching her chin in his hand and making her look at
him.  "It's okay to cry.  Always."

She gave a raspy, short laugh.  "But not all the time.  I feel like I'm
drowning in self-pity."

"Maybe you are.  So what?  You're entitled."

"But you're not required to listen to it."

He shrugged.  "I don't mind."

Her eyes met his then.  Such a bright, clear, strong blue, like the
Colorado sky.  Red from crying, so puffy they couldn't open all the
way, yet still the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, bar none.

In an instant, the planets halted, the earth stopped revolving around
the sun, and the last bit of air was sucked out of the room.

Oh, God, he thought, I knew it was a mistake.

But it was too late now.

Hardy was going to kiss her.  There was a look in his eyes right now
that was stealing her breath away.  Locking her in a web of longing and
aching that drove nearly everything else from her mind.

She didn't deserve this.  She wasn't entitled to this.  Guilt from
years past slipped into her mind and slithered along nerve endings,
reminding her that Hardy had belonged to Karen.

But it wasn't enough to make her pull away.  Not enough to yank her out
of the longing that was weighting her limbs with need.  Then and now
seemed to be merging, fusing her long-ago fantasy with the reality of
these moments with Hardy.

She was pressed so closely to him that she could feel his hard angles
and firm muscles, could feel his heat .  and his growing desire.  So
close that she felt it when he stiffened infinitesimally, as if he was
having second thoughts.

He was going to pull away.  Her heart sounded a sad note and began to
sink, but she had enough control not to grip his shirt and hold him.
This couldn 't be .  this couldn't be.  The reminder whispered in her
mind, a background chorus to all the needs and yearnings that filled
her.

It would be wrong for so many reasons, and he must know it as well as
she did.  Wisdom told her to step back.  Hunger kept her rooted.

A soft breath escaped his lips.  His eyes narrowed, then, almost
reluctantly, his head lowered.

Their lips touched.  Light as the kiss of a snowflake, but hot as the
tropical sun.  His breath was scented faintly of chips and cola, or
maybe it was hers; she didn't know.  She only knew that her soul
hushed, as if it had been waiting aeons for this moment.  This touch. 
This kiss.

His lips were like velvet, so soft and warm, and they caressed hers
lightly, enthralling her the way no deep, hard kiss could have done. 
It was a coaxing, questing kiss, seeking her response but never
demanding it.  It was like riding a gentle river while knowing all the
while that rapids lay ahead.

Her heart began to thud heavily, pumping liquid desire through her,
bringing every nerve ending to life, making her sparkle and glow.  Oh,
she had never imagined that such a light touch could make her feel so
much.  Or maybe she was wrapped up in a fantasy from long ago, swept
away on imaginings rather than reality.

She didn't know, and soon she didn't care, because his arms tightened
around her, drawing her closer still in a way that told her how much he
wanted her.  His kiss deepened, grew firmer, while his tongue tasted
her lips, almost tickling, but undeniably sending rockets to her very
center.

She wanted him.  And suddenly it didn't seem important anymore that
this could only bring grief and disappointment.  Could only bring anger
and make things worse for both of them with Witt.

Why was she even thinking of Witt?  He'd disowned her, and what he
thought didn't matter anymore at all.

There would be a price for this.  She knew it with every cell in her
being.  There would be a terrible price.  But right then she couldn't
care about that.  This was something she'd been dreaming of for so many
long years, and while it could never be more than these moments and
this night, she couldn't pass it by.

Her arms lifted, signaling her decision, and wrapped around his waist,
feeling muscle and sinew and strength.  Hardy was a rock, both
physically and emotionally, she thought dreamily.  He was a man you
could depend on.

His kiss teased her, tormented her, teaching her how to duel with her
tongue in a way that drew her mind inexorably to the delights that lay
ahead.  Yes!  The thought was unequivocal.

He shifted against her, and for an instant she feared he was going to
leave her, but then his hand closed over her breast, squeezing and
cupping gently, causing her head to reel in delight.  Through layers of
tricot and wool, that touch seemed as intimate as if he had cradled her
very soul in his hand.

Unnoticed by either of them, a tear squeezed beneath her eyelid and
trickled slowly down her cheek.  It was a tear of joy and release, of
fulfillment and escape.  For a little while the shadows were gone.

Each touch of his hand stoked her desire even more.  When she at last
felt him tugging her shirt up, she thought she couldn't stand the
anticipation.  Why was he moving so slowly?

But then, with a twist, he released the clasp of her bra, and his hand,
slightly chilly, closed over her warm, bare skin, claiming her
breast.

Delighted shivers ran through her, filling her with a heady sense of
glee, hunger, joy and need.  Emotions tumbled through her as wildly as
water through rapids and mingled with physical sensations that were as
close as a body could ever come to physically feeling a pure emotion.

His mouth left hers, and both of them gasped for breath.  He muttered,
"You don't know..."

Yes, she did know.  She remembered all the lonely nights she had filled
with dreams of him.  Dreams of doing exactly what they were doing now.
Dreams of feeling his skin on hers, hearing his voice husky in her ear,
of curling up with him and feeling safe, so safe.  In all her life she
had never felt quite as safe as she did right this instant, tumbling
over a precipice of desire.  It was suddenly the easiest thing in the
world to fall.

She fell, light as feather down.  He tugged the curtains closed with an
impatient hand, though no one at all would venture out in the midst of
this storm.  Then he tugged at her clothes impatiently, and she was
glad of his impatience, because at that moment, if he had hesitated or
drawn it out too long, she might have had a thought, a qualm, an
unwelcome remembrance.

He spared her that.  Her clothes fell away, landing somewhere across
the room.  Even her socks were tugged away, at last leaving her naked
for him.  Naked and shivering with desire more than cold.

He looked at her, his eyes hot and hungry, his gaze painting her with
fire.

"You're beautiful," he said hoarsely.  "So beautiful..."

Then, before she could try to respond, he scooped her up and carried
her to the bed, tucking her beneath the warm covers.

Standing over her, he stripped.  He showed no modesty or fear, as if
he, like she, was well past such thoughts.  His nudity filled her with
wonder, seeming as perfect as a statue.  And he was offering it all to
her.

Her hands reached for him eagerly, drawing him down to her, and when he
slipped beneath the covers beside her, she felt such an incredible
sense of satisfaction that a long, joyous sigh escaped her.

This was meant.  This had to be.  And nothing else at all mattered.
Nothing.

Bodies, lips, hands met and melded, striving to learn, to know, to
capture, to possess.  Untutored though she was, Joni felt as
comfortable as if she had been here a million times.  Nothing had ever
seemed so right.

He kissed her breast, sucking gently, his mouth hot but leaving behind
patches that grew shivery cold in moments.  She loved the contrast,
loved the sensations, loved the intimacy.  She loved being with
Hardy.

Because not for one minute did she think this was merely a matter of
physical sensations.  The sensations with other men had never been
enough to carry her to this point.

This was all about Hardy, and her hands tried to tell him so as they
caressed him and learned how to please him.

His nipples proved to be as sensitive as hers, and she reVeled in
playing with them, drawing deep groans from him.  When his hand slipped
between her legs, touching the aching petals of her flesh, answering
her need while fueling it even more, she responded in kind, delighting
in his delight.

But all of those things, wondrous though they were, were merely a
backdrop for the earthquake taking place in her heart.

This was Hardy.  She was with him at last, and she didn't know if she
could ever bear to let him go.

Her body accepted him, drawing him in with only the merest twinge of
discomfort.  He filled her as she had dreamed of being filled, and her
soul overflowed.  This had always been meant to be.  She had been
created just for him.

Higher they rose, reaching for the elusive peak, bodies straining
together to create the physical replica of all that was in their
hearts.

When they crested, they did so together.  Then they tumbled down the
other side.

Into the abyss.

Reality didn't leave them alone for long.  When had it ever?  Reality
crept back on the tendrils of cold air that whispered through the room,
on the tick-tick of the snowy claws that scratched at the window.  It
came back and slipped into the bed with them.

Between them.

"Joni, I..."  Hardy trailed off.  His eyes were still closed.  His
hands on her back seemed to be saying how much he enjoyed her.  But his
words never said so.

Before he could say what she assumed he was about to, she said it for
him, because she didn't want to feel stupid.  "We never should have
done this."

His eyes opened then, and there was no mistaking the pain in them.  It
never occurred to her that she had caused that pain.

Instead, she climbed out of the bed and grabbed up her clothes, too
wounded now to even feel tears.  Moments ago, or so it seemed, he had
been deep within her, and nothing had ever felt so right.

At this moment, however, nothing had ever felt so wrong.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, her clothes bundled awkwardly in her
arms.  Then she closed the adjoining door between them.

And locked it.

Karen, she thought bitterly as she threw her clothes into a heap on the
bed.  Karen.  Always Karen.  She and her cousin--sister!  --had looked
somewhat alike.  Maybe enough alike that Hardy had thought he was
making love to Karen.  Maybe he'd slipped into that fantasy, while
she'd slipped into hers.

Or maybe he was just feeling guilty.  Why the hell not?  Because Joni
suddenly felt that she had done something truly awful to Karen's
memory.

She tried to tell herself that was stupid as she took a hot shower to
wash the last of Hardy off her, to erase even his scent.  Karen had
been dead for so long now.  She no longer mattered.  Anything Joni did
now couldn't hurt Karen.  People died, and normal people moved on and
forged new relationships.  Hardy was entitled to that, and so was
she.

But she feared Hardy wasn't doing that.  And she feared what Witt would
think, too.  Because even though he'd disowned her, he wasn't above
giving her a piece of his mind.

And the truth was, she really had no desire to wound Witt.  None
whatever.  She loved him.

Even if he didn't love her.

Slowly she sank to the floor of the shower, and as the hot water beat
on her head, she cried soundlessly.

Oh, God, what had she done?

Hardy felt as if he'd been hit by a Mack truck.  He stared at the
closed door between the rooms and heard the snick of the lock turning
like a death knell in his heart.

Christ, what had happened?  He'd been lying there feeling the most
incredible afterglow and had opened his mouth to tell her how wonderful
he was feeling when she'd turned on him.

He should have kept his mouth shut.  Until the instant that his speech
had shattered the silence, she had seemed as content and comfortable as
he.  He must have surprised her.

But that was still no excuse.  No excuse to hop out of bed saying, "We
never should have done this."

What had he done wrong?  Had he hurt her?  Moment by moment he reviewed
their lovemaking in his mind, trying to penetrate the hazy glow that
lay over it to get to the kernel of what had really been going on.

No, he hadn't hurt her, of that he was sure.  Nor did he believe her
orgasm had been faked.  So what the hell had gotten into her?

He knew they shouldn't have done this.  He didn't need her to tell him
that it would have been wiser not to take a bite of the apple.  God, he
knew that.  He knew that.  There were too many problems, too many
memories, too much guilt.

Except that he wasn't feeling especially guilty.  Much to his own
amazement, he didn't feel as if he'd betrayed Karen.  Not this time. 
How could he?  Karen hadn't been around for a long time.  He owed her
nothing anymore.  At least, not in this regard.

He was a thirty-year-old man who had every right to love any willing
woman he chose.  Never mind that he felt guilty about what had happened
to Karen.  He did, and he would probably carry that guilt to his grave.
But that absolutely did not mean he couldn't have a life.

So what was going on in Joni's head?  He knew her well enough to know
that she responded to impulse, and some impulse, poorly thought out,
must have struck her.  He wondered if he should try to speak to her
about it, then decided it was probably too soon for that.

Whatever had happened, he hoped to heaven it hadn't been something
about him that had sent her into flight.

He was no Don Juan, but he tried to be a considerate lover.  He tried
to be sure his partner enjoyed herself.

Maybe that was the problem.  Maybe Joni felt guilty for enjoying
herself.  Maybe with all that was on her plate she felt awful about
it.

Could be.

He stared at the closed door and wondered how he was going to stand the
awful silence for another day.

As it turned out, he didn't have long to wonder.  He awoke in the
morning to a dying storm, with only light flurries falling.  By ten the
motel owner told them he'd heard that the roads were pretty well
cleared between Wetrock and Whisper Creek.

Hardy took the opportunity to knock on the adjoining door and tell Joni
they could go home now.  Not that that would make it any better, he
thought irritably.  She would still be under his roof once they got
there.  Unless she decided to move in with one of her girlfriends.

But he knew why she hadn't done that to begin with.  They all had
children and families, and very little room.  Besides, he reminded
himself, he'd practically insisted on her staying with him.

Now he wished he hadn't done that.  The frost was bad enough when
emanating from the far side of a closed door.  It would be intolerable
at home.

Ten minutes later she joined him, looking as red eyed and
sleep-deprived as he felt.  Before they went out to get in the car, he
tried to ease the atmosphere.

"Sorry if I hurt you last night," he said tentatively.

"You didn't hurt me."  She didn't even look at him, just brushed past
him and headed for the car.

What the hell.  Giving up, he followed.  The motel had cleared the
parking lot as best it could with a snow blower but he still had to
brush a foot of the stuff off the windows and hood, and use his
emergency shovel to clear out the drifts around the tires.  Joni
waited, saying nothing.

Great.  Wonderful.  Life could be such a bitch sometimes.  He almost
snapped something at her, then bit his tongue.  What was the point?

At last they climbed into the car and roared out of the parking lot.

"You know," he said as they made their way up a hill that had been
plowed recently, "it would be nice if you would at least tell me what
you're mad at me about."

"I'm not mad at you."  But she didn't offer anything else, leaving him
in the same state of limbo.

A mile passed, then another and another.  The silence was getting so
thick he considered turning on the radio just to dispel it.  That was
about when he noticed that the snow was getting thicker, too.  The road
was still well plowed, though, and the driving wasn't bad as long as he
kept to a reasonable speed.

He considered dropping her at her mother's house when they got back to
town.  It would at least make a point.

But somewhere over the next few miles he started to feel guilty for
being irritated and angry with her.  Something serious was obviously
troubling her.  It didn't matter whether she was right or wrong about
whatever it was, just that she was upset.  But without knowing what she
thought the problem was, he couldn't do a damn thing to help.

This was unlike Joni, he found himself thinking.  Oh, not the taking of
some notion or the acting impulsively on it.  But the silence.  He
couldn't remember Joni ever having been silent when something bothered
her.  Take this whole hotel mess.  She'd made plenty of ruckus for no
better reason than that she was bothered by the situation.

And leopards didn't change their spots overnight.

Well, when she had gotten pissed at Witt, she hadn't told Witt so.  No,
she had gone and set up a situation that was supposed to precipitate
the outcome she wanted.  She had come to Hardy.  Which meant that if
she wasn't talking to him, she must be angry at him.

Gripes.

"Joni?  What's wrong?"

For an instant he thought she was just going to ignore him.  But then
she said, "Everything."

"Hmm.  What did I do?"  As if he didn't know.  Making love to her last
night had been an act of stupidity.  There was too much between them,
not the least of it Witt.  But he wanted to hear it from her.

"I told you," she said.  "We shouldn't have... shouldn't have..."

"Shouldn't have made love.  I know.  You said so.  Was it awful for
you?"

Her head whipped around.  "No!"

"Then what?  Witt might not approve?  Hell, Witt won't approve.  So
what?  We're grown-ups."  Which was something he needed to remind
himself of, he realized suddenly.  Man, he'd been reacting to Witt as
if he were still eighteen.  Maybe it was time to take the bull by the
horns.

"Okay," he said when she didn't answer.  "Why don't you just tell me
the truth?  I'm feeling like shit here.  I thought we made beautiful
love. Instead, you took flight as if I'd hurt you terribly."

"No ... no."  She shook her head.

He waited, wondering if he needed to prod her some more.  Because, he
was discovering, he couldn't stand to have Joni upset and not know why.
He couldn't stand being unable to help her in some way.  It was a new
and unexpected feeling.  And if he'd had an ounce of common sense, he
would have realized that feeling was even more dangerous than their
lovemaking had been.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice small.  "I'm sorry.  Last night was...
Well, it was everything I'd ever dreamed of.  More than what I'd
dreamed."

Did she mean that she'd dreamed of him?  His heart seemed to slam, and
he cast his mind back over the years, trying to discover if there'd
been any indication back in high school.

But he couldn't remember any.  She'd always treated him like her
cousin's boyfriend, somebody to tease or be pleasant to as the mood or
moment required.  He couldn't remember any longing looks or any hints,
however faint, that she was interested in him.

Part of him thought it was egotistical to even consider such a
possibility.  But a deeper part of him wondered anyway.  Hoped, even,
that he hadn't been alone in the yearning that had made him decide to
break up with Karen.

Although even then he'd known that if he ditched Karen, Joni wasn't
going to go out with him.  She would have been too loyal to do that.
Even so, he felt like a sleaze for dating one girl when he was wanting
another.  So the gentlemanly thing was to break up with Karen, even if
it meant being alone.

But Joni.  Nah, he told himself.  If she'd dreamed of him, it had
probably been recently.  Not while he and Karen had been an item.  Not
that he thought she would have been a bad person if she had--no, a bad
person would have acted on those urges.  Like him.

God, he hated himself.  Then he wondered how he'd gotten all tangled
up. He'd been going steady with Karen, but they'd been kids, and going
steady wasn't a lifelong commitment.  Which meant there was nothing
wrong with him for wanting to break it off.  That was natural and
normal at that age.  At any age, actually, when you weren't married.

So he hadn't been doing anything wrong.  Wrong would have been dating
some other girl behind Karen's back.  He hadn't done that.  He hadn't
acted on his yearning in a dishonorable way.

But man, he sure wished he'd broken up with her sooner.  Wished he'd
done anything to keep them off the road that night.  "What did you
dream of?"  he heard himself ask.

There was a silence.  Long.  Heavy.  Pregnant with possibilities that
had him feeling like he was on tenterhooks.

"You," she said finally, her voice almost atonal.  "I was jealous."

He considered a number of different ways to respond.  Considered
telling her that he'd been about to break off with Karen.  But, he
asked himself, was that going to make her feel any better?

"Do you feel guilty about that?"  he asked.

"Constantly."

He could identify with that.  "Yeah," he said.  "Me too."

She looked at him as if she was about to ask a question, but just then
an oncoming car lost control.

It began to spin out on some ice, and for an instant he froze,
remembering that night so long ago.  But then his reflexes kicked in.
Letting up on the gas, he started to take an evasive maneuver, one that
would keep them from colliding with the oncoming car, which was
spinning wildly and still coming straight at them, too fast.

The river.  He didn't want to go into the river.  Gauging the snowbank
beside the road, he tried to figure what angle to hit it, an angle that
wouldn't flip the car.

He hit the brakes, feeling the anti locks kick in with rapid jolts.
God, the road was pure ice.  The tail of the other car was swinging
right toward him.  The snowbank was too close.  No room.  At the last
instant he saw his opening and steered right toward it.  A moment later
he felt the impact as they hit the snowbank.

Hannah was trying to talk Witt into eating a turkey sandwich on whole
wheat when the call came.  Witt didn't like whole-wheat bread.  She had
also discovered he wouldn't eat oatmeal for breakfast, that he wouldn't
eat anything for breakfast except bacon and eggs, and he wasn't going
to spend the rest of his life eating spinach pasta--which she hadn't
offered him--just because some idiot doctor thought it would be good
for him.

In fact, she'd discovered that as far as he was concerned, he would
rather sit in that chair and die than live anything but his normal
life.

She told herself the anger was a good sign, better than the silent,
motionless depression of the last few days.  At least he was reacting.
But when the turkey sandwich hit the floor, she had had enough.

"Damn it, Witt," she said, she who never swore.  "I will not be treated
this way."

"Then get the hell out.  I'll make myself some decent food."

She was tempted, sorely tempted.  He had worn her out more than any
obstreperous patient ever had.  Possibly because she didn't get a break
after every eight hours.  More likely because she cared too much about
Witt.  "No," she told him, reverting to her more usual calm demeanor. 
"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction."

He got out of the chair.  "Then stay out of my way.  I'm going to make
myself a real sandwich."

"That might be difficult.  I threw out the white bread, the roast beef,
the mayonnaise..."

"Who the hell gave you the right to do that?"  he thundered.

She didn't even bother to answer.  She could see he was fuming mad, and
she felt a pang of fear, given what he'd been through.  Then she
reminded herself that there was no way to keep Witt from getting angry
forever.  Nor was his condition so bad that he couldn't survive it.  A
serious shock might cause him a problem, but this kind of anger?  Not
likely.

"Get out of my way, woman."

"Don't you talk to me like that, Witt Matlock.  I've had enough of your
attitude."

"Attitude?  I'll give you attitude."  He shouldered past her and
stomped into his kitchen, flinging open the refrigerator to reveal
exactly what she'd promised.  No bacon, no eggs, nothing fatty at all.
"What the hell have you done to me?"

"I'm taking care of you."

"What's the point?  I don't want to live if I have to give up
everything I enjoy."

"You don't.  Just the foods that are bad for you."

He glared at her, but she refused to glare back.

"I,"

he said, "am going to keep on living the way I've always lived."

"You know, Witt, you're a tiresome man."  As soon as she spoke the
words, she realized something: Witt reacted to everything that was
beyond his control with anger.  Yes, he was tiresome, but only because
he seemed to have one emotional tone when he was unhappy about
anything.  And right now he wasn't really angry about food.  He was
frightened.

"Then leave me alone," he said.

"Don't be a jackass.  You're scared, I know you're scared, and you'll
only be more scared if I leave you alone."

He glared at her but didn't hurl any more nasty words her way.  The
silence that suddenly stretched between them was profound.  Hannah felt
herself holding her breath, waiting .  but for what she couldn't say.

Into that silence came the ringing of the phone.  It was an old phone,
and the ringer was jarring, loud.  Witt jerked, and Hannah jumped.  For
an instant she considered ignoring it, but its clamor wouldn't silence.
Turning, she snatched it from the hook.

"Hello?"

"Hannah?  Hannah this is Sam Canfield.  You might want to come to the
emergency room."

"Joni?"  Fear clutched her heart, drove everything else from her
mind.

"She's been in a car accident.  There don't appear to be any major
injuries, but she's unconscious."

Hannah didn't wait to hear any more.  She dropped the phone in the
cradle and headed for the mud porch.

"Hannah?"  Witt asked.  "What's wrong with Joni?"

"I have to go to the hospital.  She's been in an accident."

"I'm going with you."

She turned on him then.  "Are you, Witt?  Are you?  You disowned her,
remember?  You don't have any rights at all anymore."

"I'm going anyway."

She didn't argue this time, just grimly started pulling on her boots
and parka.  It didn't do any good to argue, anyway, she told herself
miserably.  Witt was as hardheaded as a concrete block.  And Joni
seemed to be the same way.

All she knew right then was that her heart felt as chilly as the
January day.

 Ijbd, I hate emergency rooms," Sam Canfield said.  He was sitting in
one of the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room, across from Hardy.
" Ever since the night my wife died, I can't sit here without
remembering.  "

Hardy nodded, although he was so worried about Joni he didn't have much
room for feeling anything else.  "You don't have to sit with me, Sam. 
I just got a few bruises.  I'll live."

"Maybe.  If Witt doesn't show up with Hannah.  And what do you think
the likelihood of that is?"

Hardy didn't want to think about it.  Bad enough about Karen.  He could
just imagine how Witt would react this time.  Not that it mattered what
Witt might say or do.  At this point Hardy was beating himself up with
a mental baseball bat, beginning with bashing himself for even
considering taking a relative of Witt Matlock's in his car again.  Good
God almighty, he needed his head examined.

And Joni.  God.  He felt bad about keeping Sam here, but Sam was the
only way he could find out about Joni's condition.  Doctors were weird
that way.  If you weren't family, you could kiss off getting any
news.

"It wasn't your fault, Hardy," Sam said for probably the fifteenth
time.

"It was my fault she was in my car."

"Since when is that a crime?"  Sam snorted.  "It's not like you caused
the accident.  I could see plain as day what happened out there.  What
you did was keep the two of you from getting killed.  That damn boat of
a car was going too fast.  Even in that skid he'd've killed you if he'd
hit you head-on."

Hardy just shook his head.  He'd heard all this stuff when Karen had
been killed.  Wasn't his fault.  The other driver was drunk and came
straight for him.  Sure.  That was what had happened.  But Hardy had
hardly passed a day without wondering what he could have done
differently.  Now he was going to do the same thing about today.

God, if he ever took another Matlock in his car, he was going to cut
his own throat.

"It's karma," he heard himself say.

Sam lifted his eyebrows.  "You believe in that?"

"I'm beginning to."

Sam bobbed his head a little, a maybe-so agreement.  "Or just some
really rotten luck."

"Same thing."

"Maybe."  Sam sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes.  "It doesn't do
any good, you know."

"What?"

"Second-guessing.  Doesn't do a damn bit of good.  I've second-guessed
that day Bonnie was killed until I'm not sure I even remember it right
anymore.  Anyway, hindsight's always twenty-twenty.  Problem is, all
those things you think you should have done just plain don't occur to
you beforehand."

"I guess not."  But that didn't help the feeling of guilt any.

Sam checked his watch.  "Time to go bug the nurses for information," he
said.  "Sit tight."

As if Hardy was going to do anything else, except maybe bust into the
treatment rooms and demand to see Joni.  Which would probably get him
thrown out of the hospital.

Smothering a groan of despair, he leaned forward and put his head in
his hands.  He'd been luckier than Joni, just a few bruises and a huge
headache.  It should have been him lying in the bed in there,
unconscious.  Not Joni.

Joni.  Her name kept echoing inside him, bouncing off the walls he'd
tried to build around his heart.  Remembering how she'd looked only
last night when they'd made love.  Remembering how her every sigh had
seemed to send tendrils of warmth to the farthest reaches of his
soul.

Remembering how she'd fled from him.

He lifted his head and told himself to get a magazine from one of the
tables.  Read something distracting.  Stop whipping himself over things
he shouldn't have done and would never forget.

Christ.  The only two accidents in his entire driving life, and one of
Wilt's girls had been involved in each.  It had to be karma.  "Hardy?"
Sam entered the waiting room from the corridor.  "She's awake.  I
twisted some arms, and you can go in and see her.  Three doors down on
the left."

Hardy started to dart from the room, then caught himself.  "How is
she?"

"She appears to be fine.  They're going to keep her overnight for
observation, because of the concussion, but they don't see anything
significant wrong."

He didn't wait any longer.  Walking as fast as he could, he left the
waiting room, traveled down the short corridor and through the swinging
doors of the E.

R.

treatment area.  Three doors down and on the left, he found her.

The head of the bed was cranked up a little, and she was lying on a
pillow.  An IV was hooked to her arm, but he guessed that didn't mean
much.  It was probably standard procedure.

She didn't even look especially pale, although her color wasn't as high
as it usually was.  Her lips were still pink, though, and slightly
parted.  Her long dark hair needed combing, but that didn't keep it
from looking beautiful splashed across the pillow.  In fact, he thought
she had never looked more beautiful.

He approached the bed hesitantly, reluctant to disturb her if she was
asleep, yet needing to hear her voice.  Desperate to hear her voice.
Karen hadn't said a word ever again after the accident, and he couldn't
help feeling that he would believe Joni was okay only if he heard her
voice.

She must have sensed his presence, because her eyes opened and fixed on
him.  "Hardy?"

Relief and joy filled him in equal measures.  He crossed the space
between them in two long strides and took her hand gently.  "How are
you feeling?"  "Not too bad.  I have a headache, and a big goose bump
where my head hit the window.  At least that's what they think
happened.  I don't remember.  How are you?"

"A few bruises.  No biggie."

"Good."  She sighed and squeezed his hand, closing her eyes for a few
seconds.  "I remember that other car skidding toward us, but I don't
remember much else."

"Probably just as well.  Some things don't need to be remembered, like
moments of sheer terror."

She managed a weak laugh.  "Yeah."

Giving in to an impulse he'd been trying to curb since he set eyes on
her lying in the bed, he bent over and gently kissed her forehead.
"God, I'm glad you're okay.  I've been scared to death."

"It's just a concussion."  She sighed and turned toward him, bringing
their faces to within a couple of inches.  "They won't let me go home
until tomorrow.  Not that I've got a home."

"You'll always have a home with me, Joni.  Always."  It was a rash
promise, but every cell in his body compelled him to say it.  He
thought she caught her breath, but the sound was so slight he wasn't
sure.  What difference did it make?  He'd probably just surprised
her.

"Thanks, Hardy.  But I won't impose forever."

"You can impose for two fore vers and I won't mind."

Her blue eyes opened a little wider, searching his face as if for some
kind of confirmation.

"Thank you," she said again.  But he could hear the hesitation in her
voice.

Hell, he thought, it wasn't what she wanted to hear from him.  Of
course not.  Last night had been a big mistake.  She'd said so.

Feeling as if he were horning in where he wasn't wanted, he backed off
until he was standing straight beside her bed.  Just in time, as it
happened, because at that moment Witt and Hannah came bursting into the
room.

Witt glared at him.  "You!"

It was not an auspicious greeting.  Hardy felt something inside him
wilting, curling up into a protective knot as both his mind and his
emotions tried to fling him back into that night so long ago when Karen
had died.

But he was not eighteen years old anymore.  He wasn't the same person.
Joni wasn't dead.  And Witt, he suddenly realized, was nothing but a
scared, sick old man.

"Yeah, me," he said to Witt, trying to keep his tone
nonconfrontational.  He wasn't sure he succeeded, especially when he
felt his jaw harden.

"Witt, please," Hannah said sternly.  "Joni."

Then Hannah brushed past Witt and approached the bed across from Hardy.
"Honey," she said, her voice unsteady.  "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, except for a headache.  And except for having to spend
the night here."  Joni's voice, unlike her mother's, was cool,
detached. As if she were talking to a stranger.  Hardy hated the sound
of it.

Hannah flinched.  "That's a good thing, actually."

But Witt was not to be silenced for long.  "You're lucky you're not
dead," he said harshly.  "What were you thinking, getting into a car
with that man?"

Joni's face set in hard lines.  "What the hell difference does it make
to you?"  she demanded.  "You disowned me, remember?  And anyway, the
accident wasn't Hardy's fault.  He's probably the only reason I'm still
alive!"

Witt opened his mouth, his face reddening, but before he could speak,
Hannah's voice cut through the room like a whiplash.  "Witt, enough!"

"Oh, just get out of here, you two," Joni said.  "I'm ashamed of both
of you!"

Great reconciliation scene, Hardy thought uneasily.  He wished he knew
what to say or do to help all of them past this, but he was acutely
aware that he had no right to intervene.  And acutely aware that Witt
would object to anything he said.  Anything.  God, what a mess.

A nurse came into the room.  "Who's shouting?  All visitors out of here
now."

"No," Joni said.  "I want Hardy to stay.  Those two can go.  Now."

Witt barely glanced at Joni as Hannah took his arm and began to lead
him from the room.  But he did glare at Hardy, a look that said he had
plenty more to say and was going to say it at a later time.

Which, Hardy suddenly realized, was something he was going to look
forward to.  The last time he'd really faced Witt was when he was
eighteen and frightened and hurting.  The meeting at the hardware store
a few days ago didn't really count.  No, he had plenty he wanted to go
toe-to-toe with Witt about, and this was as good a time as any.

"Hardy?"

He looked down at Joni.  "What?"

"Don't let him get to you.  He's a mean old man."

There was a time when Hardy would have agreed with her, but at that
moment he couldn't bring himself to.  "He's not mean, Joni.  He's
terrified."

"Of what?"  She started to shake her head, then winced.  "God, this
headache."

He took her hand again, squeezing gently.  "He's scared of losing
everything he cares about, including you."

"Me?  He disowned me!"

"He was angry.  And scared."

"Scared of what?"

"That you might get so mad at him over his reaction to my bid that
you'd stop talking to him.  Scared because what you did showed your
major disapproval of him.  So he preempted you."

Joni mulled that over for a few minutes, then finally sighed.  "My head
hurts too much to think about it."

"So think about it another time.  I do have one word of advice for you,
though.  Talk to your mom."

"I can't."

He sighed and leaned closer to her, fixing her with his gaze.  "You
know, Joni, you're a wonderful woman.  But there's part of you that's
still very much a spoiled child.  Don't you think it's time to grow
up?"

Then, before she could say another word, he leaned over and kissed her
lightly on the lips.  "I'll check on you tomorrow.  Right now, you need
your mother."

Then, as if it wasn't one of the hardest things he'd ever done, he
walked out of the room.

God, he couldn't believe he'd said that to her.  Now he would probably
be on her list of people she was never going to speak to again.  And
for some weird reason, he didn't think he could stand that.

Hardy found Hannah in the waiting room.  Witt was nowhere in sight.
"Where's Witt?"  he asked.

"I sent him home.  Why?  Do you want to have it out with him?"  There
was no challenge in her tone, merely curiosity.

"No, I was just surprised not to see him.  Anyway, I'm leaving now. Why
don't you go see Joni?"

Hannah patted the chair beside her.  After a moment's hesitation, he
sat.

Hannah spoke quietly.  "Did she tell you why she's so angry with me?"

Part of him wanted to lie to her to spare her embarrassment, but he'd
never been very good at lying and rarely was inclined to, anyway.
"Yes."

She nodded, looking down briefly.  "How do you feel about that?"

"Me?  What does it matter what I think?"

"Because you might be influencing her opinion."

He hadn't thought of that.  "Well, I don't give a damn, if you want the
truth."  Which wasn't strictly true.  The idea that he was tangled up
with another one of Wilt's daughters gave him serious heartburn when he
thought about it.  But that didn't mean he thought any less of Hannah.
"I mean, human beings are human beings.  We all do things that later we
don't feel too proud of.  Things that other people can't understand.
But what I think doesn't really matter."

"It could," she said enigmatically.  But before he could pursue that
assertion, she continued.  "I wish Joni would let me explain.  I
suppose I don't have any excuses, but I certainly have some reasons."

"Which are better than excuses any day.  I told her she ought to talk
to you.  Why don't you go in there now?  Maybe she's finally ready to
listen."

Hannah nodded.  "I'll do that.  And you stay clear of Witt until I can
talk sense to him."

Hardy couldn't help it.  He might be aching all over from bruises and
muscle strains, and his heart might feel as heavy as lead over Joni,
but he couldn't prevent himself from seeing the humor in that
statement.  "Nobody can talk sense into Witt."

A smile flickered over Hannah's face.  "You might be surprised.  Take
care, Hardy."

Then she squared her shoulders and left the waiting room.  And he
realized he hadn't asked if she had a way home.  Sighing, he went to
call his mother and tell her he was going to be late.  He couldn't
leave Hannah here to fend for herself.

That was when he remembered that Barbara didn't even know there'd been
an accident.  He'd been able to prevent Sam and the medical personnel
from calling anyone except Hannah.  So there Barbara sat, thinking her
son was safely in some motel in Wetrock.  Hah!  Maybe he shouldn't call
her at all.

Then he thought how mad she would be when she found out that he'd kept
this from her.  Hell, he didn't know who was going to give him a worse
tonguelashing: Barbara or Joni.

Probably Barbara, he decided.  She loved him.  And Joni didn't give a
damn.

Hannah discovered that Joni had been moved upstairs to a regular room.
It took her a few minutes to get the number out of the admitting clerk,
then she headed upstairs, hoping Joni would still be awake.

She wanted to talk to her daughter.  Needed to talk to her daughter.
They had a lot of things to clear the air about, and she was getting
rather tired of living with this emotional pain and emptiness.  If Joni
didn't feel up to it tonight, that was fine, but she was going to make
it clear to her daughter that they were going to discuss this soon.

However, when she reached the second floor and was on her way down the
hushed corridor toward Joni's room, doubt began to gnaw at her.  Maybe
she shouldn't confront Joni.  Not just at this time, but ever.

What could she possibly offer in her own defense?  The weak excuse that
Lewis was doing it, too?  That wasn't going to hold much water with a
daughter who had been raised to believe that "everybody's doing it" was
no excuse to lower herself.

Hannah paused and leaned against the cool wall, closing her eyes.  This
past week had worn her out.  Age must be catching up with her, she told
herself, but she didn't quite believe it.  At no time in her past had
she had to deal with so much in such a brief time.  Witt disowning
Joni, Witt's heart attack .  and now Joni apparently disowning her. 
She'd felt emotionally battered and bruised before in her life, but
never quite like this.  Never.

What did she hope to accomplish by confronting Joni, anyway?  Surely
she wasn't hoping that Joni would give her some kind of absolution that
would allow her to shed her disgrace and guilt?  Because if so, she had
no business talking to her daughter about this at all.

But no, there was Joni's relationship with Witt to consider.  That was
what had prompted her to tell the story in the first place.  If she'd
had her druthers, she would have told Witt first, but .  but not when
he was so sick.  Although after tonight, she figured he might be able
to handle the shock.

Now she didn't feel she could tell Witt without Joni's permission.  So
what good had she accomplished?  Her intent had been to encourage Joni
not to accept Witt's rejection as final.  But all she'd achieved was to
create another split.

Dear God.  It was all her fault.  She should have told Witt the truth
years ago and withstood his anger at her deception.  Back when Joni was
small, it never would have come to this.  Everything might have been
different.

"Hannah?"  A woman's soft voice reached her, and she opened her eyes to
see Martina Escobar, a nurse she'd known for years.  "Are you all
right?"

"I'm fine," Hannah lied.  "Just exhausted."

Martina smiled.  "After taking care of Witt Matlock?  I should think
so. He's a handful and a half.  But your daughter's fine."

"I know."  Except for the remote possibility she might still have some
brain swelling.  It had been a bad concussion, and Joni had been
unconscious a long while.  But Martina was probably right.  At this
point, with Joni fully awake, they were almost certainly out of the
woods.

Smiling back at Martina, she straightened.  "I can see her, right?"

"If you'll help me keep her awake all night, you can stay."

The teasing way Martina said it brought a small laugh to Hannah's lips,
the first in what seemed like forever.  "I'll help."

Moments later she was standing on the threshold of Joni's room.  It was
a private room, possibly because Joni was a hospital employee.  Joni's
face was turned toward the dark window, split by horizontal blinds set
between the panes of thermal glass.

Hannah's heart squeezed with such pain that she stayed on the
threshold, paralyzed by feelings too strong to bear.  The reality of
what had happened gripped her fully for the first time.  Joni could
have been killed in the accident.  She could have died without ever
smiling again.

Hannah would have given anything to see that happy smile again.
Anything.  Unfortunately, she didn't know how to accomplish it.  And
even if she'd had an idea, she didn't think she would trust it.  All
her other attempts to protect those she loved seemed to have turned
into disasters.

Finally, acknowledging that hovering in the doorway wouldn't accomplish
anything at all, she entered the room.

If Joni heard her, she gave no sign.  She continued to stare blindly at
the window.  Hannah felt a sharp pang of fear.

"Joni?"

"What?"

It was an irritable, truculent question, not so very different from the
way Joni had said it when she was little and feeling cranky.  "How's
your headache?"

"Better."  But she still didn't turn to look at her mother.

"Good."  Hannah approached the foot of the bed, unwilling to step into
Joni's field of view until she got some sign that it was okay.  "You're
just like Witt," she said, trying to keep her voice light.  "He's been
grousing at me and throwing things since he got out of the hospital."

No response.  The tide of sorrow and fear began to rise in Hannah's
heart again.

"Well," she said, trying to sound brisk, "they told me I could stay
here with you tonight and help keep you awake."

"I don't see why I have to stay awake."  Crabby, petulant.

"Because you've had a severe concussion.  They need to keep an eye on
you.  If they let you just fall asleep, you might wake up dead."

She had chosen her words with care and felt a brief surge of relief as
she saw one corner of her daughter's mouth lift slightly.

"No one wakes up dead," Joni said.  But not quite as irritably.

"Depends on your point of view, doesn't it?"

At last Joni turned and looked at her.  "Will you please not make me
laugh?"

Hannah knew such a wave of relief then that she couldn't help smiling.
"Why not?  Are you allergic?"

"Lately I seem to be."

"Hmm.  Laughter's the best medicine, you know.  If you weren't so
bruised, I'd tickle you."

"Jeez, Mom!"  But the frown wasn't quite convincing.  And Joni had
called her Mom.

"I suppose you don't want me to sit where you can actually see me, so
how about I hang from the ceiling like the old bat I am?"

"Oh, cut it out."  Grumpy, but not so much.  Joni pointed to a chair
beneath the window.  "Sit there, okay?  This is the only position I can
get comfortable in."

Good, Hannah thought.  She hadn't been thrown out, and Joni had told
her to sit where she could be seen without effort.  A marked
improvement. The sting of tears bit at her eyes again, this time from
welcome relief.  She held them in, though.  It was far too soon to be
claiming a victory.

Slipping her jacket off, she hung it on the back of the chair.  Her
purse she dropped to the floor beside it.  Then she sat, facing her
daughter.

Joni didn't say anything, just continued to stare out the window.

Finally Hannah asked, "Can you see something out there?"

"UFOs."

Shocked, Hannah started to vault from her seat to go look for help, but
Joni's voice stopped her before she fully stood.

"Take a chill pill, Mom.  I'm just joking."

Not a very good joke, under the circumstances, but Hannah was willing
to accept it as an olive branch.  "Oh.  I got scared."

"Sorry.  Where's Witt?"

"I sent him home."

Joni's eyes widened.  "You sent him home?"

"Yes.  Why not?  He was only upsetting you."

"But, Mom..."  Her voice trailed off.

"But what?"

"You and Witt have been joined at the hip ever since we moved up here.
We hardly ever did anything without him.  He might as well have been
living with us."

Hannah took a moment to look out the window and gather her thoughts.
She hadn't seen it that way before.  "I suppose you're right," she said
finally.

"Of course I'm right.  He spent almost as much time with us as Dad did.
Maybe more, because Dad was always working."

Or screwing around, Hannah thought with the old resignation.  She'd
never told Joni about that, although Joni had figured out some of it.
Not knowing quite what to say, she asked, "Did that bother you?"

It was Joni's turn to look thoughtful.  "I don't think so.  Well, maybe
that's not true."

When she didn't speak again, Hannah prompted her.  "Why isn't it
true?"

Joni bit her lip, then sighed.  "I don't know.  I guess there were
times when I resented him, especially right after Dad died.  I wanted
you all to myself."

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry!"

Joni shrugged.  "I was just being selfish, and I knew it.  I mean, I
figured Dad had died, and you needed someone, too.  It was just every
now and then that I got angry.  I think Karen resented it a little,
too.  She'd had Witt all to herself for a few years before we moved up
here.  But then we became really close friends and it didn't seem so
bad anymore."

Hannah "compressed her lips, holding in a whole bunch of emotions, not
wanting to inflict her feelings on her daughter.  " I feel bad about
that.  Witt and I thought we were replacing missing parts in your
lives. Building a family for you two.  "

"I guess you were," Joni agreed.  "But sometimes it didn't feel that
way.  But we were just kids.  You know how cockeyed kids can get."

"Sometimes they aren't cockeyed, Joni.  They're just seeing truth from
a different perspective."

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore."

"Yes, I think it does," Hannah said firmly.  "Especially since you were
surprised that I could send Witt away.  Do you think he's running my
life?  Our lives?"

Joni didn't even hesitate.  "In some ways he is.  Like this thing with
Hardy.  It's fine if he wants to hate and blame Hardy for the rest of
his days.  But there's no reason why I should be expected to."

"You're right."

"So why did we put up with it for so long?"

"I guess because we didn't want to hurt him."  Which was true.  Witt
had always been good to them.  Always.  It seemed so ungrateful to fly
in the face of his wishes or do something that might hurt him.

Joni stirred restlessly, then winced as something hurt.  "I think I got
a few more braises than I thought."

Hannah wanted to go to her and comfort her, but she didn't feel Joni
was ready for that yet.  "Bruises can be so painful, can't they?
Especially deep ones."

"More painful than I would have thought.  Man, the seat belt must have
made me black-and-blue."

"Probably."

"Hardy saved us, Mom."

Hannah nodded encouragingly.

"I'm not kidding.  That car skidded, and it was going so fast, and it
started to fishtail right toward us.... We'd have been dead if it had
hit us.  Or if Hardy had hit that snowbank at the wrong angle and we'd
flipped."

"I know."

"Are you going to tell Witt that?"

Hannah tilted her head a little to one side.  "If I don't, I suspect
Hardy will.  Tonight he had the look of a man who is determined to
finish something.  But yes, I suppose I will tell Witt.  I've been
trying to tell him for years that Hardy didn't kill Karen, so I don't
suppose he's going to listen to me, but I'll try."

"Witt feels guilty."

Hannah acknowledged that with a nod.  "We all feel guilty when someone
we love dies.  We think about what we could have done differently that
might have changed the way things worked out.  We wish we'd died in
their place."

lord surprised her with the tack she took.  Instead of continuing to
discuss Witt, she moved to Hannah.  "Did you feel that way when Dad
died?"

Hannah had to draw a long breath and take a moment to compose herself
before she could speak.  She had anticipated that the conversation
would move in this general direction, but she hadn't realized just how
difficult and frightening it was going to be.

She was grateful when Martina came in to take Joni's vital signs and
check her pupil reactions.  "Looks good," Martina said, giving them
each a smile.  "You getting hungry, Joni?  I could bring you some
Jell-O."

"Jell-O?  Hah."

"I know it's not much, but at least it tastes good."

"You wouldn't happen to have ginger ale or a cola, would you?"

"Sure.  I'll get you some from the lounge."

"Jell-O," Joni said, wrinkling her nose after Martina had left.  "Every
time someone mentions that, I remember you feeding it to me when I was
sick."

"You loved it!"

"That was back then."

Hannah shook her head, smiling, glad of the reprieve.  Apparently Joni
had forgotten the question she had asked.  But the reprieve wouldn't be
forever, she reminded herself.  Sooner or later Joni would ask again.

So maybe she should just go ahead and answer the question.  It was.
"Mom?  Did you feel guilty when Dad died?"

Not much of a reprieve after all.  "Yes, I suppose I did.  But you have
to remember, honey, that was a long time ago.  I'm not very clear on
exactly what I felt then."

"Hedging?"

"No, I'm not hedging.  I'm just not clear.  I was upset.  So upset that
well, I don't remember everything that went through my head.  I
remember the shock when the police told me.  I'll never forget that
feeling.  It was as if my body went numb, and my shoulders started to
melt...."

She shook her head, trying to dismiss that part of the memory, because
it was still so vivid.  Her body was responding to it even now.  "Then
well, I stayed numb for a while, at least until after the funeral.  It
was like a fog settled over my brain.  Or maybe as if my brain had gone
somewhere else and was watching from a distance while my body went
through the motions.  None of it seemed real."

Joni gave a very slight nod.  Apparently she could remember how she had
felt.  The younger woman's face shadowed, and she said softly, "I
couldn't believe it."

"I couldn't either," Hannah agreed.  "I really couldn't.  And it must
have been so much harder for you."

"Why?"

"Because I hadn't really loved Lewis in years."

The words dropped into the stillness of the room, and Hannah could feel
the ripples spreading.  She wondered where they would carry her and
Joni, but she was past lying anymore.  Those words, which she had never
said out loud before, needed saying.  For the good of her own soul, if
no one else's.

"Why not, Mom?"

"Because he'd been cheating on me since before we were married."

Joni pushed herself up against her pillow, her eyes widening.
"Before?"

"Before," Hannah repeated flatly.  "It started while we were engaged.
Of course, I didn't know it until after we were married."  "Why in the
world did he marry you, then?"

Hannah shrugged.  The shrug was more to conceal her pain at the
question than because she was really indifferent.  "I've often
wondered.  I suspect it had to do with the fact that I was a nurse and
held a decent job so he could live a whole lot better.  The other woman
didn't work at all.  She came from a wealthy family and didn't need
to."

Joni's expression saddened even more.  "When did you find out?"

And just like that it came around to the situation surrounding Joni's
conception.  Hannah hesitated.  "Are you sure you want to hear this? 
Do you feel well enough?"

"I'm supposed to stay awake all night, Mom.  This discussion is more
likely to accomplish that than TV is."

One corner of Hannah's mouth lifted.  "Fair enough.  But it's not
pretty.  I'm still ashamed."

Joni didn't say anything, which, Hannah supposed, meant she was keeping
her judgments in reserve until she heard the whole story.  It was the
best she could hope for.

"We'd been married a couple of years," she began, hoping she could hang
on to her calm until she finished the whole sordid thing.  "Your father
was in his third year of medical school.  We were at a New Year's party
on campus, a really big one.  Most of the med students were there, plus
all their dates.  Witt was in town because he was having some marital
problems and wanted time to think about things before he went home, so
we took him with us."

"What kind of marital problems?"

"I don't really know.  He never told me.  He said it was private, and
he just needed some time away."

"Okay."  Joni sighed and closed her eyes for a moment.  "Oops.  I'm not
allowed to do that."

"Not for a while, honey."

"So go on.  You went to the party."  "Yes.  I had a couple of drinks.
Witt had more than a couple, I think.  He pretty much kept to himself,
brooding in a corner.  At some point I realized I hadn't seen Lewis in
a while.  So I went looking for him.  And I found him."

Joni sat up.  "That was when...?"  "That was when.  I walked in on him
in the middle of making love to this woman.  I stood there, shocked and
angry and confused and hurt, while they scrambled to cover themselves.
I didn't say a word.

"Then the woman said to me, " Get used to it, honey.  He loved me
before he even met you.  ""

"Oh my God," Joni breathed.

"I looked at Lewis and..."  Hannah's voice broke, then steadied.  "And
he didn't deny it.  I ran.  I had a couple of drinks, trying to drown
the pain.  I don't exactly remember the rest too clearly, except that I
told Witt all about it, and he got upset, and somehow we wound up in
another building.  He held me while I cried, swearing he was going to
teach Lewis a lesson and... There's no excuse, Joni.  No excuse.  I
don't know if I was too drank, if Witt was too drank, if we were just
angry and hurt and wanting to get even or what.  But we made love.  And
conceived you.  And afterward ... afterward we swore we'd never tell
anyone what we'd done because we both felt... ashamed of ourselves."

Joni nodded, wincing as her headache reminded her of the concussion.
"I've got to stop doing that.  So what happened then?"

"We went back to the party.  Witt rounded up Lewis and insisted we go
home.  Nobody said a word, not that night or the next day.  It was as
if we were all robots.  Then, a couple of days later, Lewis told me
he'd made a huge mistake, that he was getting rid of the bimbo, and it
would never happen again."

"But it did."

"Well, I didn't find out about it immediately.  I spent the next month
trying to believe what he said, partly, I guess, because of what I'd
done with Witt.  I mean, who was I to criticize?"

"Come off it, Mom.  It wasn't exactly the same thing as a long-term
affair."

"I was still unfaithful.  I had to deal with that.  Anyway, things with
Lewis seemed to be improving.  We even started having sex again.  And I
was pregnant.  I knew that.  I knew it within a week.  And I knew it
wasn't Lewis's baby."

Hannah sighed and looked away, casting her mind back as best she could
to that discovery.  "I agonized for days about whether to tell Lewis.
Then, finally, I realized that if I told him, I'd do something worse
than destroy our marriage.  I'd destroy his and Witt's relationship.  I
couldn't bring myself to do that.  Witt doted on Lewis, and Lewis
worshiped Witt.  I couldn't do anything to mess that up.  So I never
told either of them.  It was better just to let everyone believe you
were Lewis's."

Joni didn't say anything for a while.  She lay back on her pillow and
stared out the window.  Presently she said, "How long before Dad
cheated again?"

"I don't really know.  I didn't find out about it until a few years
later.  I think you were four at the time."

"Why didn't you leave?"  "Because I felt so guilty.  Because you loved
your daddy.  Because, frankly, I'd gotten to the point where Lewis
couldn't hurt me anymore.  I just plain didn't care.  Something...
something inside me was dead, Joni.  That's the only way I can explain
it."

"You have no idea," Joni said, "how often I wondered why you put up
with his cheating like that."

Hannah drew a sharp breath.  "You knew?"

"Sure.  I didn't say anything, because I had the feeling you didn't
want me to know.  But I knew.  From the time I was eleven, I knew.  It
was obvious.  And I just couldn't figure out why you didn't tell him to
get lost.  On the other hand, I lived in terror that you would. Because
I did love him."

"I know you did."  A tear rolled down Hannah's cheek.  "I know you
did."

Silence fell over the room.  The early winter night seemed to creep
inside with them, and Hannah felt the chill in her heart.  She'd made
so many mistakes, apparently more than she'd even realized.  And she
could no longer figure out which was the worst one.  Maybe they were
all equally heinous.  Certainly they all 'had caused enough pain.

Right now, healing all those wounds looked like an insurmountable task.
She might, with time, persuade Joni to forgive her, but then there was
Witt.  He was such a hardheaded man, and she could anticipate his
anger. And his refusal to ever forgive her.  But for his sake and
Joni's, she had to confess as soon as it seemed safe.

But not yet.  Deep inside she felt she had to settle things with Joni
first, to be sure that Joni stood on a firm base from which to meet the
uproar with Witt.  Never mind what it did to Hannah; she needed to be
sure Joni was going to be okay.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Why didn't you and Witt ever marry?  Really."

Hannah didn't know how to answer that.  "I'm not sure we have that kind
of relationship."

"The spark was there once."

"A long time ago."

"But you love each other.  I can see it in everything about you two."

Hannah sighed.  "I don't know.  Maybe we both feel guilty for what
happened.  Maybe that settled the whole thing forever."

Joni sighed and turned her head a little, so that she was looking away.
"People are so stupid."

"People make mistakes.  It's how we learn.  I wouldn't call it
stupidity."

"You're probably right.  I think I have a tendency to see things too
much in black and white."

"We all do when we're young.  The curse of getting old seems to be that
everything starts to look dingy shades of gray."

"You're not old."

Hannah smiled at her daughter but said quite honestly, "Sometimes I
feel older than those mountains out there."

Joni remained quiet for a few minutes.  Just as Hannah began to wonder
if she'd fallen asleep, Joni spoke.  "Have you ever been happy, Mom?
Ever?"

"I'm content."

"That isn't what I asked.  I asked if you've ever been happy.  It's not
the same thing as contentment."

Hannah didn't quite know how to answer that.  Happy?  She'd always
equated it with being content.  But Joni didn't, and thinking about it,
she realized there was a difference.  "I've been happy at times," she
finally said slowly.  "

"But not in my memory.  I can't remember when you ever seemed to feel
on top of the world."

"That's a hard place to reach."

"Maybe."  Joni frowned.  "I want to be happy.  I don't mean deliriously
happy.  But I want more than contentment.  I'd like a little joy,
too."

Hannah nodded.  She didn't have the heart to tell her daughter that she
was looking for the end of the rainbow.  Life didn't let people feel
that way for long, or often.

But as soon as she had the thought, she realized that there was
something wrong with thinking that way.  Had she really allowed the
disappointments in her life to skew her so much?  It wasn't as if there
had been that many.

"Mom?  What was your childhood like?  You never talk about it."

"There isn't much to tell.  I was born on the reservation.  You know
that.  And my mom died when I was four, so I don't remember much about
her.  A cousin who lived in Pueblo took me in."

"Was she nice?"

"Nice enough.  I had no complaints."  Which wasn't exactly true.  The
cousin had taken care of the basics, but grudgingly, never failing to
remind Hannah that she was a charity case.  "She was an old woman.  It
wasn't easy for her.  But I never did without anything."  Except,
maybe, love.

"What about your father?  Why didn't he keep you?"

"He was long gone, I guess.  I don't even know who he was, and my
cousin would never speak of him."

"Oh."  Joni's gaze moved to the window again, and it seemed to Hannah
that her face had saddened.

"It doesn't matter," Hannah said.  "I never knew him, so I couldn't
really miss him.  Oh, I suppose I missed the idea of having a father,
but I couldn't miss him, if you understand."

Joni nodded.  "And this cousin never spoke a word?"

"Not about him.  She talked about my mother some, usually saying she
was a good-for-nothing, but I never knew why.  I asked her once, and
she'd say, " It don't matter, just don't you turn out like her.  ""

"Ouch."

Hannah smiled faintly.  "It was a good enough answer to keep me from
asking again."

"I bet.  So basically you had a hard childhood."

"Not really.  I was never abused."

"But you were lonely."

Joni's perspicacity surprised her.  With that surprise came the
realization that she was accustomed to thinking her daughter was
utterly self-centered.  Maybe some of that was starting to wear off
with increasing maturity.  "I suppose I was.  I pretty much kept to
myself until I went to nursing school.  I made some good friends
there."

"And then you met Dad.  Lewis."

"Yes."  Hannah smiled softly as she remembered.  "He was exciting.  He
made me feel dizzy and high and special.  I'd never felt like that
before."  Then she grimaced.  "I suppose I should have been leery.  It
should have dawned on me that I couldn't be the only one he charmed out
of her socks."

"But even then, why would you think he was taking advantage of everyone
he charmed?"

"I don't know."  Hannah sighed.  "It never occurred to me.  I just
assumed he was showering me with all that attention because he thought
I was special.  And I guess he did.  For a while."

She twisted her hands together and watched her fingers grip each other.
"You know, Joni, I know what that woman said, and that Lewis never
denied it.  But ... I sometimes wonder what i did wrong.  He married
me, after all, and I'm sure he could have taken his pick of nurses.  So
there must have been something else about me that drew him.  And
somewhere along the way, I must have ruined it."

Moving cautiously, Joni sat up and swung her legs over the side of the
bed.  Just then Martina returned with a cold can of 7UP.  "Sorry, she
said breezily.  " No ginger ale.  Hope this will do.  "

"That's great, thanks," Joni said with pleasure.  "I don't know how I
can be so thirsty when I'm on an

IV.

"

"An IV doesn't do much for the cotton in your mouth, especially when
you're talking.  And what the heck are you doing getting out of bed?"

"I wanted to hug my mother."

Hannah's cheeks warmed with pleasure.

Martina put her hands on her hips.  "So tell her to come over here."

"And I wanted to go to the bathroom."

"You know you're supposed to have somebody with you.  Right beside you.
So..."

"I'll do it," Hannah said.  "I haven't forgotten all my nursing
skills."

Martina relaxed.  "Fine.  But if I find out she's been cheating, I'm
gonna sit on her."

When Martina was gone, Joni pulled the tab of the soft drink and drank
thirstily,

"That's going to leave an aftertaste," Hannah said.

"I don't care.  I can have water then.  Right now I just want to clean
out my mouth."

After Hannah had escorted her to the bathroom and back to bed, Joni
used the switch to put the head of the bed up higher.

"You're feeling better," Hannah noted.

"The headache's letting up a little bit.  And I've got more questions I
want to ask."

Hannah realized she'd been hoping that Joni was done for now.  She had
been feeling emotionally worn-out even before she'd learned of the
accident, just from dealing with Witt and the rupture with Joni.  Since
then, she'd drained her reserves even lower, until now she didn't know
if she had an ounce left to run on.

But she didn't want to postpone this talk, either.  They were rolling,
and it felt as if they were actually moving forward together, as if
Joni was beginning to understand.  It would be a mistake to halt this
now.

Joni spoke.  "Maybe you're being too hard on yourself.  Maybe you
didn't do anything to ruin it, Mom.  Maybe he was just the kind of guy
who couldn't be content for long."

"But why did he pick me?"  It was a question that had plagued Hannah
for a long, long time, but even as she said it, she knew it was unfair
to ask it of Joni.

How could Joni possibly know any more about it than Hannah did?

"I don't know, Mom.  Any more than you do.  But you're a beautiful,
exotic-looking woman.  Maybe he found some kind of thrill in that.  Or
maybe he felt he could take advantage of you more than the others.  Or
maybe he just thought he really loved you.  Only he wasn't the kind of
guy who could love any one person for long."

Hannah sighed.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have asked you that
question."

Joni shrugged.  "Why not?  It's helping me understand some of what
happened.  The point is, I don't think you should take responsibility
for his failings.  At least that's what they taught me in psych class,"
she qualified almost ruefully.

Hannah smiled back at her.  "That's what I heard, too.  Funny how we do
it anyway."

"Yeah."  Joni wiggled on the bed and took another sip of her 7UP.  "You
don't have to stay with me all night, Mom.  It's going to be long."

"Only because you can't sleep.  And I want to be here."

"Thanks."

Silence fell again, but this time not as chilling as it had felt
earlier.  Hannah, who was willing to hug even slender hopes to her
breast, hugged the awareness that Joni wasn't getting angry with her
but instead was actually trying to make her feel better.  But something
else needed saying, and she said it.

"Honey, I'm sorry I hurt you."

Joni nodded and for a little while looked out the window.  "I was
hurt," she said finally.  "Not in the way people usually mean when they
say they're hurt.  It's not as if you did something intended to wound
me. But ... I was hurt.  Because things were different.  It was like an
earthquake.  Afterward so much is tilted and askew.  My whole world
looked that way."

"I imagine so."

"Then there was doubt.  Namely, how much of what I thought I knew was
true?  I felt almost like I didn't have any foundation at all."

Hannah nodded.  "Yes.  I understand that."

"But, I guess ... well, it's not as if some stranger is my father. It's
Uncle Witt.  Of course, right now, I don't like him very much."

"Right now I don't like him very much."

Joni's eyebrows lifted.  "Really?"

"Really," Hannah said frankly.  "He's being a pain in the ass."

Hannah rarely talked that way, and a startled laugh escaped Joni.

"Well, it's true," Hannah said.  "He disowned you over a little thing
like passing the bid to Hardy."

"I thought you didn't approve of my doing that."

"Well, I didn't, because I felt your first loyalty should have been to
Witt.  But what harm was done?  He could still turn down the bid.  It
certainly wasn't worth disowning you."

"I don't know, Mom.  I was impulsive.  Angry at the way ... well, don't
think me harsh and uncaring, but Karen's been shadowing our lives for a
long time now.  Even Dad's death didn't shadow my life the way Karen's
has.  At least, not for as long.  There's something ... not right about
it."

Hannah sighed.  "I think we've had this discussion, honey, but you need
to understand that losing a child is far, far worse than losing a wife
or friend.  It's as if the whole soul rebels, because it seems so
unnatural."

"Maybe.  But that doesn't justify the amount of anger and hate Witt is
carrying around, or the fact that he's using it to control me."

"He's not controlling you.  He just didn't want you to associate with
Hardy."

"But Hardy used to be my friend, Mom.  And Witt never took that into
account, did he?  Anyway, it's not his fault I feel shadowed.  Not
completely, anyway."

Hannah wanted to pursue that, but before she could, Joni asked another
question.  "So Witt's really been bugging you since he got out of the
hospital, huh?"

"Oh, yeah.  He's been impossible, but I think he's more scared than
anything."

"Maybe.  Although it's hard to imagine Witt scared."

"That's because he always gets angry."

"Sheesh.  Men."  Joni sighed in disgust.

Hannah shrugged.  "They're different."

"Sometimes.  Hardy isn't.  Well, Hardy's just special in a lot of
ways."

"Oh?"

"Yeah.  He actually listens to me."  Joni's face darkened a little. 
"Of course, he told me it was time for me to grow up."

Hannah wisely kept silent.  She suspected that whether she agreed or
disagreed with Hardy's assessment, Joni was going to get angry with
her.  Although part of her agreed with Hardy.  Joni was only
twenty-six, young still.  Certainly young enough to tend to see things
in black and white.  Young enough to charge full tilt into situations
she didn't totally understand.  Young enough to be unwilling to
compromise.

Yet, even from the vantage of Hannah's greater years, that didn't look
like such a bad thing.  She envied Joni's passion and commitment, even
if it did need to be tempered a little with experience.

But her comments about Hardy were interesting in and of themselves.
Back when Joni had been in high school, Hannah had suspected that Joni
was sweet on Hardy, even though he was dating Karen.  Hannah had never
mentioned it, and Joni had never acted on those feelings, but it had
still been apparent, to Hannah at least, that Joni felt something other
than friendship when she looked at Hardy.

She wondered if Joni was feeling guilty about that, if that was the
reason she'd chosen in such a startling way to stand up to Witt over
Hardy.  Maybe.  But she didn't know how to ask without upsetting Joni
all over again.

The idea, though, that Karen had shadowed all their lives--well, Joni
was right about that.  Karen had, if only because of Witt.  And she
really couldn't blame Joni for trying to break free.  Although she
wondered why Joni hadn't taken the easy route and simply moved away.

That thought brought her right back to Hardy.  Apparently Joni still
felt some of that longing for him.  Maybe was feeling a fresh case of
it.  It wouldn't be surprising.

But, God, what a tempest that would raise with Witt.  And Hannah,
feeling extraordinarily worn-out emotionally, honestly didn't know if
she could handle it.

But it wasn't her decision.  Joni was going to do what Joni chose to
do. Time to buckle her mental seat belt.

Instead of pursuing the potentially disastrous subject of Hardy, she
returned to her first concern.  "Do you understand better now, honey?
Do you think you might be able to forgive me?"

"It's not my place to forgive you," Joni said.  "But ... I'll have to
think about it, Mom.  I'm still not sure."

Hannah's heart went tumbling down another rocky slope.  "Why?"

"Because ... because I'm still not sure how I feel about it.  It's ...
I don't know.  It's like everything I

believed just came crashing down around my head and I'm standing in the
rabble trying to figure out what I can salvage.  "

Hannah was past tears.  She asked herself what she had expected.  All
the explanations in the world didn't make her feel any less guilty or
ashamed, so why should she expect them to change Joni's mind?  It was a
ridiculous hope.

"I'm sorry," Joni said.  "I ... need time to absorb all this."

At least the door wasn't closed.  And for that, Hannah would have to
settle.

 -Hardy couldn't wait for morning to check on Joni.  The longer he
stayed away, the more concerned he grew.  Hell, she'd had a serious
concussion.  Enough to knock her out for almost two hours.  That was
nothing to treat lightly.  In fact, it was serious enough that the
hospital was keeping her overnight.  What if her brain started to
swell?

Barbara tried to soothe him, but she wasn't a doctor, and nothing she
said made much of an impact, not even when she pointed out that Joni
had her family and didn't need miscellaneous friends showing up.

The idea of her family merely made him snort.  Some family.  Moreover,
he didn't think of himself as a miscellaneous friend.  Not anymore. 
Not after the past week.

Finally Barbara cocked her head to one side.  "Okay, okay.  Finish your
tea and go.  But don't blame me if you and Witt get into it again."

"Witt's not there.  Hannah sent him home."

"Really?"  Barbara looked curious.  "I wonder why?"

"I suspect it had something to do with the fact that he confronted me,
and Joni told him to get out."

Barbara's mouth curved in a smile.  "I like that young woman more with
each passing day."

"Of course you do.  She's taking my side."

"No."  Barbara shook her head.  "She's standing up to Witt.  And it's
high time somebody did."

"You're not suggesting I do that, are you?"

"No."  Her brief laugh was rueful.  "It'll come in its own good time, I
suppose, but I don't want you seeking it out."

"I don't go looking for trouble, Mom.  You know that.  I don't need to.
Trouble enough seems to find me."

And it was all too true, he thought as he drove back toward the
hospital through the frigid night, his tires crunching on snow and ice.
All too true.  Look at the accident with Joni.  He just couldn't seem
to avoid the stuff.

It was as if he was carrying a private curse around with him, fating
him to terrible experience with the Matlock family.  But as soon as he
had that thought, he dismissed it as lunacy.  Curses didn't exist. 
He'd just had one of those runs of bad luck that happened sometimes to
people, the kind that when you read about them in the newspaper, all
you could do was shake your head.

He did, however, scan the parking lot to be sure that Wilt's battered
old pickup wasn't anywhere in sight.  It wasn't.  Relieved, he pulled
up near the entrance, parked and stepped out into the icy night.

Snow crunched beneath his boots; he loved that sound.  Sometimes he got
sick of shoveling and blowing the nearly two hundred inches of it they
got each year, but he still loved it.  He loved to ski, especially
cross-country, which could take him out into the wilderness away from
everyone.  He liked the way the cold invigorated him, making him feel
truly alive and awake.

The minute he stepped through the automatic door, the cold was gone and
the heat was on, making his nose and cheeks feel hot.  Oh, well.
Everything had a down side.

Because the hospital was small and he was well known to everyone who
worked there, he had no difficulty learning where they'd stashed Joni.
He hesitated on the threshold of her room, though, when he saw that
Hannah was talking.

But almost instantly she looked his way and smiled.  "Come in," she
said warmly.  "I think Joni's getting sick of my company.  She'll be
glad of a fresh face.  Besides, I need to go find a vending machine.  I
haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Downstairs, Mom," Joni said as Hardy stepped into the room.  "Behind
the door marked Staff Lounge.  They have dried-up sandwiches, candy
bars,

chips, cookies .  and there might even be some fresh coffee in the pot.
"

Hannah rolled her eyes.  "Doesn't she make those sandwiches sound
tempting?"

Joni blew a raspberry.  "The guy only gets up here once a week to
restock them.  Draw your own conclusions."

Hardy stepped aside to let Hannah pass, then looked at Joni, feeling
strangely diffident.  "I hope it was okay to come by?"

"Sure.  Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know.  Maybe because I was driving the car when you got
hurt."

She shook her head.  "It wasn't your fault.  If you hadn't handled your
car so well, we'd probably both be dead."

He sighed and went to stand at the window, seeing nothing but his own
reflection against the night and the opened blinds.  Shoving his hands
into his pockets, he said, "I've been rehearsing that maneuver for
twelve years."

Joni drew a sharp breath.  He didn't want to look at her for fear of
what he might see.

"Ever since the night Karen was killed, I've wondered what I could have
done differently.  It's been ... haunting me."

"It's haunted us all.  Don't tell me you think the accident was your
fault."

"No."  He shook his head, shifting his attention from his own
reflection to hers.  It seemed safer than looking at her.  "No, I don't
think it was my fault.  But I haven't been able to stop wondering what
I might have done differently.  I practiced maneuvers in my mind until
I felt as if they were engraved on my muscles.  And sometimes I'd go
out on an empty road and try them out."

"Oh, Hardy!"

"Anyway, now I know.  If I'd had more experience, I might have been
able to save Karen's life."

Silence answered him.  It was a deep silence.  He couldn't hear Joni
breathe or stir against the sheets.  The silence went on so long that
he grew concerned.  He turned at last, afraid she might be unconscious,
and found her looking at him with tears running down her cheeks.

"What's wrong?"  he asked, his heart suddenly pounding.  "Does your
head hurt?"

"You're still in love with Karen, aren't you?"  Then she turned her
face away.

His instinct was to answer no.  He hadn't been in love with Karen when
she died; why would he be in love with her now?  "

But he didn't answer quickly.  Instead, he forced himself to consider
her accusation, to weigh it carefully against everything in his
heart.

"No," he said minutes later.  "No.  I'm in guilt with Karen."

"It's not much different, is it?"  she said in a muffled voice, keeping
her face averted.  "You and Witt both.  You're stuck to her memory and
living in the past.  And you're never going to be free."

There was a certain justice in what she said, much as it stung.  But
because it stung, he couldn't ignore it.

"What do you want me to do, Joni?  Pretend it never happened?  Slough
off my guilt as if I don't care?  It's not that easy!"

"No, it isn't," she shot back.  "I know it isn't.  I've been living
with guilt, too.  But you couldn't have saved Karen's life back then,
no matter what you say now, because you didn't have the experience when
you were eighteen!"

"I know that.  Do you think I don't feel that every day?"

"Then what is the point, Hardy?"  she asked sadly.  "What is the point?
To find new ways to beat yourself up so you can keep it all fresh?"

The words hit him like a slap.  He didn't like seeing himself as
someone who kept picking at an old wound to keep it fresh.  But then he
realized something else, and it drove him to say, "Is that what you're
doing, Joni?"

"I guess so," she said weakly, and turned her face away again.  "I
guess so."

"But why?  You didn't have anything to do with Karen's death.  Nothing
at all.  There's nothing for you to feel guilty about?"  - "No?"  She
sniffled and wiped at her eyes.  "I coveted you.  I used -to imagine
taking you away from her.  I feel guilty, all right."

"Surely you don't think that had anything to with Karen dying...."  But
even as he spoke, the words trailed off.  He knew that was part of the
reason he felt so guilty himself.

"I wasn't a good friend," she said, wiping away more tears.  "I wasn't
a good friend to her."

He stood there, trying to decide whether to reveal the darkest secret
in his heart.  Which really wasn't so much worse than hers.  But he
knew the guilt it was causing him.  Maybe she wouldn't feel so bad if
she knew.  So he spoke, putting his trust in her understanding.  "I was
... going to break up with Karen that night."

At first he thought she didn't hear him.  She kept right on sniffling
and watching her tears fall on the sheet.  Just as he was about to
repeat himself, she looked up.

"What?"  she said.  It wasn't a confused question.  It held the ring of
disbelief.

"I said, I was going to break up with her that night."

Her eyes widened, then closed, and she breathed a strained, "My God."

"Yeah.  It really messed things up, frankly."

"Had you told her yet?"

"No."  He shook his head firmly.  "I was going to save it until I
dropped her off.  I didn't want her to be stuck somewhere with me, with
no place to go hide if she wanted to."

"So she never knew."  Joni started to shake her head, then winced.  "My
God."

"It makes me a real slimeball, doesn't it?  I had a lot of fun with
Karen, but..."  He couldn't bring himself to tell the whole truth.  "I
knew it wasn't love."

"She was certainly in love with you!"

"She thought she was.  Hell, for a while I thought I was in love with
her.  But it was puppy love, Joni.  It wasn't ready for reality.  It
was based on having a great time together on weekends.  Having fun
hanging out.  Not on anything real.  And quite frankly, looking back at
it, I think half the reason Karen hung around with me was because it
angered her father."

Joni picked at the blanket that covered her, pulling little balls of
fuzz off it.  "Maybe," she said after a while.  "It's possible.  I know
she seemed angry with Witt a lot, but I thought it was because of
you."

"Probably was.  I don't claim to be a mind reader.  And it was a long
time ago.  Maybe I've amended my memories."

She lifted her gaze to him.  "It's possible.  I don't know how much of
what I remember is real anymore.  I've played it all over in my head so
many times.  How do I know I haven't rationalized a whole bunch of
things?  But if she was angry with Witt over something other than you,
she never told me what it was."  "She used to complain that he watched
her like a hawk, as if she might go up in smoke at any moment."  As
soon as he said the words, he felt a shiver run down his spine.  Had
Witt had a premonition?

"Well," said Joni, "that was understandable.  He'd lost his wife and
brother.  Naturally he was scared he might lose Karen."

It sounded reasonable.  But Hardy still couldn't quite shake the chill
that had come over him.  He told himself it was a crazy feeling, that
there was no way Witt could have known or even guessed that Karen was
going to die.

But then he found himself remembering his craziness in those last few
weeks before the accident.  That feeling of almost suffocating under a
dark cloud.  Of the need to get away and get away fast.  He'd thought
it was because it was time to move on, but what if.

What if?  So what if?  If he'd been able to read the future in tea
leaves, he would have broken off with her sooner.  He never would have
taken her out that night.  But the impending sense of doom had been so
amorphous that he'd put it down to a mood.  Teenagers had moods all the
time.  He'd managed to realize that by the age of eighteen and had
stopped putting a whole lot of stock in them.

But what if Witt had .  no.  Witt had believed from the outset that
Hardy was bad for Karen.  That, combined with two grievous personal
losses, would have been enough to make Witt paranoid.

"Hardy?"  Joni's voice interrupted his thoughts.  "What's wrong?"

He almost groused, "What isn't?"  but caught himself in time.  Joni
didn't deserve that.  "Just remembering.  Wondering about things.  But
there'll never be any answers, so what's the point?"

"No, there won't be."  She shifted against her pillow and sighed.
"Somehow we all need to just let go of this.  We all made mistakes.  We
all did things we're not proud of.  But ... we all must feel that when
someone we love dies.  I think everyone must sit around wishing they
hadn't done this or wishing they had done that."

"Probably."

"So we're not all that weird."

He pulled the chair away from the wall and dragged it around to where
he could see her better.  "Except for hanging on to this thing for so
long."

"So how do we let go?"

"I don't know."  He rubbed his chin and sighed heavily.  "I don't know,
Joni.  Everything that's happened since you gave me that bid package
has only seemed to make it all fresh again.  As fresh as it ever
was."

"God.  That wasn't what I wanted to do at all."

"I know."  He felt his mouth trying to smile at her, but he wasn't
ready to smile at anyone.  About anything.  He felt as if he were
sitting on a psychic minefield, waiting for the next explosion.  But he
couldn't be the only one feeling that way.  Joni probably did, too, to
judge by the things she'd been saying.  And maybe even Witt.  Although
Witt had always been a great big minefield.

"Listen," he said abruptly, suddenly needing to get away for a few
minutes.  "I'm going to go see what's taking your mom so long.  Maybe
she needs a chain saw for that sandwich.  I'll be right back."

Joni obligingly laughed, but her eyes were haunted as they followed him
from the room.

Haunted.  The word fit them all, Hardy thought as he went looking for
the staff break room.

But he couldn't blame Karen for that.  She had been a sweet girl, with
a genuinely kind heart.  And while she'd also had a wild streak that
led her to fly in the face of her father's dictates, that wasn't so
weird for anyone that age.

But she had had a good heart.  A kind and decent heart.  The kind of
heart that he sometimes thought had made her date him just because he
was something of an outcast in school because of his father.  Well,
that and the fact that it was guaranteed to turn Witt livid.

The thought almost succeeded in drawing a reluctant smile out of him.
He hadn't thought of Karen as being particularly rebellious back then,
but she must have been.  He'd probably been blind to it, involved as he
had been in his own problems.  Teenage egotism at its best.  The most
real thing in any teen's life were his own internal emotional storms.

And if that had been true of him, it had also been true of Karen.  And
Joni.

Joni.  Christ, imagine her having a crush on him back then.  He'd
thought of her primarily as Karen's younger cousin, too young to
consider as serious date material.  Heck, even when he'd begun noticing
he was drawn to her, he'd managed to convince himself she was too young
and he shouldn't even be noticing her that way.  And most especially he
shouldn't be noticing her that way because she was so close to Karen.

But he'd noticed anyway.  Well, hell, she'd been fifteen toward the end
there, and that certainly wasn't too young for an eighteen-year-old to
at least notice.

But he'd never guessed she was noticing him, too.  Now, looking back on
it, he wondered if it would have made any difference if he had realized
she was attracted.  Maybe he would have broken off with Karen sooner?

But he doubted it.  Because the things he'd started feeling about Joni
back then had made him feel sleazy.  Doubly so because of Karen.  So he
wouldn't have acted on his attraction anyway.

Then a bitter thought struck him.  That high school crush of Joni's
might explain why she'd made love with him last night, then leaped out
of bed so convinced it was a mistake.  She might have acted on the
memory of the crush, then realized there was nothing left of it.
Nothing to justify sleeping with him.

God, that made him feel awful.  Just awful.  And not simply because
Joni might be disgusted with herself, but because the closeness he'd
been feeling with her might have been an illusion.  An illusion born of
something that had been little more than illusory twelve years ago: a
girl's crush.

Man, that thought hurt.

It also made him a fool, and he was never happy to discover he was a
fool, especially when his foolishness hurt someone else.  Then, too, he
was a proud man, one who preferred never to do anything he was ashamed
of.  Right now, he felt ashamed.

He found Hannah in the break room, eating a plastic cup full of fruit
salad and a small bag of chips.  Coffee in a disposable cup steamed
beside her.

She looked up when he entered.  "Do I need to go back?"

He shook his head.  "She seems okay, Mrs.  Matlock.  Really.  I'll go
back in a minute.  I just needed ... a moment to myself."

She lifted an eyebrow, then gestured for him to make himself
comfortable.  He could have sprawled on the now-empty couch, but
instead he chose to sit facing her at the small table.

Finally he said, "What do you think of this whole mess?"

She dabbed her mouth with a paper towel and met his gaze.  "Which
mess?"

"The whole mess.  All the way back to Karen."

"Ah."  Her dark eyes grew gentler.  "It's a mess, all right."

"Do you think I killed Karen?"

"No.  Nobody but Witt thinks that."

Hardy sighed and rubbed his chin.  Two days' growth of stubble rasped
noisily, and he stopped, looking rueful.  "That's nice to hear.  I
still blame myself."

"Of course you do.  Survivors tend to do that."

He nodded.  "Doesn't make me feel any better.  So ... do you mind me
hanging out with Joni?"

"Not at all.  I think she's missed your friendship."

Hardy realized he'd missed Joni's, too.  All these years.  "But what
about Witt?"

"Witt is an ass," Hannah said bluntly.  "A lovable, redeemable ass, but
still an ass."

Hardy had to laugh.  The smile that accompanied it seemed to ease all
the terrible tension in his face, neck and soul.  "Yeah.  He is."

"But only about this," Hannah cautioned.  "Don't ever mistake the man
for a fool.  He's just got this one awful blind spot."  She sighed and
stirred some half-and-half into her coffee.  "I don't know what in the
world to do about it.  I've certainly argued with him more than once.
All he hears is his own pain."

Hardy drummed his fingers once, quickly, on the table.  "I can
understand that."  "So can 1.1 love the man dearly, but this is...
well, it's been a big problem for a long time.  He's clinging to his
grief past reason.  And I'm still trying to figure out why.  There has
to be a reason."

"Maybe.  Or maybe it just hurts that bad."

Hannah shook her head.  "No.  He's nursed that pain and anger.  He's
tended it like a fire he's afraid to let go out.  I just wish I could
figure out why."

Hardy shrugged.  "Beats me.  I know Karen thought he was too strict,
but what teen doesn't feel that way about their parents?  I still
wonder sometimes if she dated me just to make him mad."

"It wouldn't surprise me.  Joni had some spells of that, too.  And
Karen was far more rebellious than Joni.  At least back then."  Her
expression turned wry.  "She's done quite a bit of catching up over the
years."

"She sure has."  A kind of admiration filled him.  "But she was always
impulsive and stubborn."

"True.  But not to this degree."

"Well, I don't think she ever stood up to Witt before.  Has she?"

"Never.  Maybe it was high time."  Hannah sipped her coffee, then set
the cup down.  "Witt's autocratic.  Always has been.  Maybe it comes
from having so much responsibility thrust on him.  I know there were
times when I resented it.  Lewis was married, I was working, and Witt
still insisted on paying for Lewis's medical school.  That was generous
and kind, of course, and I'm not knocking it, but the fact that he kept
slaving to earn all that extra money when he had a wife and child of
his own ... it made me feel bad.  Made us both feel indebted.  And gave
him a shoe in the door to comment on everything."

Hardy nodded slowly.  "But you still love him."

"Yes, I do.  You see, his intentions were good,

Hardy.  The best.  He didn't want Lewis living off me.  Felt it was a
bad setup for both of us.  " She shrugged."  It ended up that way
anyway.  We just lived better than a lot of other students.  " She
looked down, staring into her cup as if she might find answers there. 
" After . after things went south with Lewis and me, I found myself
wondering if Witt hadn't suspected that Lewis was just using me.  I
never did reach a conclusion about that.  Most likely it was a mixture
of motivations. Anyway, Witt was just trying to prevent Lewis from
taking advantage of me.  "

"I can understand that."  Hardy felt a sharp, unexpected pang of
sympathy for the woman.  Given what Joni had told him, he suspected her
marriage had been no bed of roses.

Hannah glanced up.  "Witt didn't succeed, but it wasn't his fault.  It
was mine.  I let myself be used."

Hardy didn't know how to respond to that.  He couldn't argue with her,
because he didn't know all that she knew.  But agreeing seemed cruel
and pointless.

"Anyway," Hannah said after a few seconds, "Witt meant well.  He
usually means well.  There's just this one problem, and I don't know
what to do about it.  He's being irrational."

"Maybe..."  Hardy hesitated and cleared his throat.  This was a stupid
idea.  Crazy.  But he said it anyway.  "Maybe I should talk to him."

Both of Hannah's dark eyebrows lifted.  "He'll just get furious."

"Well, I can get as loud as he can.  Maybe if you're there... I don't
know.  It's just been bugging me that the two of us have never really
had it out.  It's like unfinished business, and maybe he feels the
same.  But then ... well, he's sick.  I guess it's not a good idea."

Hannah sat thoughtfully for a few minutes.  Although he hadn't seen a
whole lot of her over the intervening years, because of Witt, he still
remembered that thoughtfulness of hers.  Back in their teen years,
she'd been something of a mother to Karen, and both he and Karen had
come to trust Hannah's thoughtful, quiet, composed way of looking at
the universe.  Karen had often said she could talk to Hannah about
anything and never get fireworks, not even little sparklers, the way
she always did from her dad.

Joni had felt the same way, he recalled.  For his own part, he'd used
Hannah as a sounding board when needed.  She'd always seemed like the
calm in the middle of a storm at a time when life had seemed to be a
series of typhoons.

"You know," Hannah said, "I'm not sure we need to protect Witt that
much.  He's had a couple of angry eruptions that haven't seemed to
affect his health.  In fact, I'd say he's pretty much recovered. Except
for his attitude."

"Attitude?  What's wrong?"

"He's terribly depressed.  And he's refusing to change his eating
habits to something healthier."

Hardy nodded.  He could understand the eating habits part.  He would
find it pretty hard himself to part with thick, rare steaks.  "But
wasn't anger what caused the attack?"

"It appeared to be.  But in the final analysis, no one can really say.
There was no serious damage to his heart muscle, no evidence of a clot
basically, they think he had a serious arrhythmia.  They're treating
that."

"Still..."  Hardy had enough on his conscience.  He did not need to
risk causing Witt another heart attack.

Hannah nodded.  "Still.  Well, I'm going to speak to him.  If he starts
to get too irate, I'll shut up.  But he rarely blows up that way with
me, Hardy."  "But what good will it do for you to talk to him?  You've
talked to him about this before, haven't you?"

"Yes.  But this time I'm going to make the old fool hear reason.  And
I'm going to make sure he'll sit down and talk with you.  Joni was
right about that.  It's high time."

 Joni was released from the hospital around noon the next day.  Hardy
picked her up.

"Where's my mom?"  she asked when he walked into the room.

"The vet had an emergency and needed her."  He looked pained.  "Afraid
to drive with me again?"

"No!"  Joni was appalled that he should think such a thing.  Then she
realized that asking where her mom was could have implied a whole lot
of things to him, none of them flattering.  "I'm sorry.  It's just that
last night she said she'd be picking me up."

* "I'm a poor second, I know.  But I rode here on my brand-new trusty
charger...."

That piqued her curiosity.  "You got a new car?  Already?"

"Didn't have much choice.  I can't get much work done if I can't get
around when I need to.  Come on, I think you'll like it."

It was at least something different to think about.

Most of the night, with Hardy sitting beside her, trying to keep her
awake, her mind had gone on worrying about the same old problems, round
and round like a carousel she couldn't get off.

"Maybe I need to see a shrink," she announced as they crunched across
the icy, snowy parking lot.

"Why?"  "Oh, well, how about the fact that my mind keeps running in
circles over the same stuff all the time?"

"Obsess much?"

He said it lightly, and she couldn't resist smiling back.  "It's never
quite gone out of my mind, but lately ... lately this whole thing with
Witt is driving me nuts."

"You know what your problem is?  You're a problem solver.  You can't
let go of things until you think you've found a way to solve them.  And
the closer you think you might be to a solution, the more you worry the
problem.  No big deal.  You don't need a shrink."

She looked up at him, her cheeks already pinkening from the cold.  "You
don't think so?"

"Hell no.  Look at Witt and me.  Why would you be exempt?"

Another smile helped lift her spirits as he made her feel better.
Hardy, she thought, was so good to her.  So understanding.  So kind.  A
flicker of dismay went through her as she remembered how she had acted
only the night before last, running from him like some crazy kid after
they made love.

Then her eyes fell on a cherry-red Suburban, so new it had hardly
picked up any dirt from the snowy roads.  "Is that it?  That?"

"Yup.  I kinda went hog-wild."

"Red?  Oh, Hardy, you always wanted a red car.  Always!"  She couldn't
help clapping her mittened hands together with delight.

He laughed.  "Well, yeah.  Except that I originally envisioned
different lines, you know?  Something lower, more aerodynamic, with
twin chrome exhaust pipes and an engine that rumbled with power.... You
know.  A Corvette.  Or a Mustang.  Or..."

She laughed with him.  "Our priorities change."

He half shrugged.  "I guess.  I have to carry a lot of junk with me to
job sites these days.  The gas mileage ain't nothin' to write home
about, but this baby can handle just about anything."

She approached the vehicle, admiring it.  But the instant he opened the
passenger door for her, all thoughts of the cherry-red Suburban went
out of her mind.  On the gray cloth seat was a florist's box.

Her heart fluttering, she turned slowly and looked at him!

"That's for you," he said offhandedly.

Her hands were suddenly shaking, and her knees felt like rubber.  It
was just flowers, she told herself.  Just flowers.  It didn't mean
anything. But she lifted the top of the box and wondered how it could
possibly be meaningless.  A dozen long stemmed roses looked back at
her, a dozen red roses.

Not yellow or pink or white, but red.  Her heart thumped so hard it
seemed about to leap out of her breast.  "Hardy?"  She spoke his name
almost tentatively.  Afraid of anything he might say.  Anything at
all.

"I hope you like them," he said, sounding awkward.

"Like them?  I love them!  But you didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

She faced him then, her heart beating a rapid tattoo, her body suddenly
remembering the night they had spent together.  Why was she remembering
that now?  She tried to quell the gooey warm feeling that seemed to be
spreading through her, but failed.  Her body seemed to be reaching out
to him, as did her heart, but her mind was screaming, No, this is not
right!  "But ... red roses...."  She wanted to believe they really
meant something but was terrified of believing it all at the same
time.

He looked down.  "I never felt like giving anybody red roses before."

Her heart slammed again, then climbed up into her throat.  Her mind
shrieked warnings to get out of there now, because only trouble could
lie ahead, but her feet remained glued to the parking lot.

He sighed almost inaudibly, then said, "I'm sorry I upset you at the
motel.  But I don't regret it.  I'll never regret it."

Then, before her scattered thoughts could come up with a single thing
to say, he leaned toward her and kissed her.

He probably meant it to be a light, brotherly kiss, but her body and
heart weren't going to settle for that.  She melted into him, every
cell and fiber of her being softening as if they wanted to become part
of him.

Then his arms closed around her, and it felt good, so good, to be held
by him, to feel his strength supporting her.  She felt like a flower
drinking rain after a long drought.

He drew her even closer, until it almost seemed they were welded
together.  Joni felt every last bit of resistance in her slipping away.
She had dreamed of this for so long, and who was going to say it was
wrong now?  Certainly not she.

But before the joy in her could bubble up too much, Hardy released her
and stepped back.  "Come on," he said.  "It's cold out here.  Let's go
home."

Home?  She didn't have a home anymore.  Even after last night, she
wasn't ready to consider moving back in with Hannah.  It was too close
to Witt. But she didn't dare ask Hardy if she could stay with him.  It
was too much of an imposition.  Besides .  he'd probably just meant
that kiss to be friendly.  She didn't want him to think she was going
to hang all over him because of it.  She'd seen other women embarrass
themselves that way and had always vowed she wouldn't do it.

Sitting in the truck, with the box of beautiful roses on her lap, she
looked out the side window and felt her chest ache with a sorrow and
longing so intense it almost overwhelmed her.  Everything that mattered
to her in life was being stripped away.  Her heritage, her uncle, even
the man she had believed to be her father.  Everything was a sham, it
seemed, most especially the word love.

She was afraid to glance in Hardy's direction for fear all her anguish
would come spilling out and he would feel obligated to take care of her
again.  That was all she was to him, an obligation.  All of this had
started because he'd found her stuck in a snowbank and upset.  Not
because he wanted her in his life, but because he felt a responsibility
to her.  Maybe because of Karen.  Maybe because that was who he was. 
But it had never had anything to do with her.

She absolutely did not want to be an obligation.  That was not what she
wanted from Hardy, not what she had ever wanted .  but all she had ever
had.  He'd let her hang around him and Karen like the kid sister who
had to be humored.  He hadn't really wanted her there.

And it continued today.  Everything that had happened between them had
happened because of his sense of responsibility.  That hurt her.

He wasn't even talking to her now, and finally she dared to glance in
his direction, wondering if he was annoyed with her or just impatient
to get rid of her.  She couldn't read his face, unfortunately.  Except
that his jaw seemed a little tight.

Well, it didn't matter, she told herself.  She needed to get on with
her plans to find a job elsewhere and move away from all these damn
shadows of the past.  Enough was enough.  These last few weeks seemed
to have chilled her soul.

Much to her surprise, Hardy drove right by Hannah's house and took her
to his own.  "You're staying here," he said almost sternly.  "Until
Witt straightens out, I don't want him coming anywhere near you."

Still an obligation, she thought.  Her throat tightened painfully, but
she managed to say, "I hope you're prepared to have me hanging around
for the rest of my life, then."

He looked at her, his gaze strange, almost hot and hard.  He was angry,
probably at having to rescue her again.  "You might be surprised," he
said flatly.

At what, she couldn't imagine.  Witt was as predictable as the rain
every summer afternoon.  Or the snow every winter.

Hardy helped her into the house, and Barbara, who had the day off,
seemed to bubble over when she saw the roses.  She helped Joni put them
in a large vase, then asked, "Would you like me to take them up to your
room?"

Joni shook her head.  "Thanks, Barbara, but they're too pretty to be
hidden away.  Why don't we keep them down here, where everyone can
enjoy them?"

"What a sweet notion."

Hardy had already disappeared to his shop, and Joni could faintly hear
him banging around.  "I guess he's mad at me," Joni said as Barbara
poured them both a cup of tea.

"At you?"  Barbara laughed.  "My dear child, no!  No man gives a dozen
long-stemmed roses to a woman he's angry with.  No, it's not you."

Joni didn't exactly believe her.  The roses were just an apology for
the accident.

Barbara poured milk into her tea and returned the jug to the
refrigerator.  Then she sat across from Joni and reached out to cover
her hand.  "Honey, he's mad at Witt.  He's been taking guff from that
man all these years, and he never much minded it.  As near as I can
tell, Hardy's always believed it was what he deserved.  But he doesn't
figure you deserve this crap."

"But Hardy doesn't deserve the crap, either."

"You and I know that.  I don't think Hardy's heart would agree,
though."  Hannah sighed, let go of Joni's hand and stared down into her
teacup.  "I've never been able to find a way to make him believe he
wasn't responsible for Karen's death.  He wasn't drunk.  He wasn't
speeding.  How can it be his fault that some drunk drove smack into him
without warning?  But that's the logic of the mind, Joni.  The heart's
not so reasonable."

"I know."  Indeed she did.  She'd had plenty of unreasonable emotional
reactions herself.

"But he's getting angry now, and that's a good tiling.  Anger is a sign
of healing.  But it might be uncomfortable for the rest of us for a
while."

"Well, I'll be gone as soon as I can find a job somewhere else.  It
shouldn't be too difficult.  I really hate to impose on you like
this."

Barbara looked at her, suddenly still.  "Really?  You're still going to
do that?"

"Definitely.  I'm through with this whole situation.  My uncle..."  Her
voice trembled, and she paused for a moment to gather herself.  "My
uncle is poisoning other people's lives.  Hurting other people.  He's
been hurting Hardy for years, and now he's hurt me ... and he's
certainly hurt my mother.  I want to get so far away I don't ever have
to think about him again."

In that moment Hardy's mother reminded Joni so much of Hannah that it
was almost uncanny.  Barbara sat silently for a minute or so, sipping
her tea.  When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, almost gentle.

"Joni, I'm sure you've realized that running away is never an answer,
because you always carry yourself along."

"That's what they say."  Joni felt her throat tightening again, and she
suddenly ached so badly for her mother that she could have cried.  Now,
right now, she needed Hannah's arms around her.  "But why stay here so
that Witt can scowl at me every time we meet on the street?  Why do
that to myself?"

Hannah nodded.  "I'm not sure I have a good answer for that.  But
before you do anything rash, you need to be sure that getting away from
Witt is enough to make up for everything else you'll be leaving.  Your
mother, your friends, a town where you know everyone.  I understand
that young people get bored in places like this, but ... there's plenty
that's good about Whisper Creek, too."

"Oh, I know that.  I love this place.  But..."  Joni shrugged.  "I give
up."

This time Barbara didn't seem to have anything to say at all.

Hannah was getting more irritated by the minute.  She couldn't find
Witt anywhere.  What had that damn fool man done?  she wondered.  Gone
off to Denver?  He wasn't supposed to be driving until they were sure
the medicine was working.  Thinking he might have returned to work,
even though he wasn't cleared to yet, she called up to the mine and
learned that no one had seen him, and if they had, they would have sent
him home.

She checked all his haunts, from the hardware store to the saloon where
he was known to bend an elbow from time to time, but no one had seen
him.

Fear began to sink icy claws into her, fueling her irritation.  What if
he'd tried to drive somewhere but had gone off the road?  But no, his
car was in his driveway.  What had she been thinking, letting him drive
home from the hospital last night?  She knew he wasn't supposed to, but
had figured a mile and a half wasn't anything to worry about.  At least
he hadn't taken it into his head to interpret that as license to drive
anywhere.

But all this ruminating was doing nothing to tell her where he'd gone.
He wasn't answering his phone or door, and his car was still in the
driveway.  Fear whipped her hard.  What if he'd had another heart
attack?

She stood looking at his door and his car.  He could be dead in there.
Finally, not knowing what else to do, since he'd never given her the
key to his place, she went home and called the police.

Earl Sanders happened to take her call.  "The dispatcher called in sick
this morning," he remarked philosophically.  "Not to mention that half
my crew seems to have the flu or something.  So you get the top dog,
Hannah.  What's up?"

"I can't find Witt.  Anywhere.  And his car's in the driveway, but he's
not answering the door or phone.  I'm worried he might have had another
heart attack."

"Hell.  Sam's out in that area.  Just finished up a call.  I'll have
him come right now.  Where are you?"

"At my house.  But I can run over to Witt's right now."

"You do that.  Sam'll be there in two or three minutes.  So will the
ambulance."

She was glad he had thought of the ambulance.  She'd been so worried
that it hadn't even occurred to her Witt might still be alive and in
need of immediate medical attention.  Stupid, she castigated herself.

She arrived back at Wilt's just as Sam Canfield was pulling up, lights
flashing.  He climbed out, giving her a brief wave.  "When did you last
see him?"

"Last night at the hospital."

"Damn."  He looked at the house.  "Okay.  You stay back here."

He didn't explain why, although she guessed he was trying to protect
her.  As if she hadn't seen the dead and dying on an almost daily basis
during her years as a nurse.  But she had no delusion that it wouldn't
be worse if it were Witt.  Closing her eyes, she offered up another
prayer.

Sam tried the door, pounded on it with his fist, bellowing
authoritatively, "Police.  Open up."

Nothing.  He peered through the windows on either side of the door but
apparently couldn't see anything.  Just then the ambulance pulled up,
and two EMTs climbed out.  Jack Jessup and Hector Cortes.  They were
the same young men who'd been on duty the night Witt had his heart
attack.

"Another heart attack?"  Jessup asked her.

"I don't know."

"Just stay back a minute," Sam called to them.  Then, drawing his gun,
he raised his foot and kicked the door open.

With her heart in her throat, Hannah watched him enter the house, his
gun at ready.  Oh, God, she hadn't even considered the possibility of a
crime!  What if.

But before her mind could conjure up any additional horrifying images,
Sam came back out the door, bolstering his gun.

"He's inside," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.  "Drunk as
a skunk, snoring booze fumes, but still alive."

Hannah started forward at once, but Jack and Hector gently restrained
her.  "Let us check him first, Mrs.  Matlock."

Hannah started to shake her head, then caught herself.  She understood.
She would only get in the way.

Sam came down the walk to stand beside her.  "I think he's okay,
Hannah. He seems to be sleeping it off."

"I am going to give that man such a piece of my mind...."  Her voice
broke, and somehow she turned into Sam.  He didn't seem to have any
problem with holding her or patting her back soothingly.

"He'll be okay, Hannah.  Physically, at least."  Sam made a disgusted
sound.  "Beats me how he could have spent all that time with you over
the years and never once seen how much you love him."

Hannah caught her breath, and freshly formed tears stopped spilling,
hanging on her lower lashes, threatening to freeze there.  "Sam..."
"Sorry, I was out of line, but it was plain as the nose on the damn
fool's face."

Hannah started to shake her head, then stopped.  What was the point?
Denying it wouldn't change the truth.  Suddenly aware that curtains
were probably twitching all around, she stepped back.  No telling what
the gossips might come up with.  The unfortunate thing about small-town
life, especially where it snowed so much for so long, was that gossip
was the stuff of social life.  Sam might be ridiculously young for her,
but that wouldn't keep the tongues from wagging.  She didn't care for
herself, but she didn't want Sam to be victimized.  "Thanks," she
said.

Ten minutes later, Jessup and Cortes came out of the house.  "He's
conscious," Cortes said.  "He'll be all right, but somebody should keep
an eye on him for a few hours."

Hannah mentally rolled up her sleeves, and the light of battle came
into her dark eyes.  "Trust me," she said, "I'll take care of that
jackass."

The two men looked as if they wanted to laugh, but only Jessup made a
sound, something like a strangled cough.  Together, they climbed into
the ambulance and sped away.

"Call if you need anything," Sam told Hannah.  "I don't know if he's a
belligerent drunk, but if he gives you a hard time, call.  I'll be over
in a jiff."

"Thanks, Sam."  Then, without a backward glance, Hannah marched into
the house and closed the door behind her.

Witt was sitting on the couch, regarding her from puffy, narrowed eyes.
The smell of bourbon was almost overpowering.  "What did you call all
those people for?"  he demanded.

"Oh, I don't know," Hannah said with unusual sarcasm.  "It might have
something to do with the fact that you had a heart attack recently and
you weren't answering your door or phone.  For all I knew, you were
lying in here dead!"

"I'm too mean to die."  "You know, Witt Matlock, that may be the truest
thing you've ever said!"

He blinked, as if taken aback by her attitude.  Well, why not?  Hannah
asked herself bitterly.  For a long time she'd refused to let him see
any part of her except the calm, measured part.  Not once in all these
years had she really treated him to her temper.  Oh, the occasional
small flash in the pan, yes, but not the full force and fury of her
anger, or her contempt, or any of the other things he suddenly appeared
to deserve in spades.

"What's gotten into you?"  he demanded.

"You!  That's what's gotten into me.  Your self centered self-pitying,
damn-everyone-else attitude.  That's what's gotten into me!"

For a few moments Witt appeared almost shocked back to sobriety.
"Hannah, what the hell's gotten into you?"  "You, Witt.  You and all
your bitterness and anger.  Justify it how you will, you've turned into
a sour old man, one willing to hurt people he claims to love, over
nothing more than a difference of opinion."

"Wait one minute!  What Joni did"

"Oh, shut up!  You're drank, and I can run circles around you right
now.  I don't want to hear it."

"Then get out of my house!"

"No way, Witt.  No way."  Hannah dropped into a chair and folded her
arms, glaring at him.  "You're stuck with me, at least until you're
sober."

"I told you to get the fuck out!"

"And mind your tongue while you're at it."

His glare deepened, and she realized the anger was clearing his head.
For a moment she felt a qualm, wondering if infuriating him this way
was risking his health.  Then he spoke again, and everything else faded
into insignificance.

"When the hell did you become such a bitch?"

"It's been growing on me for twenty-seven years.  Ever since that night
we betrayed Lewis."

"Oh, hell, that was no betrayal.  He was screwing around on you all
along.  He got just what he deserved."

"You have no idea what he got.  Is that why you did it, Witt?  To teach
him a lesson?  Or to get even with him?"

"No."  His eyes widened.  "What the hell are you talking about?  It was
just one of those things.  I never meant to do it.  It just
happened."

"So I just happened?  Thank you so very much.  It's nice to know I was
just one more piece of accidental wreckage in your wake."

"Accidental wreckage?"  His faced darkened.  "You're crazy."

"Am I?  Maybe so.  Nobody in their right mind would put up with the
garbage you've been dishing out over the last twenty-seven years."

"Garbage!"  His glare was almost enough to cut steel.  "I don't dish
out garbage."

"Yes, you do.  Day in and day out.  Hardy didn't kill Karen, and Joni
didn't commit a capital crime.  Both of them are guilty of nothing but
youth and caring about somebody besides you.  And what the hell is your
problem, anyway?  You know perfectly well that that drunk driver caused
the accident, not Hardy.  So what's eating you, Witt?  That she cared
more for Hardy than for you?  It was nothing but normal teenage
hijinks, and if you hadn't insisted on turning it into Romeo and
Juliet, Karen wouldn't have been sneaking out at night to see him."

"You think I don't know that?"  He thundered the words and rose from
the couch.  Much to Hannah's surprise, he didn't even stagger as he
started pacing the small room.

"So what is it, Witt?"  she demanded, refusing to give quarter, the way
she had always given in to him in the past.  "What is it that keeps you
so mad at Hardy."

"He shouldn't have taken her out against my wishes."  "Bull.  Do you
really believe that he should have been better than Karen?  More
mature?"

"He was a year older."  "In terms of gender, that made him still about
two years younger than Karen and you know it.  It was normal teenage
hijinks, Witt," she repeated, "and in your soul, unless you've managed
to deceive yourself completely, you know that.  So what's the real
problem, Witt?  What's kept you so angry that you've been hurting Hardy
for twelve years, and now you've hurt Joni, too?"

He shook his head and paced faster.

"Quit evading the issue," she told him sternly.  "Whatever's going on
has wrecked you, and now it's wrecking this whole family.  Are you
feeling guilty?"

"Why would I be feeling guilty?  I told her the right thing to do!  I
told her not to go out with that boy.  He was trouble, I told her."

"But he wasn't, was he?  Hardy got into a couple of scrapes over
ordinary pranks, but by and large he was one of the better kids at that
school."

Witt shrugged, still pacing and refusing to look at her.  "I didn't
want her hanging out with that family of drunks."

"Family of drunks."  Hannah repeated the words disbelievingly. 
"Hardy's father was the drunk.  Barbara never touched so much as a drop
of liquor, and Hardy...!  don't think I've ever seen him have anything
but an occasional beer or glass of wine.  And back then he didn't drink
at all."

"He came from bad blood!"

"Oh, cow patties!"

For a few seconds Witt appeared arrested.  "Cow patties?  Christ,
Hannah, just swear.  Your tongue won't turn black and fall off."

"I don't like swearing and I never have.  And I hate myself when I do
it."

"Why don't you unlace that damn corset?  If you get any more pure,
there won't be room for angels in heaven."

"Don't be ridiculous.  I'm not pure.  As you should well know."

"Hannah, that was a lifetime ago.  We agreed never to talk about it."

"Too bad.  We're going to talk about it now.  Because finally, after
twenty-seven years, you've got me nearly as withered and desiccated in
my heart as you are."  "What the hell are you talking about, woman?"

"Don't call me woman.  It's not a word to be treated like a bad name.
So what is it, Witt?  Are you feeling guilty because you turned Karen
into Juliet?  Or are you feeling jealous because she picked Hardy over
you?"

"That doesn't have anything to do with it!"

"No?  You're lying, Witt.  To me and to yourself.  And there's nothing
more disgusting than a man who lies to himself."

She rose, pulling her jacket closer around her, and zipped it up.
"Apparently you're not still drunk enough to need a baby-sitter, so I'm
going home."

"You can't just leave after saying all these horrible things to me."

"I can't?  Why not?  You left after saying a whole bunch of horrible
things to Joni.  Why shouldn't I be able to treat you the same way?
Surprise, Witt.  What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander."

Just as she reached the door, he called out her name.  "Hannah..."

She turned and faced him then.  "Oh.  One more surprise, Witt.  That
night we had our little slip?  You made me pregnant.  You might not
want to talk about that event anymore, but you're going to have to live
with the fact that Joni is your daughter."

She had the pleasure of seeing his jaw drop and waited just long enough
to be sure he wasn't going to have a problem with his heart.  Then she
stepped out into the cold afternoon, where sunlight as sharp as daggers
bounced from the snow into her eyes.

She didn't know if what she had done was right.  She just knew she
could no longer tolerate what Witt was doing to himself and everyone
around him.

Enough was enough.

 Joni lifted her gaze from her plate and looked across the dinner
table at Barbara and Hardy.  Though she had cooked the meal
herself--ham and scalloped potatoes

--Joni thought it tasted like sawdust.  She'd given up flailing in her
mind against Witt, arguing with herself and thinking she was the worst
person on the face of the earth to have wounded him so.  The truth was,
he was wrong.  And she knew it.

"I'm going to see Witt."

Both their heads snapped up.  It had been a quiet dinner, o one seeming
to have much to say, and maybe the sound of her voice had startled
them.

"Joni..."  Barbara spoke her name uncertainly, trailing off as if
unsure what to say.

Hardy's gaze was still stony, but it seemed to Joni that there was a
little gentleness around his mouth now.  He was coming back.  "Are you
sure you want to do that?"

"Yes."

"He might say terrible things."

"Well, I've got a terrible thing or two to say to him.  And if I don't
say them, I'm never going to stop worrying about this.  I need to have
it out with him.  To really stand up to him for the first time in my
life."

"I'll go with you," Hardy said.

Barbara spoke carefully.  "That might make him think you're ganging up
on him."

"Too damn bad," Hardy said.  "I'm not going to let Joni face that man
alone."

Something inside Joni warmed a little at his protectiveness, even
though it reminded her that she was nothing but a responsibility to
him.  At least someone in the world cared enough about her to take care
of her.

The instant she had the thought, she felt guilty, because after all,
Hannah had come to the hospital last night to sit with her.  It wasn't
that no one else cared.  It was that she still felt a little heart sore
that her mom had kept her true relationship with Witt a secret for so
long.

Of course, she thought with painful honesty, that information probably
wouldn't have changed much of anything.  Witt had always claimed to
love her as a daughter, and it hadn't kept him from disowning her.

Hardy spoke.  "When do you want to go?"

"As soon as we finish cleaning up."

It was seven-thirty by the time the last counter was wiped.  Night
blanketed the world, and a cold, biting wind had kicked up.  "And it's
only January," she muttered as she stepped outside and walked to
Hardy's car.

"" It's only January' can be a good thing," Hardy remarked.  " If you
take advantage of it.  Wanna go cross-country skiing?  Snowmobiling? 
"

"Skinny-dipping?"  she retorted, drawing a laugh from him.

"Sorry," he said.  "I'm too chicken.  I'll stick to activities that let
me keep dry clothes on.  But what got you so down on winter?"

"This month.  This month alone.  It's lasted forever.  The post-holiday
blues don't even come close."

"It has been kind of exciting, hasn't it?"

They both climbed in, and he started the engine.  It was still warm
from an errand he'd run right before they sat down to eat, so the first
blast from the heater wasn't icy, even if it wasn't exactly hot.

"Exciting?"  she demanded.  "This hasn't been exciting.  It's been
miserable and painful and hurtful, but it hasn't been exciting."

"Depends on how you look at it, honey.  Painful situations usually put
us in a position to grow.  If we choose to."

"Grow?  Ha.  I'm going to crawl into my little clamshell and close it
up.  And caulk it with super glue Had he really called her honey?  Had
he meant it?  Or had it just been a slip?  A slip, she told herself.

A.

slip of the tongue.

Hardy laughed.  "Your little clamshell, huh?  I thought clams couldn't
talk."

"Apparently you've never read the comics."

"It's a cute image.  Except for the glue part.  I hope you don't mean
it."

"Right now I do."  And the closer they got to Witt's house, the more
nervous she grew.  She'd never faced down her uncle--her father--over
anything, so she had only a vague idea of how cutting he could get.
He'd wounded her to her core when he'd disowned her, but she had a
strong fear he could do worse than that.

And she already hurt so much, she didn't know how many more wounds she
could withstand.  But she had to do this.  Before she moved away, she
had to say her piece to Witt.  All of it.  She hoped he would listen,
but if he didn't, it wouldn't really matter.  All that mattered was
that she get her own concerns off her chest, that she made her stand. 
At least then she could walk away with her head up, knowing she'd stood
up to him.

When they pulled up in front of Witt's house, Joni was almost sorry to
see the lights on and Witt's shadow moving across the living-room
curtains.  He was home, and he was awake.  She had no excuse to
postpone the reckoning.  Her heart began to beat nervously, and her
mouth went dry.

"What if Hannah's there?"  she blurted.

"I don't see that it makes any difference," Hardy said.  "But if it
does to you, I'll go in there and give him a piece of my mind.  I've
been wanting to anyway."

Much as she feared Witt's reaction, Joni wasn't about to let Hardy be
braver than she.  Her chin setting with determination, she climbed out
of the car .  right into the snowbank left by the plow.  Snow slipped
into her boot and slid down, soaking her sock and making her foot
icy.

Wrong boots, she thought.  She should have worn her lace-ups.  It was
an irrelevant thought, but it was easier to be annoyed with herself
than think about what was to come.

She climbed over the snowbank and slid down onto the sidewalk.  Witt
had salted it recently, so the pavement was free of ice.  Salt crunched
under her boots as she forced herself to walk to the door.  Hardy
crunched along right behind her.

Witt answered on the first ring of the doorbell.  His eyebrows lifted
when he saw them, but his face didn't take on the flush of anger that
usually came when he saw Hardy.

He did not, however, look at Hardy for long.  His icy blue gaze came
back to Joni.  "What is it?"

"I want to talk to you, Uncle Witt."

"I've had all the talking to I want today."

"Well, you're going to get some more."

After a moment he stepped back and waved her in.  He didn't even object
when Hardy followed.

Witt smelled as if he'd just showered.  The living room was full of the
aroma of air freshener, but it didn't quite conceal the odor of
alcohol.  Great, thought Joni, he'd been drinking.  That would make
this even more enjoyable.

"Sit down," Witt said.

Joni almost obeyed, out of long training, but she caught herself.  "I'd
rather stand."

Witt shrugged.  "I'd rather sit."  He sat in his easy chair.  After a
moment, Hardy sat, too, on the sofa.  Again Witt didn't object.

Joni stood looking at him from the center of his living room, her hands
clenched until her nails bit into her palms.  She couldn't find the
words to begin with, didn't know where to start to express all the
roiling anger and hurt inside her.

"Well?"  Witt said.  "I guess you're going to tell me how much I've
hurt you."

"You're damn straight!"  The words burst out of her, and then the rest
began to follow.  "Ever since Lewis died and we moved up here, you've
always told me you loved me like a daughter.  But you know what, Witt?
Since Karen died, you've hardly even noticed I was really here.  Oh,
you talk to me, and you remember my birthday, and you give me Christmas
gifts, but you don't love me like a daughter.  Not really.  You haven't
really loved anyone since Karen died!"

"Wait one minute!"

"No, I'm not going to wait.  You listen to me for a change.  I've been
walking around for a long, long time wondering why Karen's death seemed
to have crippled us all so much.  Wondering why she seemed to haunt us
all.  People die, Witt.  I loved Karen, too.  But healthy people grieve
and then go on.  None of us has ever been able to finish grieving."

He scowled at her.  "I'm never going to stop mourning Karen."

"Of course not.  We'll always miss her and wish she were here.  But
what's been going on with us is pathological.  Sick.  She's affected
our lives more these past twelve years than if she'd been here.  We're
all caught in this ... I don't know.  Time warp.  But I do know none of
us has been able to move on.  It's not healthy."

This time he didn't say a word, just looked at her from hot, angry
eyes.

"So I got to wondering.  What's different about us than the rest of the
world?  And how come we can't really heal?  And it dawned on me, just
this afternoon.  None of us can heal because of you.  Karen's death
gutted me.  She was my ... like my sister.  But more importantly, I
loved her because she was my best friend.  I wept as hard as anyone
did, and to this day I still miss her.  But I could have moved on.  I
could have built my own life instead of coming back to this morass of
twisted feelings and sinking back into all this anger and grief.  I
thought Karen was haunting us, but then I realized, it's not Karen.
You're the one haunting us."

"Joni..."

"Be quiet."  She didn't want him to divert her now that it was all
spilling out.  And she was past caring whether she was right, wrong or
just confused.  She had to get it out.

"You withdrew from Hannah and me," she told him.  "You stopped loving
us the way you used to.  That hurt me as much as Karen's death.  I lost
two people, but one of them was smiling at me nearly every day and
pretending to still care about me when he didn't really.  After a while
it finally dawned on me that you had never really loved me.  And that
after Karen died you couldn't even keep up the pretense well enough.  I
saw through you, Witt.  And if I had any doubt about it, you proved it
when you disowned me."

Witt raised a hand but didn't say anything.  Joni ignored the
gesture.

"So I lost my best friend and my surrogate dad all at one time," she
said bitterly.  "And stupid me, I was crazy enough to come back here to
live after finishing college.  I kept coming back, Witt, because I kept
trying to find your love again.  Well, trust me, I'm through
looking."

Tears were stinging her eyes now, threatening to run down her cheeks,
but she didn't wipe them away.  All the pain held so long in her heart
was determined to spill out.  "I'm going to leave, Witt.  I'm going to
leave Whisper Creek, and you're going to lose your only remaining
'daughter."  And the only person you'll have to blame is yourself.  "

His mouth moved, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find his
voice.  He just looked at her, his blue eyes dimmed.

"What's more," she continued in a lower, angrier voice, "you should be
ashamed of the way you've treated my mother all these years.  She loved
you.  She's always loved you.  I've seen it in the way her face
brightened and her step lightened when you came by.  But you've ignored
it.  And pardon me for asking, what the hell were you doing sleeping
with her when you didn't love her?  Did you even wonder if I was your
child?"  She paused at his look of recognition.  He did know.  He had
known.  He had known all along.  How could he have treated her mother,
and herself, this way?  Her anger flared hotter.  Enough was enough.

"If my mother wants to tolerate your treatment, that's her choice, but
I'm not going to tolerate it anymore.  Not ever again.  I'm sick of you
acting as if you're the only person who matters.

"Which brings me around to Hardy.  How dare you accuse him of killing
Karen?  It was no more his fault than it was yours.  Or maybe it was
more your fault than his.  All Hardy ever did was give her a place to
run to when she was running away from you."

"Joni..."  This time it was Hardy who spoke.  "Joni, don't.  He's
already blaming himself enough

"Enough?"  She rounded on Hardy.  "He's been blaming everyone except
himself.  Hell, I think he's resented me for twelve years because I
didn't die instead of Karen!"

"No!"  The word exploded from Witt.  "No.  That's not true."

She turned on him again.  "I doubt you have any idea at all what's
true. You're so blinded by anger and bitterness, you've blighted
everyone around you."

Witt stood.  "Joni, let me talk."

"No.  I've heard enough out of you."  Turning, she pulled up her hood
and stomped out into the night.

Hardy didn't follow.  He stayed seated on the couch, waiting as Witt
stared after Joni, watching as the man winced when the door slammed.

Slowly, moving like an old man, Witt turned and looked at Hardy.  "What
do you want to say?  You might as well take your licks."

"Sit down, Witt.  I don't want my licks."

Surprise reflected on his face, Witt returned to his easy chair.  He
looked shrunken now, a shadow of himself.

"You know," Hardy said, "I probably understand some of what you've been
going through.  I've been feeling guilty about Karen's death since the
night it happened.  I've lain awake more nights than I can count,
running it over in my mind, trying to figure out what I could have done
differently.  I've gone out on empty roads in my car and practiced
evasive maneuvers until I was exhausted.  But I keep coming up with
the same bottom line."

Witt sighed and nodded.  "Tell me."

"I keep coming up with the fact that any evasion I'd made, given the
road we were on--and assuming I had time to do anything--would still
have had the same result.  There was nowhere to go.  I was on the cliff
side Witt.  We'd have tumbled a thousand feet or more.  And the other
car was between me and the other side of the road.  But I didn't have
time to do anything.  No time at all.  I saw that car start to drift,
and I eased over to avoid him, and he turned right into us.  Right into
us, Witt.  Did you know that drunks steer toward lights?  Neither did
I, until the cops told me.

"So the bottom line is, it wasn't my fault.  I didn't kill her.  But it
still feels like I did.  Still."  The last word came out on the harsh
edge of pain.  "I think I've forgiven myself, but I still feel
guilty."

Witt nodded briefly, but it was almost the rocking of a person in
severe pain.  "I guess you do," he said slowly.

"So," Hardy continued, softening his voice, "I've got one person left
to forgive.  You.  And not so much for the way you've treated me all
these years.  I can actually kind of understand that.  What I need to
forgive you for is the way you've treated Joni.  She didn't deserve any
of the crap.  All she ever deserved was the best you had to offer.

"But you know what?  I can't forgive yob.  Not yet.

Not until I see you taking care of Joni.  Not until I see you giving
her the love that was hers by birthright.  Not until you make her your
daughter in your heart.  "

"But she is!"

"Then act like it, Witt.  Act like it.  Prove it."

His piece spoken, Hardy left, too, glancing back briefly to see that
Witt looked like a beaten man.  He felt a qualm, but brushed it aside.
Sometimes you just had to tell the truth.  For the sake of your own
soul.  And sometimes, bitter though it was, painful though it was, you
had to hear the truth.  For the sake of your soul.  It was Witt's turn
to hear.

Outside in the truck, he found Joni shivering, shaking all over.  "I'll
have you warmed up in a minute," he said as he turned the engine
over.

"I'm not cold," she answered through chattering teeth.  "I'm not...."

He turned toward her, gathering her as close as he could with a console
between the bucket seats, feeling a sharp pang as he felt the tremors
that wracked her.  "What's wrong, honey?"

"I can't...!  can't believe I said all those things to him.  I can't
believe it!  I said horrible ... hurtful... things."

"Actually, I thought you were pretty restrained."  He rubbed her back,
but layers of nylon and polyester insulation in her jacket probably
deprived the touch of most of its intended comfort.

"But ... but ... I accused him of things that might not be true."

"You felt they were true in your heart, didn't you?"

"Yes!"  "Then they were true, whether any of it was what Witt intended.
They were true, and you needed to say them and he needed to hear them.
Maybe now he'll get around to trying to repair some of the rift."

"No.  No."  Still shaking, she pulled away from him.  "He'll never
speak to me again."

"If that's the kind of man he is, then that would probably be for the
best."

Even in her state of upset, his words must have sounded harsh to her,
because she shot him a startled look.

"Listen."  he said.  "I'm getting tired of comforting people that man
has hurt.  First Karen and now you.  He needs to start thinking about
what he's doing to the people he claims to love.  And if he can't, then
he doesn't deserve your love."

"Love shouldn't have to be earned."

He shook his head and turned around, reaching for the gearshift. 
"Maybe not.  But it does have to be deserved."

He let her think about that while he drove them back to his place.  But
he found himself thinking about Witt, too.  And despite his every
inclination, he found himself feeling pity for him.

* # *

Joni didn't want to talk about it after they got home, and when Barbara
suggested a game of rummy, she leaped at the opportunity to distract
herself.  They played cards until finally Barbara announced she
couldn't keep her eyes open another minute.

Like it or not, Joni realized, she was going to have to face her
thoughts at last.  Alone and in the dark.  She didn't relish the night
ahead.

"We ought to go up, too," Hardy remarked.  "It's late."  A yawn escaped
him, and he stretched, reminding her of the gorgeous body he had
beneath his clothes.  A body she had once touched and held.  All of a
sudden, everything inside her seemed to go into a meltdown.

She wanted him, she realized.  She'd thought she'd wanted him when
she'd been in high school, but that had been puppy love, a virgin's
desire. Now, since the night they had made love, she had discovered
what it was to feel a woman's desire.

It was a desire that made her ache to her very bones.  A yearning so
deep it filled her every cell.  Her entire body grew heavy with need,
and she felt herself throbbing at her center, throbbing as if she
wanted to open herself and take him deep inside her.

And everything, everything that had been tearing her apart seemed to
fade into the background, driven away by a more urgent demand.

The air in the room became so thick that she felt as if she couldn't
breathe.  But Hardy seemed unaware of it.  He pushed Ms chair back from
the table, after gathering the cards and returning them to their case.
"Come on," he said.  "I'll walk you up."

He didn't feel it.  But instead of crashing from her high state of
tension, she seemed to be caught in it.  She noticed how he smelled as
they climbed the stairs.  Like soap.  Like man.  Like Hardy.

He was close enough that his breath occasionally reached her, smelling
of the cider they'd drunk while playing cards.  Even the sound of his
steps on the risers behind her reminded her of how big and strong he
was.

At the top of the stairs, they paused outside her door.  His room was
at the back, above the extension he'd added when he put in his office.
"Are you going to be all right?"  he asked.

No way, she thought.  No way.  She was going to lie awake all night
trapped in an aching body, pinned by a need that was threatening to
overwhelm her.  A need she didn't dare act on, because he didn't seem
to feel it.

Although, in her present state, she was stunned that he didn't feel it,
too.  The miasma must be so strong around her now.  She must be making
pheromones enough to pack the air to a distance of ten or even fifteen
feet.

But he was oblivious.

"Look," he said after a minute as she continued to stare up at him, "if
you don't want to be alone tonight, we can bundle."

"Bundle?"  she repeated stupidly, even though she knew exactly what it
was.

"Yeah," he said.  "You can sleep in my room.  We can put pillows
between us, or a rolled-up blanket.  You don't have to worry.  I won't
touch you."

He couldn't have said anything that would have cast her down more.  Her
hunger for him burst like a balloon, leaving her feeling .  empty.
Emptier than she could remember ever having felt.  It was as if
something inside her died.

She almost told him she would sleep alone, but something inside her
wouldn't let her say it.  Maybe because she knew exactly how badly she
would sleep if she started thinking about Witt and the whole mess.
Maybe because some part of her hadn't completely given up hope.

Whatever it was that compelled her, she nodded and followed Hardy down
the hall to his bedroom.

She watched him roll a blanket and put it down the middle of the bed.
It was a king-size bed, so there was plenty of room left.  Little
chance that they might touch each other accidentally.  Little chance of
anything, except talk.

"There," he said.  "You can go get in your pajamas, if you want.  I
promise, you're safe with me."

Safe with him was, she realized, the last thing she wanted to be.  But
she had no doubt she would be.  Hardy was a man of his word.  "I'll
change," she said, her voice muffled by disappointment.

Then she remembered she hadn't even commented on his room.  It ran
along the entire back of the original house, full of space, and in the
daytime it was probably full of light coming through the row of windows
along the back wall, windows now covered with closed wooden blinds.
Unlike the rest of the house, where he had pursued the Victorian touch,
here he had gone for clean, uncluttered lines.  The carpet was a soft
beige, the ceiling a study of lines and angles that played with shadow.
The colors he had selected were a deep green and burgundy, warmth
against the coolness.  He even had a fireplace, and his own bathroom,
which she glimpsed through a partially open door.

"It's a beautiful room," she said finally, then left before he could
answer.

She changed into a white flannel nightgown that was dotted by rosebuds.
Nothing exciting.  Nothing tempting.  Just warm and comfortable.  It
probably said something about her that she didn't own a single
negligee.  No temptress, she was just a back-porch kind of girl.

When she returned to his room, she found he had changed, too, into navy
blue sweatpants and a gray T-shirt.  He squatted before the fireplace,
coaxing a couple of logs into flame.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said over his shoulder.

She doubted she would be able to do that around him.  Awareness of him
was like a perfume in the air, surrounding her, reaching all her
senses.  Inescapable.

Finally she forced herself to look away from him and sit in an easy
chair.

"This is a really nice retreat," she said finally, trying to distract
herself.

"Thanks.  I like it."  Satisfied with the fire, he brushed off his
hands and sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, facing her.  "You feeling
any better?"

Slowly, Joni shook her head.  "Not much.  I said some horrid things.  I
don't like to say horrid things to people."

"No kind person does.  But you needed to say them, Joni.  You know you
did."

"I guess."

"Didn't you feel any relief at all?"

She thought back over the evening, trying to remember her reactions.
"No.  I just felt sick to my stomach."

"I'm sorry.  But all those things have been bubbling up in you for a
while.  You've said most of them to me over the last week.  You just
finally got around to saying them to the right person, that's all."

"I guess."

"Come on, let's lie down.  We can talk just as easily, and maybe we'll
even fall asleep."

Obediently, she went to one side of the bed.  "This okay?"

"Fine.  I'm not particular."

When he pulled back the covers, she noticed for the first time that the
blanket he had rolled up to put between them wasn't a blanket.  "That's
a quilt."

"Yeah."  He seemed surprised she had commented on it.

"The colors are pretty."  Sitting down on the bed, she leaned over to
take a closer look.  "That's hand stitched Somebody put an awful lot of
time and effort into it.  Look how fine the stitches are.  Is it an
heirloom?"

"I guess you could say so."  He sat on the other side of the bed and
put his hand on it.  "My mother made it for me, to take to college with
me. She worked on it for years."

"Wow.  I can't imagine how many hours she must have put into it."

"Well, she started it on my thirteenth birthday."

"Can I see it?"

He hesitated, and she looked up to catch something vulnerable in his
gaze.  She had the feeling she was trespassing into a place where he
didn't really want to go.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly.  "It's none of my business."  After all,
she just wanted to look at it to distract herself a little longer. 
That was a lousy reason to pry.

"No," he said.  "No, it's okay.  It's just a quilt."

Rising, he began to unroll it.  She helped him, until they had it
spread out on the bed.  But as soon as they opened it up and she looked
down at the blocks, she knew it wasn't just a quilt.  It was memories. 
Lots and lots of memories.

In the lower right corner there was a boy dressed in jeans and a red
shirt, flying a kite high above some pines.  It was a cute kite, with a
smiling face and a colorful tail.

Next to it was a block showing a boy bent over a book with a piece of
paper and a pencil next to him.  Then there was another block with a
carefully drawn bridge that appeared to have been done in a child's
hand.  Scanning the rest of the quilt quickly, she discovered that
nearly every block held a boy or a man.

"This is about you, isn't it?"

Hardy looked uncomfortable.  "Yeah.  Sort of.  She wanted it to be a
quilt full of memories."

Fascinated, Joni knelt on the bed and studied the blocks one after
another.

"Was that your first kite?"  she asked.

"I, uh, made it."

She smiled at him.  "You've always been talented.  And the boy with the
book?"

"I had to study hard.  Especially math."

"Me too."  She bent again to the quilt and followed the scenes of a
little boy until she came to a plain black square.  It was part of a
pattern of three plain squares on the quilt.  "What's this?  Just
pattern?"

He hesitated so long that finally she looked at him.  Something in his
face seemed tight, too controlled.  "Hardy?  I'm not trying to be nosy.
If you want me to stop asking, I will."

Nearly a minute passed before he answered.  "It's okay.  That's my dad.
A dark patch in my life."

"Oh."  She caught her breath and instinctively reached across the quilt
to take his hand.  "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's all right.  Everybody knows what he was like.  Everybody."  His
fingers curled around hers.

"It was hard on you, wasn't it?"

"I guess.  He was a nasty drunk."  He shook his head, as if wanting to
dismiss the memories, but his fingers tightened around hers.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

He shrugged.  "Doesn't matter.  I'm past it."

She wondered if he really was.  He might think so, but she suspected
some of those childhood wounds were the reason he'd taken so much guff
from Witt over the years.  The reason he still felt responsible for the
accident.

"You have a lot to be proud of," she told him.  "You've come a long
way."

"Maybe."  He shrugged again and changed the subject, pointing to the
sketches on the quilt.  The first was the bridge she had already
noticed, the second was a tall office building, and the third was a
dramatic-looking house.  "I guess I was always headed toward
architecture.  Mom copied those off drawings of mine."

"Pretty impressive."  She looked closer and realized that the drawings
were full of intricate detail.  More so than one would find in the
haphazard drawings of most kids .  unless, of course, they were drawing
fighter planes or something similar.  What was more, they were
appealing.  "You have real talent."

"I'm adequate.  But no Frank Lloyd Wright."

"Not yet, maybe.  I wish you could do the hotel for Witt.  Hannah told
me how beautiful it was."

"I kinda liked it."

She looked at him again.  "Only kinda?"

"Well, it wasn't as much as I would have liked to do.  But given the
budget restraints..."  He shook his head.  "It wouldn't have won
anyway. Concrete construction is cheaper than siding and gingerbread
and porches."

"Another cold monolith, huh?  I wonder if Wilt's that stupid."

"It's not stupidity.  It's fiscal responsibility."  He shifted until he
was facing her directly.  "Everybody has a budget.  Very few people
want to throw in all the frills, bells and whistles.  So I accommodate
them and try to give them something special at the same time.  They
aren't always interested.  That's the risk I run."

"It must be so frustrating."

He squeezed her fingers and smiled.  "I'm getting used to it."

She looked down at the quilt again and felt drawn to the two other
solid squares.  One was pure white; the other was bright sunshine
yellow.  Something warned her not to ask.  But curiosity wouldn't let
her keep silent.  "What's this white square?"

He glanced at it.  "Something lost."

Karen.  It represented Karen.  Suddenly she didn't want to look at the
quilt anymore.  With shaking hands she began to roll it up.  "Thanks
for sharing it with me, Hardy.  It's beautiful."

"What's wrong?"

"Not a thing."

"I don't believe you."  He came around the bed and sat beside her,
taking her face between his hands.  Her hands still clutched the edge
of the quilt.  "Stop hiding from me, Joni.  Stop lying to yourself. 
We're never going to get anywhere if you won't be honest with me."

She shook her head, feeling her throat tighten.  God, she was getting
tired of being on the edge of sorrow and despair.

"Talk to me, Joni.  Just talk to me."  His tone was gentle, gentle
enough to provoke her into speech.

"That was Karen's square, wasn't it?"

"Actually ... no.  It wasn't."

"Oh, come on."

"I'm not kidding."  His hands tightened just a little as they cradled
her head, letting her know he didn't want her to look away.  "That's
not Karen.  There was a time when I wanted her on that quilt, when we
first started dating, but my mom wouldn't let me do it.  You know what
she said?"

"No..."

"She said a high school sweetheart was a passing thing, and I wouldn't
want to carry a memory of her through my life.  Friends, she said, are
the ones you want to remember.  That square is a friend, Joni.  Someone
I still treasure.  It's not Karen."

She believed him.  Crazily enough, she believed him.  Something in her
heart seemed to swell, and she reached out for him, forgetting the
quilt, forgetting everything else except her need to comfort him and be
comforted by him.

"We're going to be okay, Joni," he murmured as they hugged each other.
"We're getting through this already.  A brighter day will come for all
of us."

She nodded, wanting to believe him, but more, just wanting to be close
to him.  She never would have believed that being held like this could
make everything else seem so unimportant.  That a man's arms could make
her feel so sheltered and safe.

But the step from sheltered and safe to the heat of passion proved to
be a very short one.  As if someone had thrown a switch, all the desire
she had been feeling earlier came sweeping back.  Every muscle in her
body seemed to soften, and the throbbing deep within her returned as
strongly as if it had never gone away.  She wanted him.  She craved
him. And she didn't want to spend another night without being in his
arms. Tomorrow didn't matter.  She needed him too much to worry about
consequences.

Dizzy with the feelings flooding her, she tilted her head back and
kissed him on the mouth.  He stiffened, just long enough to make her
fear he would pull away, but then his mouth fastened to hers, drinking
from her as if he were starving.

Which was exactly what she was doing, too.  Her fingers began to dig
into his back, trying to pull him closer still.  Pulling him until they
fell onto the bed, she on her back, he partly over her.

He tore his mouth from hers suddenly, catching her face between his
hands.  "Joni ... Joni ... look at me."

Hazily she opened her eyes, resenting this interruption, fearing he
would call a halt.

"Joni, are you sure about this?  Last time..."

"I'm sure.  Hardy, I'm so sure...."

He needed no more encouragement.  He began covering her with kisses as
he struggled to pull away her nightgown, his shirt and sweatpants,
hurrying to bring them as close as he could possibly get them.

Impatience rushed them along, both uninterested in dallying on this
journey.  Joni felt as if she needed something more elemental. 
Something as primitive as what was raging through her.  Something . 
deep.

Moments later, he entered her.  The sensation was so exquisite that a
thrill raced through her, leaving her transported on joy and passion.
Nothing, she thought dimly, nothing had ever felt so good or right.

He seemed to be arrested by it, too.  For long seconds he hovered over
her, his eyes closed, motionless, absorbing the sensation.  Then his
eyes opened sleepily, and he looked down at her.  "I never thought I'd
be here again."

"Me neither."

"Sorry?"

"No!"

His smile broadened.  Then he sank down on her, and they took the time
to pleasure each other in every way they could think of.

Later, a long time later, as they dozed wrapped in each other's arms,
Hardy murmured, "Joni?"

"Hmm?"

"That white square was you."

"Me?"  She was suddenly wide-awake, and her heart was hammering
again.

"You," he repeated.  "So is the yellow one.  Yellow because you were
sunshine in my life.  White because you went away after ... she
died."

"Oh ... oh."  Tears were suddenly flowing again, but this time they
were tears of joy.  "Oh, Hardy..."  She squeezed him as tightly as she
could. "Oh, Hardy..."

They didn't sleep for a long, long time.

Witt didn't wake in the morning, he roused.  He hadn't slept, except
for a couple of brief bits of dozing in his armchair.  His thoughts
wouldn't leave him alone; they kept clawing at him until he felt as if
he were in tatters.

He ate a bowl of oatmeal, not because he liked it but because Hannah
would have liked him to.  Standing at the sink, trying to rinse the
sticky stuff out of Wl his bowl, he stared out over the town as another
clear, cold mountain morning dawned.  Only when he realized the tap
water was turning his fingers into icicles did he stir.

It was time to start being a real man.

He washed up and changed into fresh clothes, a heavy flannel shirt and
a pair of new jeans.  A couple of pairs of thermal socks went on his
feet, which he then shoved into the work boots he always wore.  Then
his jacket and knit cap.  He looked like Wltt, but he wasn't at all
sure he felt like Witt Matlock anymore.

He drove directly to Hannah's house, noting that he needed to get up on
her roof and shovel some snow off it before the load got too heavy in
the next storm.  She would probably argue with him about it, insisting
she would get some young man to do it for her, and he wouldn't listen.
He wasn't that old, and despite his scare, he wasn't in that bad a
shape, either.  He squeezed his hands into fists inside his work gloves
and felt the strength he'd always relied on.  It was still there.

Her walk was clear, dusted with fresh salt.  He hoped she hadn't
shoveled it herself.  Knowing Hannah, though, she probably had.

He hesitated on the porch, his hand raised to knock.  He wondered if
Joni would be there, too, or if she was still staying with the
Wingates.  Everybody was talking about that, and it shamed him.

Finally he knocked, and a few moments later, Hannah opened the door.

"Witt!"  She was clearly in the midst of getting ready for work, a
mascara wand in her hand.  Though dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, a
requisite for dealing with animals all day, she was still wearing her
house slippers.

"Can we talk?"  he asked.

The hand holding her makeup lowered slowly.  "Are you going to yell?"

"No.  I promise.  I just need to say some things."

He wasn't used to seeing Hannah looking dubious, but right now that was
the unmistakable expression on her face.  He felt another twinge.

"Come in," she said, stepping back.  At once she retreated to her
rocker and sat.  He followed suit, sitting in the easy chair she always
ceded to him.

He could hardly bring himself to look at her.  Instead, he stared at
his hands, fists dangling between his thighs.  "You were right," he
said finally, his voice strained.  "I was being a jackass."

She didn't say anything, leaving him to wonder if her heart was already
closed against him, or if she was listening.

He tried again.  "I've ... been afraid for a long time."

"Afraid?"

He nodded, keeping his gaze on his hands.  "Afraid.  I've been living
with fear and guilt for twenty-seven years.  I felt like I betrayed my
brother and my wife.  I felt like I betrayed my daughter, too, when we
made love.  And ever since I've been... feeling like a slug.  Like I
deserved whatever shit the universe wanted to dump on me.  I felt like
losing Shari and Karen was ... just punishment."

"Oh, Witt."

Her voice was soft, and finally he was able to look at her.  "I was
afraid after Sharon died because I thought ... well, if God was
punishing me, maybe my punishment wasn't done.  If He could take Shari,
maybe He'd take Karen, too.  Teach me another lesson about not taking
care of the people I loved.  Then He did."

Hannah looked infinitely sad.  So sad he felt his own throat constrict
again.  He had to look away.  "Maybe I did protect Karen too much. 
Maybe I did turn a simple high school romance into Romeo and Juliet. 
It just felt like ... the harder I tried to keep her, the more she was
drifting away.  And then..."

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.  "You can't rail at God,
Hannah.  That's only asking for more trouble.  Remember Job?  I was
beginning to feel like Job.  So I ... got mad at everyone else.  I
blamed Hardy.  I think I maybe even blamed Joni.  Because it was safer
than blaming God."

"Witt..."

"I'm sorry, Hannah.  I never guessed Joni was my daughter.  I always
figured if she was, you would have told me."

"I should have.  I was wrong."

He shrugged.  "We've all been a little wrong.  Any* way ... I'm sorry.
Maybe I've been hiding from my pain by being angry.  Maybe I was afraid
to really grieve.  I don't know.  All I know is, I've been scared for a
long, long time."

He stood.  "And now I need to go talk to Joni and Hardy.  But I wanted
you to know ... I've been wrong.  And if it weren't too late, I'd marry
you in a heartbeat.  Because I've always loved you, Hannah.  But ... I
was afraid God would take you, too."

Hannah rose then, crossing the room quickly to him, to put her arms
around him and hold him tight.  After a moment, he hugged her back, and
to her amazement, she felt a warm tear fall on her shoulder.

"It's okay, Witt," she murmured.  "It's okay.  I've been feeling guilty
and frightened, too.  And ... I've never stopped loving you.  Never,
for even one second."

He lifted his head to look down at her, and she could see his cheeks
were wet.  He started to open his mouth, but she covered his lips with
her fingertips.

"There's time for us later.  Go talk to the children.  You need to mend
Joni's heart."

Witt swallowed and nodded, then, reluctantly, turned and walked out of
the house.

Joni was dressed for work, coming down the stairs for breakfast, when
Barbara called to her from the living-room doorway.  " " Honey?  Could
you get Hardy down here?  You have a visitor.  "

At this hour of the morning?  Joni wondered, "Sure," she said and
trudged back up the stairs, reaching Hardy's room just as he opened the
door.  He, too, was dressed for the day.

"Barbara sent me to get you.  We have a visitor."  "We also have
something more important to think about," he said, and swooped for a
deep kiss that left her feeling light-headed and weak.  "Us."

A blush stained her cheeks.  She'd been hoping against hope this
morning that he wouldn't be casual about last night.  Apparently he
wasn't.

"But," he said with obvious reluctance, "I guess we need to find out
who the hell comes calling at seven in the morning."

"I wonder why Barbara didn't say who it was."

"Weird."

Together they went downstairs.  Visible from the hallway, standing in
the living room with his jacket unzipped, was Witt.

"Oh, God," Joni said under her breath.  She felt herself bracing for
whatever awful things Witt was going to say now.  He was probably going
to give it to her over staying with Hardy.

"Yeah," Hardy murmured back.

They exchanged looks, as if for reassurance, then stepped into the
living room together, as if announcing they were a pair.  Much to
Joni's surprise, Witt didn't glare at them.  Instead, all he did was
say, "Hello."

Hardy stepped forward a little, as if ready to place himself between
Joni and Witt.  "Something I can do for you, Witt?"

"Yes.  You can listen to me for a few minutes.  And you, too, Joni.
There's something I need to say."

Joni sat in an armchair, determined to show him that she wasn't
intimidated by him, even if he stood over her.

Hardy motioned Witt to take a seat.  After a moment, Witt settled into
the rocking chair.  Hardy sat on the end of the sofa, close to Joni's
chair.

"We'll listen," Hardy said, speaking for them both, apparently because
he guessed that Joni wasn't going to say anything at all.

A couple of times Witt looked as if he was about to speak but then
caught himself and drummed his fingers on the arm of the rocker.

This was, Joni thought, the first time she had ever seen him at a loss
for words since Karen's funeral.  Despite her determination not to feel
anything for Witt anymore, she found herself feeling sad for him.  Sad
and sorry.

"Okay," Witt said finally.  "I'm having trouble finding ways to say
this, and I kind of figure the two of you have lots of reasons not to
want to hear me out.  It's probably too late, anyway, although...! hope
it's not."

"It's rarely too late, Witt," Hardy said.

Joni wondered how he could speak so calmly to a man who'd been verbally
and emotionally beating him up at every opportunity for twelve years.
Hardy seemed to have an awfully kind and generous heart.  But of course
he did.  Look at how he cared for her.  That was straightforward
Wingate generosity.

Witt sighed.  "I'm having a hard time getting started.  I guess, first
of all ... Joni, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I got so mad that I acted like a
damn fool and disowned you.  You didn't deserve that.  You've never
deserved that.  There's nothing on earth you could do that would make
me stop loving you."

The ache in Joni's chest grew so great that she had trouble breathing.
A noose seemed to be squeezing her throat.  "Uncle Witt..."

He shook his head.  "Let me finish.  I need to say it all.  Then you
can decide what you want to do about me.

"You said something last night about coming home and looking for my
love and never finding it.  It was there, honey.  It was always there.
But ... I was hiding it.  And I was hiding it because I was afraid.

"You see, I'd lost my wife and Karen, and I felt it was punishment for
what I'd done with your mother.  I know it sounds crazy, but I was
afraid ... and I was afraid I'd lose you and your mom, too.  That maybe
my punishment wasn't over.  So ... I kept some distance after Karen.
Especially with you.  I couldn't have borne losing you, too."

Joni could only look at him from tear-blurred eyes.

"Which brings me to you," Witt continued, looking at Hardy.  "When I
get scared, I get mad.  Stupid thing to do, but that's what I do.  And
I had some other stuff I was worrying about.  I felt guilty that Karen
was dead, figuring I hadn't protected her well enough.  I felt ...
responsible, because losing her must have been some kind of punishment
from God.  I don't know.  It's all tangled up in my head.  What I do
know is that I was shifting blame.  Moving it from myself to you.  It
was easier, I guess."

"I understand," Hardy said.

"That's more than I do."  Witt stood.  "Well, that's all I have to say.
I was wrong.  I was very wrong.  I'm sorry.  Now you two go ahead and
do whatever it is you were planning to do and don't mind me.  But if
you can... maybe you can find a way to forgive me.  I don't want to
lose you, Joni.  You've always fit in my heart like a daughter."  He
started to walk away, but Joni stopped him.

She'd fit in his heart like a daughter?  Did he fit in her heart like a
father?  Or was that merely a biological fact?  She studied his face,
remembered the times he'd been there, even if distantly.  It wasn't
simply that her mother had glowed whenever he was around.  She'd felt
it, too.  Was that what it felt like to be with "Dad" Or would he
always remain.  "Uncle Witt?"

He looked back.

"I love you ... Dad."

He took her hand.  "I love you, too, honey."

"And what about the hotel?"

Witt suddenly cracked a crooked grin.  "I already told my lawyer to
give Hardy the job.  I figure Hannah and I can be married there in the
autumn.  You two want to have a double ceremony?"

He left without waiting for an answer.  Not that Joni could have
spoken. Dumbfounded, she looked at Hardy.

Hardy looked equally stunned, as if he couldn't quite absorb the news.
Finally he cleared his throat and said, "Wow."

Joni nodded.  But her mind was already leaping to something else,
something even more important.  And so, for that matter, was Hardy's. 
He cleared his throat again and began to steer in that direction.

"It's about time he married Hannah," Hardy said.  "I thought all along
that they should be together."

But Joni's attention was elsewhere.  Her mouth was dry, and her heart
was racing like a motor on a speedway.  "He thought ... he said..."

"That we were going to get married?"  Hardy's eyes suddenly crinkled at
the corners as he looked down at her.

"Why would he...?"

"Oh, maybe because it's written plain as day all over my face whenever
I look at you," he suggested, trying to sound philosophical.  "Then, of
course, there's the possibility that other people are beginning to see
in your eyes what I'm seeing.  What I hope I'm not imagining."

Joni's breath caught.  "What are you seeing?"  she asked in a hushed
voice.

His smile grew tender, hopeful.  "That ... maybe you're falling in love
with me, too?"

Joni closed her eyes, scarcely able to believe her good fortune.  "Oh,
Hardy," she whispered, opening her eyes to look at him again.  "Don't
you know?  I've always been in love with you.  But ... I thought
because of Witt you'd never want me.  That it was pointless even to
hope."

"Well, I kind of thought the same thing," he admitted, drawing her into
a snug embrace.  "All these years ... it was like you were behind a
window and I didn't have the key to get to you.  Joni, I love you. Will
you marry me?"

She bit her lower lip as a smile began to stretch her cheeks.  "Are you
sure?  You really believe what Witt said?"

"That was a pretty big olive branch he offered, building his hotel.  I
believe him."

"Me too.  And I need to tell him so."

"Wait a minute," he said, squeezing her even tighter.  "Us first.  Then
you can run after him.  Are you going to answer my question?"

Her eyes began to sparkle, and her smile was so wide that it hurt.
"What question?"  she asked.

He shook his head.  "I can't believe you're going to put me through
this twice.  Don't you know how hard it is to ask once?  My future's on
the line here.  My ego..."  But he trailed off and grew serious. 
"Joni, will you marry me?"

Her answer was as simple as his question.

"Yes," she said with all the joy in her heart.  "Yes!"

From the doorway came two voices.

"Hallelujah!"  said Barbara.

"It's about time," said Witt.

Joni and Hardy didn't even glance their way.

Hardy murmured, "It is about time."  And then he kissed her.