Patrick had come to Enchantment for one reason—to find enough information about Angelina Linden to track her down

It wouldn’t be easy. But someone knew where she’d run—and probably that someone was her sister, Trish, the receptionist at the birthing center.

Somehow he would find out the truth, and when he did—well, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do then. No point tackling that decision now.

Who would have thought that breaking down near a ghost town would get things off to such a promising start? He might have wasted days trying to meet someone connected with The Birth Place, someone who might be able to introduce him to Trish Linden.

And yet, all because of a broken hose, he’d met Celia Brice, who, it turned out, was the psychologist for the birthing center, and Trish’s good friend.

It was as if the gods had conspired to assist him. Celia was open and welcoming, and she had already offered to show him around her beloved town.

A real find. A woman who had lived here all her life and knew everyone might just make this whole hunting expedition very easy indeed.

With a satisfied smile he picked up the phone. He’d start with dinner. She’d made it clear she’d love to hear from him again, and dinner conversations could cover a lot of useful ground.

And after that…

Dear Reader,

A witty Irish newspaper columnist named Flann O’Brien once said that the most important things in life are “food, money and opportunities for scoring off one’s enemies.”

As cynical as that sounds, most of us probably have, somewhere along the way, nurtured a nasty little revenge dream or two. It might be for a small injustice—a boss who wouldn’t cough up a raise, a boyfriend who flirted with another girl. Or it might be something much bigger and harder to forgive.

But in spite of the columnist’s clever comment, most of us discover that revenge feels rotten in the end. It is, strangely, as sour and destructive as the original offense! That’s when we realize we should have put our energy into finding a way to forgive.

When Patrick Torrance comes to town, he is definitely looking for revenge. He has just learned the truth about his birth—that he is Enchantment’s infamous “Homecoming Baby.” Thirty years ago, while other high school girls were twirling in their boyfriends’ arms at the homecoming dance, one lonely teenager was locked in the bathroom, giving birth to a son she could never acknowledge. Patrick’s plan is to find that woman and make her pay.

Meeting Celia Brice is a lucky break. Patrick hopes he can use her to gain entrée to this close-knit community and unearth clues about the terrible night he was born.

He never guesses that Celia’s gentle warmth might somehow change his plan or that Enchantment might begin to feel like home. I hope you enjoy their journey.

Warmly,

Kathleen O’Brien

P.S. I’d love to hear from you! Please visit my Web site,
KathleenOBrienOnline.com. Or write me at P.O. Box 947633, Maitland, FL 32794-7633.

The Homecoming Baby

Kathleen O’Brien

To Darlene Graham, Brenda Novak, Roxanne Rustand, C.J. Carmichael and Marisa Carroll, for bringing such rich, inspiring humanity to The Birth Place—and to the time I spent within its adobe walls

Books by Kathleen O’Brien

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

927—THE REAL FATHER

967—A SELF-MADE MAN

1015—WINTER BABY[*]

1047—BABES IN ARMS[*]

1086—THE REDEMPTION OF MATTHEW QUINN[*]

1146—THE ONE SAFE PLACE[*]

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER ONE

MOST OF THE TIME, Patrick Torrance liked nothing better than taking crazy risks with the millions of dollars he’d recently, reluctantly inherited from his beast of a father.

Adopted father, to be precise. An important distinction, at least to Patrick, who didn’t particularly want to owe either his genes or his portfolio to Julian Torrance. Julian had been one brutal son of a bitch.

Several of Patrick’s friends, navel-gazers who had spent way too many afternoons on psychiatrists’ couches, had suggested that Patrick’s reckless investments were classic displaced resentment. Angry young man trying to free himself from abusive father’s memory by losing said father’s money.

The number one problem with that theory was that it wasn’t working. Patrick just kept getting richer. Movies that should have died quietly in art houses surprisingly lit up multiplexes. Companies drowning in red ink learned to swim. Oil rigs that had been spewing sand suddenly coughed up black gold.

No wonder he liked taking risks.

The one he was about to take right now, though, might just be a little too dangerous, even for him.

He stared down at white auction card he’d been holding for the past five minutes. Smoochy-Poochy it read in elegant script. Then he looked over at Smoochy himself, a patchy mutt who was wagging his tail and panting happily, apparently unaware that he was the single most hideous puppy in the entire history of puppies.

Patrick suppressed a shudder as Smoochy began to gnaw wetly at his own foot. Good God.

“Just fill in the number, sir,” the hired Beauty who was holding Smoochy, petting his wiry back with long, manicured fingers, said gently. “And of course your name.”

“Yes. I know.” Patrick knew, all right. In the two years they’d been dating, Ellyn Grainger had coaxed plenty of these little white cards out of him for one worthy cause or another. Over dinner last night he had promised her that he’d get the bidding started on Smoochy, who might be too homely to attract much attention from anyone else.

Gritting his teeth, Patrick filled in the card and propped it against the frilly blue basket. If he turned out to be the high bidder Ellyn had better have Plan B ready. He couldn’t care less about the five thousand dollars, but he’d be damned if he was going to let himself get saddled with a dog.

Especially not one named Smoochy. No half-breed, mangy mutt was going to come home with him and pee all over his Beauvais carpet.

He avoided meeting Smoochy’s gaze. Instead he scanned the estate grounds. Where was Ellyn, anyhow? He’d had enough. If he could find her, he’d make his excuses and say goodbye.

He fought his way across the emerald-green lawns, but it was slow going. Ellyn’s annual “Beauty and the Beasts” party for the Pet Adoption Society was always one of San Francisco’s most successful fundraisers, and the place was packed.

All around him, gorgeous women in lacy costumes were gliding along, carrying three-legged cats with jeweled collars, walking one-eyed dogs on braided-gold leashes and even dangling gilded cages filled with squawking cockatiels. Every few feet the Beauties stopped him, as they stopped every guest, to introduce him to the animals, relate the sad story of how they came to be abandoned and suggest in throaty tones what marvelous pets they would make.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve already bid on Smoochy,” he said when a blonde with a wriggling tabby cat strolled up. The sardonic edge to his voice was just thin enough that her face registered uncertainty. Apparently everyone knew who Smoochy was.

The guests slowed down his progress even more—the socialites, the businessmen, the social climbers, and, more rarely, the true philanthropists who, like Ellyn, were passionate about this cause. It was quite a gauntlet, and, though he caught sight of Ellyn once or twice, he never could make it to her side.

When he felt the tap on his arm, he assumed it was another Beauty, eager to interest him in some hideous iguana or hapless hamster.

“I’m sorry, I’ve really got my heart set on Smoochy,” he said as he turned around.

But it wasn’t a Beauty. A man Patrick had never seen before was smiling at him quizzically, a strange sort of sympathy in his brown eyes.

Patrick knew immediately this man wasn’t one of the guests. The guy wore an off-the-rack suit and loafers that had seen better days, which meant he didn’t have thousands of dollars to spend playing at rescuing abandoned animals. The expression in his eyes set him apart, too. Instead of inward, self-absorbed and self-congratulatory, his gaze was intelligent, curious and gentle.

“Smoochy?” The man’s smile was lopsided. “That’s one of the abandoned pets? A dog, maybe? Sounds cute.”

“You think so?” Patrick raised one brow. “Well, you’re in luck. If I win him, he’s yours.”

The man shook his head. “Already got four dogs. And a cat. And a pregnant gerbil.” He grinned. “And six kids. I bring one more living thing into the house, my wife says she’ll strangle me.”

Patrick refrained from observing that it just might be a mercy killing. He put out his hand. “I’m Patrick Torrance. Were you looking for me?”

The other man’s handshake was firm. “Yes, sir, I was. Your secretary said you’d be here. I’m Don Frost. Frost Investigations.”

Patrick nodded, his attention sharpening. He’d hired Frost Investigations two weeks ago, but all their business had been conducted via e-mail, snail mail and secretaries. He suddenly realized he’d done that deliberately. He hadn’t wanted to think of a real live human being prying into his background, unearthing the sordid details of his adoption.

It wasn’t that Patrick thought it shameful to be adopted. The embarrassment was more from being seen to care. It was pathetic, somehow, to yearn for a reunion with people who had abandoned you decades ago.

Not that Patrick longed for anything of the sort. If he craved anything, it was merely information. Julian Torrance wasn’t his father, thank God, but someone was. And Patrick had a right to know who.

Don Frost was squatting now, scratching the ears of a black-eyed mutt who had come by for an introduction. The dog was licking his wrist, and the investigator appeared to be enjoying the experience.

Patrick waited for the Beauty and her Beast to move on, fighting back a prick of impatience.

He had left instructions that he was to be informed the minute the firm had unearthed anything concrete—but he’d expected a call or e-mail. He wondered what it meant that Don Frost had felt the need to show up personally.

“It’s nice to meet you, Don,” he said. He put on his best professional poker face. “What brings you here? I assume you have news?”

Don paused. “I think I do,” he said, and it was clear he was choosing his words carefully. “Is there somewhere we could go? Maybe sit down? Anywhere a little more private?”

Patrick considered his options. He knew the owners of this estate casually, but not well enough to confiscate their living room for a private meeting. Down by the waterfront was a rather pretentious Greek folly, a small white temple climbed around with Don Juan roses. It was a ridiculous thing—but it had the benefit of being cold down there, and windy. They’d probably have the place to themselves.

“Come with me,” he said. Don Frost nodded and followed without question. Patrick made better progress this time. He moved too quickly to allow anyone to stop him for a chat.

When they reached the folly, which was close enough to the pounding ocean surf to prevent them from being overheard, Patrick turned to the other man and raised his eyebrows. Time to get to the point.

But the investigator still seemed uncomfortable. He dug his hands in his pockets and chewed on the inside of his cheek for a long minute before beginning.

“Okay,” he said. “Here it is. In this kind of investigation I usually mail the results to my clients, just the names and the dates and enough documentation to establish the facts. Ordinarily it’s all pretty neat and tidy.”

Patrick leaned against one smooth marble column and smiled. “But this investigation, I gather, was not quite so tidy.”

Don met his gaze. “No, it wasn’t.” He sat down on the curving marble seat. “At first it was fine. I traced the adoption itself fairly easily, to a small town in New Mexico. A town called Enchantment.”

Patrick smiled again. “How quaint.”

The investigator didn’t return the smile. “Yes, sir. But the investigation got a little more complicated from there.” He began to chew on his cheek again. “You see, the accompanying paperwork doesn’t include the full complement of information, and several relevant particulars, items of significance pertaining—”

Patrick’s hand twitched. “For God’s sake, Frost. You sound like my lawyer, who thinks he gets paid by the syllable. Why don’t you cut to the chase?”

The investigator hesitated. But he didn’t need to be so miserable. Patrick thought he knew where this was heading, and he had of course already considered this possibility.

“Let me make it easier for you,” Patrick interjected. “Something’s missing on the birth certificate, right? There’s a blank where the father’s name should be?”

The man nodded. “Yes, that’s right. It’s not at all unusual in these cases. Frankly, the name on that particular line is ‘Unknown’ more often than not. But this birth certificate…” He cleared his throat. “This one—”

Patrick waited. It really was cold out here. The ocean breezes whipped through his wool-blend jacket as if it were made of gauze. Though the wind blew his hair onto his forehead, tickling his lashes, he ignored it.

“This birth certificate?” he prompted.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen! May I introduce you to Polly? Polly was found in Golden Gate Park on Christmas Day with a broken wing. She’d been abandoned—”

Patrick turned with a sudden tension, but it wasn’t just another hired Beauty soliciting bids. The smiling woman who stood at the foot of the folly, swinging a silver filagreed cage that held a ruffled blue parrot, was Ellyn.

“Hi there, stranger,” she said with a teasing note of remonstrance. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to.”

He smiled. “Sorry. Mr. Frost and I had some business to take care of. Ellyn Grainger, this is Don Frost.”

She smiled and shook his hand, but her face was troubled. An empathetic woman, she probably sensed that something wasn’t right. She was also smart enough to sense that Patrick didn’t want to talk about it.

Don Frost’s gaze was openly admiring. Patrick looked again, seeing her through the other man’s eyes. Yes, Ellyn Grainger was a prize, from her ivory skin to her wine-colored hair, from her flawless breeding to her generous heart.

As he had almost every day for the past two years, Patrick asked himself why he couldn’t be sensible enough to fall in love with this very nice woman. And, as usual, he got the same answer. He didn’t know how to love anybody. In that respect, at least, he truly was Julian Torrance’s son.

“The auction is almost over,” Ellyn said to Patrick. “I just came down to let you know that Karen has outbid you on Smoochy, so if you wanted to place another—”

Patrick had to smile. Ellyn was a terrible liar. She knew damn well he didn’t want that flea-bag. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of being so selfish,” he said nobly. “Let Karen have him.”

Don Frost coughed suspiciously, and Ellyn’s lovely hazel eyes twinkled. “All right,” she said. “But you won’t be too long, will you? We’re going to have champagne and strawberries on the patio. Do come, Mr. Frost. It’s a very nice champagne.”

“Thanks,” the investigator said, though Patrick noticed he didn’t commit to anything. Don didn’t seem awed by the rich and beautiful, in spite of the scuffed loafers and tired jacket. “That sounds nice.”

Ellyn retreated gracefully, and as soon as she was out of earshot Patrick turned back to the investigator. “Go on,” he said. “This birth certificate?”

The other man squared his shoulders and dropped his social smile. Back to business.

“This birth certificate doesn’t name the father. But it also doesn’t name the mother. On this one, both parents are simply listed as ‘unknown.’”

Both parents? How? Patrick felt the sudden need to sit down, too. But he overcame it. When you grew up as Julian Torrance’s son, you learned early never to show the least sign of weakness.

“How is that possible, Mr. Frost?”

“Well, naturally I wanted to know that myself. I’ve been looking into it for the past week. I had hoped to find out something that would make the news a little more—” His gaze slid to the side. “A little more tidy.”

“But?”

“But I’m afraid this story just isn’t tidy. That’s why I came myself. I thought I should, in case you had questions.”

“I have nothing but questions,” Patrick said. “You aren’t providing much of anything but riddles. Surely when a woman delivers a baby, she has to give the hospital her name.”

“She does if she goes to a hospital. This mother didn’t. In this particular case, the mother delivered her baby herself. The baby was subsequently found and sent to the local birthing center. The adoption was formalized from there.”

The baby was subsequently found…

Patrick sat down. He had no choice.

“I’m listening,” he said. “Just go ahead and tell me everything.”

The investigator nodded. “All right. At about 1:00 a.m. on the morning of November 25, exactly thirty years ago, the owner of the birthing center, a Mrs. Lydia Kane, received an anonymous call. A female voice told her that a newborn baby could be found in the girls’ bathroom of the local high school. Mrs. Kane then went to the high school. The custodian was there late, cleaning up after the homecoming dance. He had already found the baby and called the authorities.”

Patrick noticed, with the vague back third of his brain, that Don Frost was careful to use impersonal terms. The mother. The baby. Never “your mother” and “you.”

The man’s eyes were round and sad. It dawned on Patrick that Don Frost pitied him. In an odd, confused way, that made Patrick angry. He didn’t need pity. He didn’t care about all this. He didn’t have the slightest recollection of lying abandoned on a cold bathroom floor.

“Still,” he said. “Someone must know who the mother was. High school girls can’t go through a whole pregnancy without someone noticing. That much weight gain shows, doesn’t it?”

Frost shrugged. “Unless they wear baggy clothes or starve themselves. Some do.”

“But they can’t just give birth at the homecoming dance without someone—”

Patrick stopped. He was being ridiculous. Of course they could. He read the papers. Every now and then a story like that would grab the headlines for a few days. The baby in the trash can, in the Dumpster, in the shoebox in the teenager’s closet, hidden behind the video games.

“Actually,” Don went on after a slight pause, “in this case there were a lot of rumors. The whole thing caused quite a stir in Enchantment, which is a fairly small town. People round there still tell the story of ‘The Homecoming Baby.’”

“And what do they say?”

“Well, they seem to agree that the mother was probably a girl named Angelina Linden. Pretty girl, from a good family, but a little wild. The authorities definitely would have checked it out—checked her out, I mean, about whether she’d given birth. But they couldn’t. She and her boyfriend both disappeared that night.”

“They ran away?”

“That’s what everybody thought. But then a couple of years later, they found the boy’s body. There’s an old ghost town just northwest of Enchantment, a place where the kids go to fool around. Some abandoned mine shafts up there, not too safe, actually. Apparently the boy had fallen down one of those. Broke his neck.”

The wind was picking up. Patrick heard it blowing across his ears, but strangely he didn’t really feel the cold any more. He felt slightly numb all over.

“And the girl?”

Don Frost must have had to deliver a lot of bad news in his career. He looked grim, but he didn’t avoid Patrick’s gaze. He met it squarely.

“They looked. No more bodies in the mine shaft. But no one ever heard from Angelina again. Her younger sister still lives in Enchantment. I met her, though of course I didn’t tell her who I am.” He smiled. “Nice woman. She works at the birthing center. But she clearly doesn’t have any idea what happened to her sister.”

Patrick stood up and moved to the edge of the folly. Turning his back on the ocean, he stared out at the crowded estate, where the pet auction was winding up. He couldn’t see Ellyn anymore. People were rushing to claim their winnings, hugging the poor, damaged puppies and kittens they’d rescued to the tune of thousands of dollars.

Ironic, wasn’t it? A little lost kitten could generate this kind of enthusiasm—all the do-gooders in San Francisco came running, their hearts bleeding for the poor abandoned things. But a real human girl could leave her newborn baby on the bathroom floor, one more piece of trash for the janitor to sweep away with the trampled corsages and dirty silver streamers.

She could do it. And then she could run away. And never look back.

He closed his eyes. What a fool he’d been to unearth this story! He hadn’t let himself toy with anything as stupid and dangerous as dreams since he was eight years old. Apparently he’d forgotten what a nasty sound they made when they exploded in your face.

“I’ve got all the information here,” Don said quietly. “All the names and addresses and such.”

Patrick turned. Don was holding out a plain white envelope. He must have retrieved it from his coat. That’s how petty the story was. It would fit in a man’s breast pocket.

For a moment, Patrick didn’t want to take it, but that would have looked ridiculous. He forced out his hand and accepted the slim envelope.

“Thank you,” he said. He didn’t sound like himself, so he made an effort to warm his voice. “Send the bill along. My office will cut you a check.”

The man hesitated. “Mr. Torrance—”

“Thank you, Mr. Frost. I do appreciate your fast work on this. You did a fine job.”

Frost knew he’d been dismissed. He wasn’t a stupid man, in spite of the six kids and the pregnant gerbil. And he didn’t seem to be a hard man, in spite of how routinely he must encounter the sordid side of the human race.

He stood and moved toward the stairs of the folly. But at the last minute he turned around. “I included all the pertinent names and addresses. I even included a map. You know. In case you wanted to—” He stopped. “It’s a pretty little town. And the sister. She’s nice, too. And if it’s all true, she’d be—”

She’d be Patrick’s aunt. But still Don Frost stopped short of using the personal pronoun. “Well, she’d be Angelina’s only remaining blood relative. She could tell you about Angelina and the boyfriend. Handsome kid, but from the wrong side of the tracks. No family. He had lived with an elderly father, but he died while he was still in high school. He ran pretty wild. Kind of a heartbreaker, they say.”

The man tilted his head, as if deciding how far to go. “Teague was his name. Teague Montague Ellis. They called him Tee.”

Patrick let the name settle in. Teague Montague Ellis. Handsome Tee Ellis, who broke hearts. Broke enough of them to end up broken himself, at the bottom of a mine shaft.

Teague Ellis and Angelina Linden. No matter how many times he repeated them to himself, the syllables were as random as nonsense words. What on earth had ever made Patrick think he wanted to know those names? They meant nothing to him.

Patrick gave the other man a cold smile. “Thanks, but I can guarantee you I won’t be making any trips to New Mexico,” he said. “I’ve already had one set of terrible parents, Mr. Frost. I certainly don’t need two.”

CHAPTER TWO

“OKAY,” CELIA BRICE SAID to her weeping patient. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s just lay the whole sad story out on the table and see how it looks.”

Celia smiled over at Rose Gallen, who had run through an entire box of Kleenex in the first thirty minutes of their session. Actually, Rose had used up four boxes in four sessions so far, and Celia had decided it was time to try a different approach.

“All right,” Rose said. She pulled out another Kleenex just in case, and stared at Celia with damp eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean let’s analyze the situation objectively. Let’s be sure I have the basic details right. Your thirty-two-year-old husband, who you said has a mean temper, iffy personal hygiene and a bad snoring problem, who got laid off nearly a year ago but still spends fifty-five dollars a week on liquor and cigarettes, ran off last month with a nineteen-year-old bimbo.”

Rose blinked. “Yes,” she said uncertainly. “But that’s just the bad stuff. He’s not always—”

Celia kept going. Usually psychologists just listened, but sometimes they had to redirect the flow.

“He did this, in fact, the day after you told him you were pregnant. You don’t hear a word for a full month. But now he calls. Collect from Phoenix. And what does he want? He wants you to wire him five hundred dollars to have the transmission in his girlfriend’s car repaired.”

Rose frowned.

“Yes,” she said again. She touched the Kleenex to her eye and wiped away a tear. “You make it sound pretty bad.”

“Just laying out the details you gave me, Rose.” Celia took a deep breath. “So my question is…are you sure that what you really, truly want to do right now is cry?”

Rose stared at Celia, as if the question mystified her. “I’m all alone. I’m pregnant.”

Celia didn’t blink. She didn’t say a word. It was up to Rose to consider the possibility that there might conceivably be another reaction. Celia’s instincts told her that the young woman was ready.

Rose seemed to be thinking hard. She sniffed once, then again, louder. She transferred the stare to the tissue in her hand, and then she slowly, deliberately crumpled it into her fist.

“You know,” she said finally, “you’re right.” Her voice was amazingly firm. “I don’t want to cry. I want to tell the son of a bitch to go straight to hell.”

Celia leaned back with a sigh. This was just momentary bravado, of course, but it was good. Very good.

She didn’t underestimate the difficulties ahead for Rose; the journey to true self-sufficiency was always long. And Celia should know. She was still traveling it herself, having decided just last month, after yet another particularly disappointing relationship, to take a complete vacation from men.

Frankly, the decision had been a relief. She spent all day solving the problems these women had with their husbands, boyfriends, lovers or sons. She didn’t have time for any man problems of her own.

Besides, who needed a man when you had work as gratifying as this? It was exciting to watch people take the first, most difficult step on that journey, as Rose had just done. She had admitted that she was angry, and that she didn’t deserve to be treated like dirt under Tad Gallen’s shoes.

“Okay. You’d like to tell him to go to hell. Let’s talk about that.” Under the table, Celia kicked off her shoes. This session was going to run late. But it was going to be worth it.

An hour later, when she said goodbye to a much happier Rose, it was almost dark and The Birth Place, the best birthing center within five hundred miles of Enchantment, New Mexico, was almost empty.

Though Celia wasn’t officially a clinic employee, she counseled many of the pregnant women who came here, helping them deal with the varied emotional complications that could accompany pregnancy, both pre-and postpartum.

One of the upstairs offices was set aside for Celia two afternoons a week. Often it was easier for the women to combine their medical checkup with their counseling session. So though Celia might not be on the payroll, she definitely felt like a member of the team.

Dangling her shoes from two fingers, she wandered through the quiet hallway now, stretching her back and neck, which were cramped from sitting so long in one place. As she passed the accountant’s office, she noticed that Kim Sherman’s light was off—a sign of the new, happier Kim, the one who finally had a life outside this clinic.

Lydia Kane, the director, was still here, of course. Her light rarely went off, no matter how late it got. In fact, sometimes Celia fancied that Lydia’s office was the beating, breathing heart of the clinic. Good for the clinic…but an enormous burden for Lydia, who, Celia thought, had been looking tired lately.

But telling Lydia to take it easy was like telling Niagara Falls to slow down. Though she was in her seventies, the amazing woman had the strength and determination of a mountain lion. Every pregnant woman in this clinic—and every staff member, too—relied on that strength.

Celia moved into the main reception area, looking for Trish Linden, the clinic receptionist. Trish and Celia lived in the same apartment complex and frequently rode home together. Over the past few years, they’d become close friends.

Trish must be running late, too. Celia could smell the sweet scent of peach tea around the reception counter, a sure sign that Trish had been there just moments ago. But she hadn’t cleaned up yet. Toys were still upended around the children’s play area. Magazines and cushions were haphazardly scattered over the comfortable sofas.

Celia loved the clinic at night. When the lights were low, shining on the Mexican tile floors, and things were quiet, you might mistake this reception area for the living room of a very happy home. Which, in a way, it was.

Celia neatened up a bit, and then she plopped onto one of the armchairs to wait for Trish. She curled her feet under her and pulled the big clip out of her hair, letting it tumble over her shoulders. She sighed as her tired body relaxed.

She hoped Trish would come back soon. She could use a cup of soup, a bath and about ten hours sleep. Good thing she’d given up men. If she had one at home right now waiting for a back rub or a gourmet dinner, she’d probably hide out here all night.

She almost did anyway. The classical music coming through the sound system was low and soothing, and she must have dozed off. She woke with a start, aware that someone nearby was quietly crying.

For a moment she imagined she was back with Rose Gallen, watching the Kleenex pile up. But, as the sleepy fog lifted, she realized she was in the reception area…and the crying was coming from behind the high reception counter.

She struggled to her feet. “Trish?”

The crying stopped. By the time Celia made her way to the edge of the counter, Trish had stood up and was smiling as she subtly dashed away wetness from beneath her eyes.

“Oh, hi! I’m sorry. I thought you were still back with Rose.”

Wasn’t that like Trish, apologizing for crying, as if she had no right to be unhappy, no right to inconvenience anyone else with her problems? Celia took her hand, which was still damp from wiping away tears.

“Hey. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing, really.” But Trish couldn’t quite pronounce her N. She’d been crying long and hard enough to completely stop up her nose.

“Trish.” Celia was worried. Trish wasn’t a big weeper. In fact, she was one of the least self-indulgent people Celia knew.

At forty-five, Trish’s life seemed to consist entirely of work. Long hours at the clinic, then more hours volunteering in the community. Up early to tend her beloved garden at home, up late to keep her little apartment spotless. It was as if she had assigned herself a perpetual penance.

“Trish, it’s not good to hold things in. Please, tell me what’s going on.”

“Honestly, it’s nothing.” But she must have seen Celia’s stubborn skepticism, because she smiled. “Well, it’s such a little thing. It’s almost nothing.”

She waved her hand toward a large box on the floor behind her desk. “You know how they were collecting old dresses for the vintage clothing auction?”

Celia nodded. The local Women’s Club was auctioning off vintage dresses to raise money for the Teen Center. She had donated a couple herself. One from her senior prom ten years ago, and a couple of bridesmaid’s dresses, which weren’t quite vintage, technically…but close enough.

She knew she’d never wear those stiff, uncomfortable gowns again. She hated dressing up—her daily wardrobe was all long, full skirts, gypsy tops and khaki slacks and blue jeans.

“Well,” Trish went on, her voice still thick and husky, “I gathered together a lot of Angelina’s old clothes and donated them. They were so beautiful, you know. I’d kept them all these years because…”

Her voice trailed off. But she didn’t need to finish. Celia knew why Trish had kept them. She’d kept them because they were all she had left of her glamorous older sister, a sister who had disappeared thirty years ago.

“Oh, Trish,” Celia breathed. “That was unbelievably generous.” She knew how hard it must have been to let them go. Only Trish, so schooled in self-denial, would have been able to do it.

“I thought they might bring in quite a bit of money. And you know the Teen Center needs all the help it can get.”

“They must have been absolutely thrilled.” That was an understatement. Heaven only knew what Angelina’s wardrobe must have been worth.

The Lindens had once been the premiere family of Enchantment. Angelina had disappeared before Celia was even born, but everyone knew the story of the rebellious princess who roared through the night on the back of the town bad boy’s motorcycle, silky black hair flying in the wind, red sequins flashing in the moonlight.

“No,” Trish said. “They definitely weren’t thrilled. This box was delivered to me an hour ago. The Women’s Club thanks me for the offer, but they’re afraid they won’t be able to use the dresses after all.”

“What?”

Trish pointed to the box again. “They returned every one of them. Apparently they think Angelina’s clothes are…tainted.”

Celia was speechless. She looked at Trish’s pale face, and then she knelt next to the box on the floor.

She opened it carefully. Inside, wrapped in crisp white tissue, were at least a dozen of the most magical dresses Celia had ever seen. Peacock-green chiffon and Mandarin red silk. Deep gold satin encrusted with pearls. Ivory lace edging lavender ruffles. Wedgwood-blue and sunshine-yellow, sequins and flounces, daring necklines and flowing skirts.

Celia found herself holding her breath. She’d heard a hundred stories about Angelina Linden—who in Enchantment hadn’t?—but these dresses made the stories come almost eerily alive. As she touched these fabulous fabrics, she understood that Angelina had been exquisite and sensual, daring and vain and elegant. She’d been in love with life, color, movement, texture, sex.

And with an uncomfortable flash of insight, she realized that it was no wonder the Women’s Club had rejected them. Everyone who saw these dresses would ask the same question. Had she been wearing one of these that night? That terrible, bloody night the baby was born?

Even Celia, who loved poor Trish so much, found herself imagining that night. And wondering how a girl must have suffered, starved, squeezed her poor young body to fit it into her normal clothes when she was nine months pregnant.

A small catch in Trish’s breath warned Celia that tears were near again. Celia fought back a wave of fury toward the judgmental old bats who had refused these dresses. It was too cruel.

Trish deserved to be happy. Someone needed to take her in hand and force her to have a little fun.

On the spot, Celia appointed herself that someone.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. She folded the box shut again and stood with a smile. “There’s a full moon tonight. They say that if you stand on Red Rock Bridge at the full moon and make a wish, it’ll come true. Let’s go out and wish that every member of the Women’s Club goes prematurely gray.”

Trish smiled. “I’m pretty sure the legend says you have to stand out there naked with a live rattlesnake wrapped around your neck.”

“Well, one out of three isn’t bad.” Celia raised one eyebrow rakishly. “Maybe just every third member of the Women’s Club will go gray. That’s enough for me.”

Trish threw her tissue in the trash, obviously having overcome her momentary weakness. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “We can’t do that.”

Celia frowned. “Why not? It’s Friday night. If you can’t be silly on Friday night, when can you?”

Trish didn’t answer that directly, of course. Trish didn’t think that being silly was ever appropriate. Which was why her lovely face was always so pale and faded, Celia thought with a sudden frustration.

“I’m serious. Let’s go out there. We can stop off and buy sandwiches and some white zinfandel and eat dinner by moonlight on Red Rock Bridge. It will be beautiful and pointless and kind of scary—and great fun.”

Trish was already shaking her head. “I can’t,” she said. “This is the night I pay my bills.”

Celia squeezed her hand. “To hell with the bills. Be impulsive. Be foolish. It might make you feel better.”

“No,” Trish said, extricating her fingers. She patted Celia on the shoulder. “Being foolish doesn’t make people feel better. Working does. Being sensible and getting things done makes people feel better.”

Celia sighed. This was so unfair. And it was such a waste. Trish was only forty-five. She was healthy and intelligent and a very attractive woman. She wanted to grab Trish by the shoulders and say, No. You don’t have to atone for your sister’s sins.

But she couldn’t. Trish had made it clear years ago that any deep conversation on the subject of Angelina was pretty much off-limits.

For a few minutes, Trish busied herself straightening up the desk, and then she looked back up at Celia.

“Don’t pout,” she said, smiling. She was clearly herself again. “It really is Friday night, you know. Don’t you have a date?”

“Absolutely not. I gave up men, remember?”

Trish was still neatening the desk as she talked. “Of course I remember. I just didn’t believe it would last.”

“Well, it has. And it will. The Scratch and Dent Club is officially out of business.” That was what Trish had dubbed the long string of flawed boyfriends Celia had, over the years, mistakenly believed she could “fix.”

Trish chuckled as she arranged her pens in her drawer and lined up the paperwork with squared off edges. “Oh, sure,” she said. “It’s out of business. Until you meet another cute wounded puppy who needs saving.”

“Nope.” Celia sat on the edge of Trish’s desk, swinging her bare feet. “Never again. I’ve learned my lesson. No more losers. No more melancholics or workaholics, momaholics or liars. If I ever go back to dating—and I may not, I may become a nun—it would be because I found someone who doesn’t need any fixing up. No scratches. No dents.”

Trish raised her eyebrows. “The perfect man.”

Celia nodded. “That’s right. It’s the perfect man from now on. Or no man at all.”

Trish leaned over, hoisted the large box of rejected dresses under her arm and gave Celia a smile that was half-teasing, half-wistful.

“Then you’d better get on out to Red Rock Bridge and wish for one before the moon goes down,” she said. “Because here in the real world, there is absolutely no such thing.”

CELIA DID GO. Though she had been tired, when she got home she realized she’d been cooped up in the office too long. She needed fresh air and open spaces.

She brought along a foot-long veggie sub and a bottle of white zinfandel, a romance novel and a flashlight. She ate half the sandwich and drank a quarter of the wine. She read a few chapters by flashlight.

Then she walked out to the edge, right to where the formation grew narrow, forming the fragile “bridge” between the two red rock columns, and sang corny Broadway love songs at the top of her lungs.

She gazed toward the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, so silent and endless in the moonlight. Then she lay on her back and dreamed up at the purple sky, which looked like one of Angelina Linden’s dresses, velvety smooth, sprinkled with silver sequins and the round cameo brooch of the moon.

She heard a coyote howl in the distance, and she howled back, then laughed at herself because after that every tiny whispering noise startled her, as if the coyote might be loping her way, answering her call.

And then, after she stuffed her uneaten food and undrunk wine back into her bag, she stood up and walked back to the edge of Red Rock Bridge. She looked up at the moon, and she made her wishes.

She wished for rain to come and end Enchantment’s drought. She wished for courage for Rose Gallen. She wished for rest for Lydia Kane, prosperity for the clinic and swift, healthy deliveries for every pregnant woman in their care.

She wished, especially, for peace to come to Trish Linden, who deserved it. After all that, it seemed too greedy to wish for the perfect man, so she agreed to take one with a little dent, if necessary. A tiny scratch that didn’t go too deep would be all right.

Chuckling at her foolishness, she started to climb down from the bridge. But then she remembered one last thing.

“And if you have time,” she called into the vastness of the purple night, “please let every member of the Women’s Club wake up with nasty red zits on their pointy little chins.”

PATRICK KEPT TELLING HIMSELF TO TURN around. Go back. Give up. You must be nuts.

He had work to do. Deals to finalize. A client to visit in Santa Fe. He did not need to be squandering good gas and putting hard miles on his favorite Mercedes crawling through these winding mountain roads looking for a place called Enchantment, New Mexico.

But he kept ignoring himself—proving that the inner voice was right. Yes, sir, he was definitely nuts.

He couldn’t even find a decent radio station to help keep his mind off his own thoughts. He dictated a few notes into his digital recorder, but eventually even that grew old.

Finally, he decided to relax and take in the scenery. In fact, he was amazed by the verdant green mountains around him. He hadn’t spent much time in New Mexico before, and his mental image had been a cliché born of too many Westerns—flat, dusty-red deserts littered with bleached cattle skulls.

The colors here surprised him. Lots of red, yes, but not dusty and dried out. Instead, pinks and blues subtly mingled with the pure blue sky and the yellow wildflowers to create a rich sense of innocence. Like a box of crayons in a happy two-year-old’s hands.

And all this space…endless vistas down mountainsides and across valleys.

He wasn’t sure he liked it. It felt kind of…lonely.

He was a city man. For him “land developing” meant taking one highly coveted acre of land and erecting a building on it that would allow the maximum number of people to imagine that they “owned” it. It meant beehives and shopping centers and high-density ratios. It meant top dollar and bottom line.

So if he’d been expecting some kind of epiphany—an interior “Eureka!” that said this was his secret heritage, that he belonged in an adobe house with a horse in the front yard—he’d been sadly mistaken. He thought it was nice, but nothing inside went “click.”

To his annoyance, the only “click” he heard came from under the hood of his car. At least twenty minutes outside Enchantment, something began rhythmically slapping as he drove, and he smelled the metallic odor of water scorching against engine parts. The needle on the temperature gauge began to climb and finally steam rose from around the edges of the hood.

“Damn it.” He was going to have to stop.

He looked around. Where the hell was he? He could just imagine himself calling the auto club and asking them to come find him in the middle of nowhere, somewhere on the side of some mountain.

He whipped his cell phone out of its carrier, looked down and cursed again. He really was in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t even have service up here. Probably one of these picturesque trees was blocking the signal.

He lifted the hood, stepping back to avoid having his face steam cleaned. He was no mechanic, but even he could see the problem. A hose dangled like a dead black snake. And, even more ominously, he could see water bubbling out of a hole in the side of the radiator. He stared at it, then glanced one more time at his cell phone.

Still no service. Probably out here real men didn’t need auto clubs. They probably just fashioned makeshift radiator belts out of grapevines and kept driving.

Okay, now what? Enchantment was still about ten miles away.

But he remembered passing a small road sign just a few yards back. It had directed him to turn left to get to some place called Silverton. Whatever that was. He unfolded the map and finally found it. Very small, but definitely there.

And it was only about a mile away. That he could handle in a heartbeat. San Francisco might not have classes on how to turn a rabbit’s pelt into a radiator belt, but it had health clubs, and he jogged five miles a day at his.

As he walked, he checked every few yards to see if his cell service had returned, but no luck. No cars, either. This must be the most deserted stretch of road in the entire state of New Mexico.

He had decided to stop at the very first house he saw—the suburbs of Silverton were fine, any structure that had a telephone was fine. But there were no suburbs. Suddenly, without warning, without signs or billboards or outlying development of any kind, there it was. Just a small, ornate, old-fashioned metal plaque.

Silverton.

He kept walking, but his mind had stalled. What the hell was this? It wasn’t even a town, really. It was just an X carved into the land. Two small, crisscrossing streets of dilapidated old buildings.

Some of the structures had obviously been vandalized. Whole walls of wood had been stripped away, and doors stood in their isolated frames, entryways to open air. Some of the buildings were leaning toward the ground as if they wanted to lie down and rest. A few seemed intact, but they all were completely, unquestionably deserted.

Deserted. He stopped in his tracks. By God, he had stumbled onto a ghost town.

He should have been furious. There was obviously no telephone to use in this town. No gas station to drive him back to the car and repair the belt. But for the moment, the radiator belt seemed oddly unimportant.

He wandered through the buildings, fascinated, his imagination running ahead of him. Silverton. Silver Town. Of course. All little boys read dozens of books about these things, and he was no exception.

The wind blew through the buildings now, so dried and damaged were the walls. And the windows lay in daggers of glass on the ground, too dusty to sparkle even in this bright spring sunlight.

But, as an investment advisor, he was accustomed to transforming run-down companies and places in his mind, and it was easy to do that here. He could almost see the dirty, tired miners, digging all day, and maybe all night, too, hoping to find that tiny glimmering thread that meant freedom. Treasure.

And their families, having arrived here from a hundred different places, banding together to make their own version of civilization. Music from that building, perhaps, at night. And in that larger one, whose faded lettering pronounced it the general store, bolts of cloth and jars of candy and cans of food.

Dreams and courage and, eventually, the long death of hope. Obviously the silver had dried up—and the town had followed. The miners and their families, and the bank and restaurant and boardinghouse that had supported them, had moved on to another place, another, more promising, hole in the ground.

And now, all these years later, he was the only living human being listening to the echoes in this sad, forgotten place.

He walked around the back of the boardinghouse, drawn by the glitter of a small stream tumbling over rocks. As he rounded the corner, a bird screeched, startling him. His heart knocked once. He had grown so accustomed to the silence.

When the stream came into view, his heart seemed to skid to a halt.

He had been wrong. He was not alone.

A woman, maybe just a girl, maybe just a dream, stood barefoot in the brook, hazy and ethereal—like a trick of the sunlight. He couldn’t see her face—she was looking toward the trees—but her hair fell like silver water down her back. Her long, graceful legs were pale and her skirt, which she held up around her thighs, was filled with flowers.

For one paralyzed moment, he couldn’t speak. He just stared, lost in the beauty.

And then, slowly, she turned her face toward him. He took a breath. She was beautiful, her sweet, full mouth and her round blue eyes shining in the shaft of sunlight.

She looked at him, blankly at first, and then with a growing, widening horror. “No,” she said.

She swayed strangely. She put out one hand to balance herself, but there was nothing to grasp. She took a halting step. The other hand let go of her skirt, too, as if her fingers were numb. A rain of flowers fell, forgotten, into the dancing stream around her feet.

“No,” she said again, but she obviously wasn’t distressed about the flowers. She was frightened. She was blanched and frozen, as if she’d seen a ghost.

And the ghost was Patrick.

CHAPTER THREE

LIFE WAS BEAUTIFUL, especially in a ghost town.

Celia had a skirt full of flowers, and the brook was cool and clear as it slipped around her toes. She decided she might never go home. She might just go into the roofless old boardinghouse, make herself a pallet of wildflowers and sleep under the starry sky.

Actually, she was one of the few people who truly wouldn’t be afraid to do such a thing. She had grown up on ghost stories of Teague Ellis. In Enchantment, no giggling sleepover was complete without a spooky tale of how, if you were daring enough to go to Silverton at night, you would hear the rumble of Teague Ellis’s motorcycle as it invisibly prowled the deserted streets.

Some said he walked the corridors of the high school, listening for the sound of a baby crying. Through the years, half a dozen hysterical girls had sworn they’d seen him at the Homecoming dance, a dark, angry, handsome face in the crowd, searching for Angelina.

Celia had always laughed at the stories. Useful for boys who wanted their dates to shiver and cling to their strong, protective arms, but pure fantasy, of course. She never felt the slightest bit skittish in Silverton, though Teague’s poor body had been found there only two years after his disappearance. She’d never heard the ghostly motorcycle, or the moans that were said to waft up through the planks of the boarded-over mine shafts.

Celia was very levelheaded. She did not believe in ghosts.

But this…this was different.

As she stared at the stranger who had materialized there, just ten feet away, a primal fear rippled along her nerves, as if an unseen hand played them like the strings of a harp.

He…he looked exactly like Teague Ellis. How could it be? And yet…

She’d seen pictures of Teague often enough. The sexy, bad-tempered mouth, the wavy black hair that fell into deep-set, deep-blue eyes. She’d never forget the scruffy animal glamour—like James Dean, she’d thought. James Dean drawn in a palette of devil-black and bedroom-blue.

And oh, those eyes…those eyes said the boy had known pain and would know, in turn, how to inflict it.

But, in the space of a couple of seconds, she came to her senses. The man in front of her smiled, and the hypnotic vision shifted to something more prosaic. An eerie, but coincidental, resemblance. Similar height, similar coloring…and the rest was the product of overactive nerves and the haunting power of this place.

“I’m sorry,” the man said. His voice was cultured and deep. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He moved toward the pebbled edge of the stream. As he bent over to help retrieve the wildflowers she’d dropped, he looked up at her and smiled, the sun beaming straight into his amazing blue eyes. “I walked in just now. My car broke down a little way down the road, and I was looking for a telephone.”

She smiled back, feeling finally returning to her fingertips. Not Teague, of course not. How could she have been so idiotic?

For one thing, Teague had been nineteen the night he disappeared. This man must be nearly thirty, though that sexy mouth and brooding eyes certainly gave his looks the gut-kick virility of a hot-blooded teenager.

“You didn’t startle me,” she lied, hurrying to pick up the rest of her flowers before the stream carried them away. “Or rather, it’s just that I thought I was alone.”

“Yes.” He turned and scanned the dusty, broken buildings. “This place could make you feel you were all alone in the whole world, couldn’t it? I could tell right away I wasn’t going to find a phone, but I couldn’t resist the urge to explore. It’s fascinating.”

She nodded, pleased that he seemed sensitive to the atmosphere—and that he didn’t find it depressing or ugly. She’d always thought the intense solitude was one of Silverton’s charms. It was a good place to think things over.

“I’m afraid there’s never been a single telephone in the town of Silverton,” she said. “The mine closed up at least ten years before it was invented.”

He handed her the flowers. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “Well, I guess I’d better start hiking back, then.”

He smiled again, and the smile was so open and friendly that his resemblance to Teague Ellis faded even further. You could tell from Teague’s picture that he had rarely smiled, and when he had it probably had possessed a sinister, wolfish quality.

“Maybe,” the man who wasn’t Teague said, “you’d be willing to point me in the direction of the nearest town that isn’t a ghost town.”

She hesitated just a second. She could almost hear Trish now, ordering her not to be naive. You couldn’t go giving a man a lift in your car just because he was handsome, wore an expensive suit and had a nice smile. Bad guys didn’t come equipped with neon signs that said Danger. Murderers and thieves sometimes looked exactly like bankers and lawyers.

Still, if this man had wanted to harm her, couldn’t he have done it already? If he wanted to bash her over the head and steal her earrings, or toss her down in the chilly stream and ravish her, there certainly wasn’t anyone in Silverton to stop him.

After sharing a deserted ghost town with him, would letting him into her car really be so much more dangerous?

“The nearest gas station is in Enchantment,” she said. “That’s only about ten miles from here. I’d be glad to give you a ride.”

He tilted his head with a well-bred diffidence. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way.”

“It’s not out of my way at all. I live in Enchantment.” She transferred the flowers to her left arm and held out her hand. “By the way, I’m Celia Brice—” she looked down at the flowers “—wildflower enthusiast.”

His handshake was strong and warm, but entirely civilized and respectful. There was really no reason for Celia to start shivering.

The spring wind must have decided to turn cool, as it sometimes did up here in the mountains. Of course it didn’t help that she was standing ankle deep in a running brook.

Or that this was the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

“Patrick Torrance,” he said, letting go of her hand at the perfect moment. Obviously he wasn’t harboring a single, solitary, ravish-related thought. “And I would be very grateful for a ride into Enchantment. I was actually on my way there when the car broke down.”

“You were? Why?”

She hadn’t meant to sound so astonished. But Enchantment was a small town, and while it attracted its fair share of tourists, this man didn’t look like a tourist somehow. Enchantment’s other claim to fame was the birthing center, which was the best in the region. She paused, irrationally disliking that idea. He hadn’t mentioned having anyone with him. Surely he wouldn’t have left a pregnant wife back at the stranded car all alone.

But men sometimes did come to the birthing center alone, looking for their wives or their girlfriends, looking to mend a rift, to claim their unborn children…

No. She didn’t believe it. This man was too confident, too poised and powerful. He wasn’t the type who had to chase women anywhere. If anything, he was probably running away from one.

He chuckled softly. “You’re frowning—and you sounded pretty shocked. Is there something wrong with Enchantment? I had planned to spend a week or two there. Should I rethink?”

She flushed. “No. Of course not. It’s just that—Well, we’re not big and famous, not like Taos or Santa Fe. During the winter, when the ski slopes are active, things get pretty busy, but this is spring, and I just wondered why someone like you would—”

She broke off, embarrassed. She sounded as if she were fishing for personal information, which, she realized, she was. She couldn’t help it. She found him very attractive, and having him materialize before her like this had created an artificial sense of intimacy.

But artificial was the important word. What did she think—that Patrick Torrance was her own personal ghost, and now she could take him home and keep him?

“I’m sorry,” she said, fidgeting with the flowers. “I was just being nosy. Forget I said anything. Let me put on my shoes, and we’ll get started.”

He didn’t argue with her, or insist on spilling his plans. He obviously wasn’t used to explaining himself to anyone, least of all some kooky, barefoot woman he stumbled over in the local ghost town.

He followed her to the rocky bank of the stream, where she’d left her shoes. He watched as she sat down on a large, fallen tree trunk, which made the perfect bench, and began to brush the sand and leaves from the soles of her feet.

When she picked up her shoe, though, a simple white sneaker, she found that a spider had crawled into it. She tried to tip him out, but he crawled farther into the toe. She hadn’t seen his markings, so she hesitated to reach in and whisk him out with her fingers.

She shook the shoe. “Come on out, darn it.”

“Here,” Patrick Torrance said, coming closer and holding out his hand. “I’ll kill it for you.”

She looked up at him. “Kill him? Why would you kill him?”

He tilted his head, and then he smiled. “Did I say kill it? I mean to say I’d get it out for you. A purely harmless relocation.”

She smiled back and handed over the shoe. “Okay.” For a city boy, he caught on quickly. “Thanks.”

He had found a curved twig on the ground, and he maneuvered the point into the toe of her shoe. He had good hands. Gentle. He angled his wrist subtly a couple of times, with a minute scooping movement.

He tilted the shoe up to his face and peered into the shadows. Finally he eased his hand out, bringing the twig free, with the little spider clinging to it.

He walked over to a nearby patch of dead leaves—the ideal new home for a spider—and then he lay the twig and spider down, so deftly that the spider didn’t even scurry away. The little guy probably thought the whole move had been his own idea.

“Well done,” she said with a smile.

Then he came over and knelt on the ground before her. “Your slipper, my lady.”

Oh. Flushing, she found that she almost couldn’t let him do it. It was too personal, too oddly sexy. Besides, she wasn’t much for fancy clothes and shoes, and those sneakers had tramped many a mile around the dusty roads of Silverton and Enchantment.

Darn. She hoped her foot was clean enough. For the first time in her life, she wished she wore toenail polish.

But he was waiting, so she stuck out her foot. He was just kidding around. She was getting way too worked up. Maybe she shouldn’t have given up men after all—it had left her too susceptible to the slightest flirtation.

He took her calf in his hand, and shivers went all the way up her leg. She laughed a little, just out of nervousness. Just to distract him from those pale goose bumps under his fingers.

He slipped on the sneaker, then cupped his palm around her heel, rocking it to be sure the shoe was seated properly. Then he pulled gently on the tongue, took the laces between his fingers and tied a quick, nimble bow.

He met her gaze. “Why, it fits perfectly,” he said, smiling in a way that crinkled the edges of those remarkable eyes.

Oh, dear. She definitely should not have given up men. It made you kind of crazy.

Still smiling, he stood, and he held out his hand.

“And now,” he said, laughter gilding the edges of his pleasant voice, “If your pumpkin is waiting, maybe you could take me with you to the land of Enchantment.”

Celia sighed. Oh, heck, why fight it? Whoever Patrick Torrance was, and whatever he was here to do, wasn’t all that important, was it? She knew he had laughing eyes and gentle hands. And she knew that the moment she’d laid eyes on him, even when she still thought he was a ghost, she had been washed with an attraction more intense than any she’d ever felt.

She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. They stood there a minute, just smiling at each other. Something warm and golden moved inside her.

He’d be here a week, he’d said. Or two. Two weeks of reckless magic—and then the clock would strike midnight.

Oh, it was insane to even consider it—it was completely unlike her. Trish would have a fit. And besides, technically Patrick Torrance hadn’t even asked.

But he would. He felt the magic, too. It was in the warm touch of his fingers. It was in the surprised sparkle of his eyes. Oh, yes, he would ask.

And maybe, just maybe, she would say yes. Because sometimes even two weeks of magic was better than none at all.

THE CLINIC WAS OPEN ONLY half a day on Saturdays, unless one of the mothers was in labor. This Saturday was slow, so Trish had decided to give the windows of the reception area a thorough spring-cleaning. The clinic had a good professional cleaning crew, of course, but Trish had her own standards.

Cloth and vinegar solution in hand, she knelt on the sofa cushions and rubbed at the front multipaned window, giving each of the rectangles special attention. The cleaning crew sometimes ignored the edges.

Through the shining window, she could see the front parking lot, where a couple of cars sat, drowsing under the spring sunlight that filtered through the pines.

After a few minutes, Celia’s silly little Volkswagen Bug pulled in. Celia leaped out and executed a happy twirl in a shaft of light, arms outstretched as if she wanted to gather in the spring day and give it a hug.

Trish’s hand stilled, and she watched with a deep, vicarious pleasure. Even at twenty-eight, even though she was well educated and smart and dealt with real problems in her patients every day, Celia was in many ways as innocent as a child.

She believed the whole world was as good and gentle as she was. She picnicked in the mountains alone at night, she picked herbs in ghost towns, she made wishes on Red Rock Bridge in the moonlight and expected them to come true. It worried Trish, but she could never find a way to stop her.

That was because Celia had never known anything but love and affection. Her physician father was a little arrogant, and her mother was just a touch subservient, but nothing truly wicked ever happened at the Brice household.

Celia’s brother lived in Seattle and her parents had recently moved to Santa Fe, but they all were in constant contact with letters, e-mails, phone calls and visits.

A happy family created a happy child, and the happy child became a happy woman. It was like a mathematical equation. And of course the opposite was just as inexorably true, as well.

Trish didn’t envy Celia, not really. But as she watched the young woman skip up the front walk as if someone had drawn a hop-scotch board on it, her waist-length hair dancing in the dappled sunlight, Trish couldn’t help the pang of…something…that tightened around her heart.

She couldn’t remember ever, ever feeling that light and full of joy.

“Trish!” Celia swept open the clinic door and blew in on a gust of spring sunshine. “I hoped you’d be here!”

Trish smiled. “Why? Did you want to help wash the windows?”

“No, I wanted to tell you about the wonderful, amazing thing that happened to me out at Silverton!”

Trish put the spray bottle down on the windowsill. “You went to Silverton alone again? Celia, you know how dangerous—”

“No lectures, please,” Celia said. She plopped onto her knees on the sofa beside Trish. “I’m fine, honestly. See? Completely unscratched. Virtue intact.” She grinned. “Unfortunately.”

Trish frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means I met the most marvelous man. His car broke down and he needed a ride. His name is Patrick Torrance.” She said the name on a sigh of delight. “Even you would approve of him, Trish. Not a scratch or dent in sight.”

Trish rolled her eyes. “For a psychologist, that’s a pretty dumb comment.” She picked up her spray bottle and moved to the next windowpane. “If you just met him this morning, you have no idea what the extent of his dents might be. He’ll probably turn out to be an emotional wreck, which of course you’ll find irresistible, and he’ll become your next pet project.”

But Celia had no intention of coming down to earth. She wrinkled her nose at Trish and smiled like the Cheshire cat.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, arranging her full blue cotton skirt around her knees. “The beauty of Patrick Torrance is that he’s just here for a week or two. He’s a tourist. On vacation. Temporary. Even if he had dents the size of golf balls on every inch of his psyche, which he doesn’t, I couldn’t turn him into a project. In two weeks, he’ll go right back where he came from.”

“Which is?”

Celia hesitated, plucking at her skirt. “I’m not exactly sure.”

“Oh, great.”

Celia sighed again. “Don’t be such a grump. He’s gorgeous and smart and funny and a gentleman. What does it matter where he comes from?”

“Well, if he comes straight from San Quentin, that would matter.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Or if he comes straight from his wife and three kids. That would matter.”

“He doesn’t.”

“The loony bin? An AA meeting? The unemployment line? Would any of that matter?”

Celia leaned her head back and smiled at the ceiling. “He doesn’t.”

“Celia, listen to me.” Trish was nervous now. She’d seen Celia make plenty of mistakes with her love life. She was always taking on hopeless cases, sure that she could mold them into better people. But her attitude had always been half Mother Teresa, half Florence Nightingale—and Trish had understood that Celia’s heart wasn’t really touched at all.

This was different. Trish knew what that sparkling smile, those waves of energy, those restless movements, meant. They meant that this time there was nothing maternal about it. Patrick Torrance had somehow, perhaps quite by accident, perhaps simply the lucky chemistry of giving off the perfect pheromones, had found the trigger that turned on an electric current inside the beautiful Celia Brice.

“Just think about it a little bit, that’s all I’m asking. Go slowly.” But Celia was hardly listening. She was still staring at the ceiling as if it were a night full of stars. “Celia, what exactly are you considering here?”

Celia brought her head back down. The dewy gleam in her blue eyes said it all. It seemed a shame even to try to break this bubble of joy.

“What are you considering?” she repeated.

“Nothing dangerous,” Celia said. “Honestly, Trish. Stop worrying so much. Just…I don’t know. A fling. A spring fling. A short, exciting two weeks of dinner and dancing and flirting and—”

“And?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. He might not be interested. But if he is…then maybe a little fantastic sex.”

“Celia—”

But Celia laughed, a golden trill shot through with sensuality and excitement. She reached out and grabbed Trish’s hand.

“Come on, Trish,” she said. “I’m twenty-eight years old, not eighteen. I’m— Well, I don’t know how to explain it. He’s very exciting. If you could see him, you’d know. Would it really be so wicked for me to have a brief, lovely, extremely safe romance with an extremely exciting man, especially since there could be absolutely no long-term complications whatsoever?”

Trish shook her head. “No. Not if there were any such thing. But as any of your patients could tell you, there isn’t.”

PATRICK’S SUITE in Morning Light, the bed and breakfast his secretary had found for him, was surprisingly elegant.

The sitting room was spare but comfortable. A small, graceful fireplace filled one corner, and the sofa, which was covered in Navajo textiles, faced a picture window that overlooked the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

The bedroom was large and cool, with an equally stunning view. Pueblo pottery dotted the tables, and fine Mexican art filled the white-washed adobe walls with color.

He found himself whistling as he unpacked. He hadn’t expected to find this strange adobe hotel even marginally acceptable. From the outside, it seemed to come out of the ground like a piece of lumpy, rounded earth, not a normal building at all. From the outside it looked dark and cramped.

But inside the proportions were generous, and the cool light was strangely soothing, the simplicity relaxing. You could focus your mind in a place like this. He thought he might get someone to redecorate his office when he got back to the city. Suddenly the dark oak paneling he had now seemed oppressive and heavy.

It seemed like something Julian Torrance would have picked.

The change in his mood surprised him on several levels. Just a few hours ago he’d been fairly grim, focused on the unpleasantness of his mission.

He hadn’t come to Enchantment for R&R, as he’d told Celia Brice this morning. He’d come to Enchantment for one reason only—to find enough information about Angelina Linden to track her down.

It wouldn’t be easy. But someone knew where she’d run—and probably that someone was her sister, Trish Linden, the receptionist at the birthing center.

Somehow he would find out the truth, and when he did—well, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do then. No point tackling that decision now. Later, when he knew more, he’d make up his mind exactly how to proceed.

But he had some documents he just might like to show this Angelina Linden. It just might give him a great deal of satisfaction to tell her exactly what he thought of her.

Not, at the heart, a pleasant task. But for the first time since he’d made the decision to come to Enchantment, he realized that there wasn’t any reason he couldn’t enjoy himself, at least a little.

Especially since things seemed to be going so well. Who would have thought that breaking down near a ghost town would get things off to such a promising start? He might have wasted days trying to meet someone connected with the birthing center, someone who might be able to introduce him to Trish Linden.

And yet, all because of a broken radiator hose, he’d met Celia Brice, who, it turned out, was the psychologist for the birthing center, and Trish’s good friend.

It was as if the gods had conspired to assist him. Celia was open and welcoming, and she had already offered to show him around her beloved town.

A real find. A woman who had lived here all her life and knew everyone might just make this whole hunting expedition very easy indeed.

That she should be gorgeous, too, seemed like a good omen.

With a satisfied smile, he picked up the telephone. He’d start with dinner. She’d made it clear she’d love to hear from him again, and dinner conversations could cover a lot of useful ground.

And after that…

He hesitated. After that, he had to be careful. She really was unusually attractive. She radiated both sensuality and innocence, which was a fairly irresistible combination. And he was only human.

It was a damn fine line—acquiring the information without exploiting the woman. But he’d just have to walk it. He had no intention of leaving Enchantment, New Mexico, with any ugly blotches on his conscience

He called down to ask for the number of the local birthing center. He stared at the mountains as he dialed it. A breeze blew in the open window, and in it hung the scent of wildflowers.

Vanilla and lavender and something like chamomile tea. He shut his eyes, and he saw pink and purple and white, soft petals spilling into a tumbling crystal brook.

And the sweet smell of sunshine. Yellow hair tumbling across ivory skin.

He tightened his hand around the phone. He opened his eyes, and then he lowered the receiver into its cradle.

Not yet. He needed to put together a careful plan. And there was no rush. Somehow he knew that whenever he was ready, Celia would be waiting.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE STAFF MEETING at The Birth Place was almost always held at the noon hour on Fridays. Lydia ordered in pizza loaded with vegetables, and Trish brought fresh fruit and cheese. They ate while they talked over clinic issues. It was friendly but focused. Clearing even an hour of everyone’s schedule at once was difficult. Any more would be impossible.

Celia, who wasn’t technically on the birthing center’s staff, attended only every now and then. Often she was busy seeing patients at her own small downtown office. But this time she’d been lucky—the meeting had been moved to a Monday, and she’d been able to schedule patients around the staff meeting.

It was great to see everyone and to feel a part of the team. She watched the Birkenstock-and-earth-mother midwives chatting comfortably with the button-down administrative staff and smiled to herself. The atmosphere here was really very special.

If she ever had a baby, she wouldn’t think of delivering it anywhere else.

If she ever had a baby. But given how her life was going, how likely was that? She popped a piece of pineapple into her mouth and wiped her hands on her paper napkin briskly, aware that the meeting was coming to an end.

She wandered over to Trish’s reception counter, which, as always, was neat and organized. Papers wouldn’t dare get out of line on Trish’s watch.

Trish looked up with a smile. “Penny for your thoughts. Surely the debate over the new copier didn’t put that pensive look on your face.”

“No.” Celia picked up the snow globe of Venice that sat beside Trish’s keyboard, the one frivolous note amid all the streamlined practicality. She shook it, sighing. “I guess I was just wondering when I’ll ever get to see The Birth Place from…from the other side.”

“Not anytime soon, I hope.” Trish raised her eyebrows, took the snow globe from Celia’s dreamy fingers and set it back on the desk. The snowflakes sank around the delicate Venetian gondola and died. “Unless…is there something you’re not telling me about that episode in the ghost town?”

Celia laughed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, no. I meant someday. I do want a family, you know. A big one. I was just thinking that sooner or later I’ll find Mr. Right, and—”

“Not if you keep going on like this, you won’t.”

Annoyed that Trish had seemed to read her mind, Celia scowled. “Don’t start that. Didn’t I tell you I’m through picking men who need fixing up?”

“Right. And now you’re picking traveling salesmen.”

“Patrick Torrance is not a—”

“Whatever.” Trish lowered her voice, obviously not wanting the others to overhear. “I don’t care what it says on his business card. He may not be a scratch-and-dent, but he’s a hit-and-run. Here today and gone tomorrow.”

She gave Celia a straight look. “And you can’t tell me that’s a coincidence. If ever a woman was hell-bent on staying single, you’re it.”

“I—”

But she never got to finish her sentence. The front door to the clinic opened, and two patients entered, waddling over to sign in with the slow contentment of the heavily, happily pregnant. At the same time Kim Sherman, the clinic accountant, stuck her head out from the administrative office suite. “Trish,” Kim said, “can I steal you a minute? This statement is a mess.”

It was just as well, Celia thought as she watched Trish walk away. She hadn’t known how she was going to finish that sentence anyhow.

Trish would simply have to see Patrick Torrance for herself. Then she’d understand.

The clinic door opened again, but this time it wasn’t one of the slow, smiling mothers-to-be coming in for a routine checkup. This time it was Rose Gallen, and the young woman was in obvious distress.

Rose was crying, limping slightly, her sobbing face half buried in the crook of a man’s arm, her hands holding tightly to his shirt.

Celia excused herself to the women who were still signing in and began to move around the counter. “Rose,” she said. “Rose, are you all right?”

Rose didn’t lift her face from the man’s chest. The face of the man himself was obscured by one of the lush potted plants that flanked the doorway, and the sunlight was so bright it was hard to be sure…

But he couldn’t possibly be Rose’s husband, Tad. Tad had a beer belly that made him look several months pregnant himself.

This man, on the other hand… He bent his head, obviously saying something comforting to Rose, and Celia’s heart did a strange wiggling maneuver. He looked up when she arrived at Rose’s side, and their eyes met.

This man was Patrick Torrance.

“She’s all right, I think,” he said. “But someone should look at her. She was arguing with some bastard in the parking lot, and he ended up knocking her down.”

“It was Tad,” Rose said in a voice muffled by Patrick’s soft blue shirt. “Tad is back. He’s so angry, Celia. He said—he said—”

“It’s all right, Rose,” Celia said, taking the young woman’s hand. She looked up at Patrick. “Is Tad still out there?”

“Might be,” Patrick said. “When we left, he was on his hands and knees. I think he was trying to remember his name.” He gave Rose’s shoulder a quick, light rub. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe he never will.”

Rose tilted her face up at Patrick with a watery smile. “That would be great,” she said. “Thank you so much for—” She sniffed. “You were so nice to—I don’t know what I would have done if—”

“It’s okay,” he said with a smile. That smile. Rose blinked as if she were looking straight into the sun. “I promise you, it was my pleasure.”

“We’d better get you looked at,” Celia said. She and Rose had a scheduled session this hour, but her physical safety must come first. Rose was only about four months pregnant. If Tad had been knocking her around…

She looked toward the door to the administrative area, wishing Trish would come out of Kim’s office. She wasn’t sure where to take Rose. Which of the examination rooms was open? And she ought to tell Lydia the situation, considering it had happened on the clinic grounds. But she didn’t want to leave Rose alone, even with Patrick standing by. The young woman’s emotional state was clearly fragile.

Luck was with her. At that moment, Lydia and Katherine Collins, the clinic’s full-time midwife, came through the door. They looked over at Rose, saw that there was a problem and hurried to her side.

Lydia could handle any emergency, and Celia expected her to handle this one with her usual dazzling efficiency. But to her surprise, Lydia stopped about five feet short of where Celia and Patrick stood, with Rose between them, and seemed to freeze in place.

Lydia never betrayed much emotion, especially in front of the patients. Her years of running the clinic had taught her to project calm control at all times. So this was completely out of character, and Celia watched curiously as Lydia stared at Patrick Torrance.

A clear jolting shock changed Lydia’s face, but only for a split second. Her gray eyes widened, then narrowed, deep crow’s feet appearing at the edges. Her angular, weathered face slackened momentarily, then tightened, closing in, as if creating a mask to hide her reaction.

Only her hand, which was fisted at the base of her throat, betrayed how the sight of him had affected her.

Katherine looked at Lydia, then stepped forward, her long, graying ponytail swinging down her back. “Rose, you poor dear, are you all right?”

“I think so,” Rose said shakily. “It was Tad. He—” She began to cry again.

“Of course. Tad,” Lydia said dryly. “Now there’s a man who could use some anger management classes. You might want to consider offering a workshop soon, Celia.”

Celia smiled, glad that Lydia seemed to be recovering her equilibrium. The older woman had relaxed her hand, let it drop from her throat and put it out toward Patrick.

“Well, it looks as if we have you to thank for taking care of our Rose, Mr….?”

She paused, giving him time to introduce himself.

“Patrick,” he said, accepting her hand and shaking it. For a moment their gazes locked, gray steel against blue ice. Celia, watching, felt a strange chill.

“Patrick Torrance. I’m from San Francisco.”

Lydia’s gaze dropped first, but she seemed completely composed again. So calm and normal, in fact, that Celia began to wonder if she’d imagined that first, lightning-struck reaction.

“And I’m Lydia Kane. The founder of The Birth Place. Thank you again, Mr. Torrance.”

Without waiting for an answer, Lydia removed her hand and turned to Celia. “I want to take Rose back and check things over. She might like to have you along. Do you have time?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Rose looked up with tired, red-rimmed eyes. “I’d like Celia there, too.”

“Of course,” Celia said. “I have time.”

Patrick was still looking at Lydia. “Mrs. Kane—”

“You’ll have to excuse us, Mr. Torrance,” Lydia said. “But I know Rose thanks you, too, for stepping in to save the day.”

Obviously that was an understatement. Rose hadn’t yet peeled her hands from Patrick’s shirt. She looked as if she’d like to drag him into the examination room. As if she’d like to cling to his strength for the rest of the day—or the rest of her life.

Celia had to smile. She wished Trish could be here to see this. Apparently Celia wasn’t the only woman who found herself eating out of Patrick Torrance’s hands the minute she met him.

Celia looked at him, wishing things were different, wishing they could have even a few moments alone. She wondered why he had been in the parking lot. Had he come here to see her?

But her patient must come first.

“Yes,” she added, equally polite, knowing Lydia was watching. “Thank you so much.”

“It was nothing,” Patrick said, completing the circle of courteous formality. “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time.”

Lydia extracted Rose from his arm. She shot one more quick glance at Patrick’s face. “Yes,” she said. “That was quite a coincidence, wasn’t it, Mr. Torrance?”

Patrick looked at Lydia, tilting his head so that the spring light caught the brilliance of his eyes and picked out the blue glistening in his black, black hair. His smile was enigmatic and had sharp edges that seemed to gleam.

“Actually, Mrs. Kane,” he said with a peculiar flatness in his voice, “I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you?”

Lydia didn’t answer. She pretended she hadn’t heard him, busying herself with Rose. But Celia knew she had heard, and had chosen not to respond.

Which Celia, staring over at the older woman thoughtfully, decided was very strange indeed.

AT THREE-THIRTY, PATRICK PARKED his car along Cooper Avenue, just down the block from the J. P. Linden High School. Impressive. The Linden family must have been big stuff around here once. Don Frost’s report had said that both Linden daughters had been disinherited. Patrick wondered why. Maybe the old man had found out about the baby and didn’t much approve?

School was just over. Patrick watched the kids come pouring out of the building like a liquid rainbow. Some of them lined up, noisily jabbing and teasing, to climb into big yellow buses. Others trudged along stoically, watching the sidewalk, heavy backpacks dragging on their shoulders.

A few others, the ones with straight white smiles, shining, well-cut hair and expensive designer clothes, danced in groups toward the parking lot. Their trucks and sports cars waited like rows of lapdogs, ready to perk up at the sound of their masters’ remote control chirps.

He knew what their lives were like, those lucky ones. Back at San Francisco’s elite Master’s Preparatory Academy, Patrick had been one of them, the envy of even the richest of his friends. Out of all the top-of-the-line sports cars in the Academy parking lot, Patrick’s Mercedes had been the coolest.

High tech sound, alloy wheels, gliding sunroof, global positioning system before anyone else had ever heard of it. Low slung, with lots of attitude. Shining black on the outside, deep, rich maroon interior.

Red and black, wasn’t that perfect? Red and black to match the bruises that had once colored his arms, to match the bloody vomit that came up whenever Julian Torrance’s fists caught him in the kidneys.

He waited until everyone seemed to have left. He waited until the gray stone building stood motionless against the huge blue sky. And then he opened his car door, headed down the sidewalk and went inside.

J. P. Linden High School. A carved stone archway proclaimed the school name. The double doors were unlocked. Though a sign asked him politely, as a visitor, to check in at the front office, no one stopped him when he passed by without a glance.

The dimly lit hallway lined with sports trophies and “State Champion” banners, smelled like all high schools. Part chalk, part textbook, part musty old building. And under everything the lingering smell of the kids—cheap cologne and sweaty gym clothes, hair spray and hormones.

His footsteps echoed as he walked. The school seemed huge for such a small town; it must draw from nearby communities. That would account for all the buses.

Still, it didn’t take him long to find the gymnasium, where, according to Don Frost Investigations, the Linden High Homecoming Dance had been held every November for more than thirty years.

The gym was deserted, as well. It was too late in the year for basketball, too early for the prom. Today it was just a big empty floor and stacks of collapsible bleachers. Streams of dusty sunlight struggled in through high, dirty windows. The floor was well worn, overdue for replacing. Obviously this school hadn’t been new even back when The Homecoming Baby was born.

He stood at the gym door and surveyed the nearest hallway. Two doors were set into the far end, maybe twenty yards away, just far enough to hide the weak wails of a newborn. Boys, the first door read. And the second, Girls.

He moved toward the second door. But as he stood there, uncertain whether to go in, he suddenly wished he hadn’t come. What had he been thinking? This was exactly the kind of sentimental nonsense he ordinarily despised.

And it was illogical, too.

Hell, he didn’t even know that this was the bathroom the wretched girl had used.

And even if it was… What good would it do him to see it? It had all happened thirty years ago. Nothing would be left to mark the event today.

“Sir?” The voice behind him startled him. Patrick turned, aware that the echoing emptiness of this building had affected him more than he’d like to admit.

A man was in the hallway, holding a large push broom and a cleaning cart. A light-skinned Mexican, the man was probably sixty years old, but he had a barely lined face, as if he didn’t let life bother him much.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. He’d known he might run into questions, and he had his story ready. “I hope it’s all right for me to look around. I’m thinking of moving to Enchantment, and I wanted to check out the school my kids would be attending.”

If he had any. But of course he didn’t add that part.

“Oh, sure. The staff don’t mind. Though things are stricter nowadays than they used to be.” The custodian leaned against his broom, clearly pleased to have an excuse to chat instead of sweep. “It’s a good school. Good kids. I moved away once, went to work in Taos, and what those kids wrote in the bathroom stalls you wouldn’t believe. Disgusting.”

Patrick smiled and nodded. “I’ll bet. But no serious problems here? Nothing for a parent to worry about?”

The man shrugged. “Well, they’re teenagers. At sixteen they all think the f-word is pretty funny, you know? But still, I’m glad I came back. This was my first real job, and I guess it’ll be my last.”

“Your first job?” Patrick did some quick calculations. “How long ago did you start working here?”

“’Bout forty years. The school was a lot newer then, easier to clean. Course I was younger, too. That might be why.”

Suddenly the older man’s gaze slid toward the bathroom door, and, as if he had finally registered how peculiar it was for this stranger to be standing outside the girl’s bathroom, he narrowed his eyes.

“Listen, what did you say you were—”

A look of understanding passed across his face.

“Oh, I get it. You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? You heard that a girl had a baby in that bathroom. It was a long time ago, but still, you’re wondering if it’s true, aren’t you? You’re wondering if it’s safe to let your kids go to a school where things like that happen.”

Patrick smiled, hoping he was pulling off the right amount of paternal concern and normal curiosity. “You’re right. I did hear about it. But I don’t know—I thought it might be some kind of urban legend, just a good creepy story to tell at sleepovers.”

To Patrick’s surprise the man looked offended. “Nothing creepy about it. It’s a sad story, I’ll admit that, sad as hell. But not creepy.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Okay. But, still, it sounds kind of phony, don’t you think? Do you think it’s really true?”

“I don’t think. I know. Every word is the God’s truth.” The man crossed his heart for emphasis. “I found that baby myself, even before the cops, even before Mrs. Lydia over at the birthing center. Picked him up, poor little fellow, I never saw anything so tiny. He was crying something terrible. Must’ve been lying there a while.”

Patrick looked at the man, unable for the moment to invent an appropriate response. The custodian was looking down at his hands, as if he were reliving the moment he had held a wailing newborn in his arms.

The man seemed to collect himself after a second, but when he looked at Patrick, his eyes were softer, a little damp. “Yessir, a mighty sad story. But I’ll tell you this much. That night changed my life.”

“It did?”

The man nodded. “My Anita was getting ready to have our own baby, our first, and I wasn’t any too happy about it. I was thirty-two years old, but I’m sorry to say I wasn’t much of a man yet. I wasn’t ready to give up my drinking, my nights out with the boys. But when I saw that pitiful little baby on the floor, all that blood, and nobody to help him stop crying…”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I went home, and I kissed Anita, and I told her how our baby wasn’t ever going to cry himself to sleep. I told her I wasn’t going to leave her alone, not ever again. We were going to have the happiest family in all of New Mexico.”

Patrick smiled. “And did you?”

“Yessir, we did.” The man stood a little taller. “We have eight, all boys, all grown now, and not a one of them ever cried himself to sleep.”

In spite of himself, Patrick thought of the long nights he’d spent, straining to hear whether Julian Torrance’s footsteps were coming toward his room. Patrick hadn’t cried, either. He hadn’t dared to. Crying infuriated Julian, and it only made things worse.

“Good for you,” he said to the custodian, his voice sounding thick to his own ears. “Not many people can say that.”

The man looked pleased and nodded his humble acceptance of the compliment.

As if to return the favor, he pointed one of his callused hands toward the bathrooms. “Want to have a look? It might set your mind at ease. The kids say sometimes they can hear a baby crying in there, but it’s not true. Maybe it’s the old pipes, maybe pure imagination. That baby’s long gone. Mrs. Lydia found it a good home. But, still, I’ll show you if you’d like.”

Patrick shook his head.

“No, thanks,” he said, suddenly eager to get out of this cavernous place, away from that closed door. Away from this man who had once had Patrick’s blood on his large, gentle hands.

“As you said, it’s ancient history. There’s absolutely nothing left for anyone to see.”

CHAPTER FIVE

CELIA LOVED MITCH DIXON’S restaurant, The Silver Eagle. Everyone in Enchantment loved it. Except Mitch himself.

The whole town knew the story. Mitch hadn’t ever wanted to own a restaurant. At forty-nine, he had built up a good business as a photographer. But his restless wife Marcy had whined until he let her buy this empty property on the town square and decorate it with turquoise tablecloths, black marble floors and a huge silver sculpture of an eagle.

She’d whined some more, and he’d let her hire a well-known chef. And then she’d covered the walls in expensive Native American paintings.

She’d spent a fortune, and then she’d grown bored. Two years ago she’d left Mitch and the restaurant. He’d been struggling to keep it afloat ever since.

The silver eagle was still there, but the paintings had been auctioned off, replaced by Mitch’s own photographs, the cheapest things he could find to hang in the empty spots.

The chef was still there, too, creative and cantankerous as ever, but because of the man’s cranky personality Mitch found it impossible to keep help on the floor. Celia had pitched in running the cash register or busing tables more times than she could count.

She was sweeping crumbs from one of those turquoise tablecloths right now—into one of the sterling silver crumb catchers Mitch’s ex-wife had found so quaint.

“Thanks, Celia,” Mitch said as he passed her after taking an order. “As soon as the dinner crowd thins out I should be fine. And I have triplets coming in for an interview any minute now. Unless they’re morons, I’m going to put aprons on them and get them on the floor tonight.”

Celia glanced at him to see if he was kidding, but his plain, friendly face looked quite sober as he made his way back to the kitchen. And sure enough, fifteen minutes later, she saw him escorting three identical giggling blondes back to his office.

She walked over to the register, which Trish was manning. Trish had been refusing Mitch Dixon’s romantic advances for a full year now, but she was too kindhearted to refuse his request for help.

“Did you see that?” Celia tilted her head toward the back office. “Trixie, Dixie and Kicksie just came in looking for jobs. Mitch says he’s going to hire them on the spot.” She smiled. “I think he’s just trying to make you jealous.”

Trish didn’t answer for a minute, busy adding numbers in her head. She was the only person Celia knew who double-checked the computer’s math.

Finally she looked up. “I think he’s just trying to survive.” She glanced in the direction of Mitch’s office, and Celia was pleased to see a soft, concerned expression in her eyes.

“Poor man. He’s swamped. Marcy should be horsewhipped for leaving him with all this.”

“Marcy can’t be found,” Celia reminded her. “And besides, I’m glad she’s gone. I don’t know why such a nice man married someone like that in the first place.” She grinned. “Unless it was because the woman he really cared about wouldn’t give him a chance.”

Trish went back to counting receipts. “Give it up, Celia,” she said. “I’m not interested.”

But Celia had seen the faint coral spots that flared along Trish’s cheeks, and she was satisfied. Trish might not be ready to admit it, but she was definitely interested.

And besides, Celia was too happy to get into an argument tonight. She had called Patrick Torrance at the B and B this morning to thank him for his help with Rose, who had checked out just fine and had gone to stay with her mother. Patrick hadn’t been in his room, so Celia had left a message, inviting him to dinner here at the Silver Eagle.

The wait for a response had been long and nerve-racking. What if he wasn’t interested? What if he had checked out and gone back to San Francisco? What if Enchantment simply didn’t hold enough excitement for a man like him?

But when she got out of her last session this afternoon, her message light had been blinking. Patrick had called. He might be late, he said, but he’d be there by seven.

It was six-thirty now, and she found herself looking up every time the silver bell over the front door jingled. She couldn’t remember feeling this antsy and excited since…

Well, since ever. The men she’d dated over the past few years weren’t exactly the type to make anyone’s heart go pitter-patter, as Trish was always pointing out.

The bell jingled once more, and Celia looked up eagerly. But it still wasn’t Patrick. A stocky young man stood at the edge of the lobby, his gaze searching, obviously looking for someone in particular.

Trish smiled. “Look, Celia,” she whispered. “It’s one of your Scratch and Dent grads.”

“Shh—he’ll hear you.” Any other night, Celia would have been pleased to see Jerry Killebrew, who had been her boyfriend for about six weeks last Christmas. But not tonight.

Trish chuckled. “Well, Madame Makeover, I guess I’ll let you handle this one yourself.”

“Oh, Trish, don’t—”

“Sorry. I’ve got to make the bank deposit before it gets too late.” She raised her eyebrows. “Besides, I’m sure you two need a little private time to catch up on…things.”

“Darn it, Trish. Since when did you want to hook me up with Jerry Killebrew? I seem to remember you once said he was as dull as a day-old dog biscuit.”

Trish patted her shoulder. “Since it was a choice between the dog biscuit and the traveling salesman, sweetheart. That’s when.”

Helplessly, Celia watched Trish pass Jerry in the lobby. Jerry clearly asked where Celia was, because Trish pointed toward the main dining room with an exaggerated air of helpfulness and a mischievous smile.

Thanks a lot, Celia thought, steeling herself for the encounter. To tell the truth, she’d always privately agreed with Trish. Jerry was a little…tepid. But he had been sweet and needy, and not at all threatening. The perfect project.

And now here he came, running his hands through his hair, double-checking his cuff buttons and adjusting his shirttails under his belt.

Jerry had always been nervous around her. She’d once found it cute, but right now it seemed much less appealing. Suddenly she discovered that she didn’t want a “project.” She far preferred a man who marched forward with confidence, with a sparkle in his eyes and a roguish wave in his blue-black hair.

And, with any kind of luck, a man exactly like that would be arriving any minute.

Still, it wasn’t poor Jerry’s fault that Celia’s tastes had changed—quite inexplicably, all because of a chance encounter at a ghost town. She owed it to him to be pleased to see him after all these months. He was a decent person, boring or not.

So somehow, as Jerry wandered into the dining room, Celia managed to put on a smile big enough for the occasion.

“Jerry!” She held out her hands. “How are you, stranger?”

He looked over at her and grinned, proud and sheepish all at once.

“Hi,” he said, taking her hands. He wasn’t tall, maybe five-eight, but he was muscular and very handsome, especially when he smiled. “I guess you know why I’m here.”

Celia squeezed his hands. “I hope I do,” she said.

The last time she’d seen Jerry, he’d been in the middle of a career crisis. He had just finished law school, but, though he was the son of a hugely successful trial attorney, he suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted to practice after all. Celia had privately diagnosed a bad case of cold feet about the bar exam, and she’d done everything she could to help him see that merely taking the exam didn’t lock him into a life as a lawyer. But not taking it would leave him with an abiding sense of failure.

“So?” She smiled. “Am I right? You took the bar? And you passed?”

Jerry took a deep breath. “Top ten percent.”

“Hurray!” She reached out and wrapped her arms around him. She loved it when one of her projects turned out well. “I knew you could do it. Congratulations!”

To her surprise, Jerry pulled her in and hugged her tightly.

“Jerry,” she said, looking up at him. This was hardly the tame admirer she remembered. “You haven’t forgotten that we—”

But before she could finish her sentence, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her. At first, she was too shocked to react. This was Jerry Killebrew? In their six weeks of dating, he had never found the courage to kiss her, not once.

Besides, she’d made it plain to him at their last meeting that it was over between them, that he should get on with his life for his own sake—not to try to win her back.

Now here he was, acting as if the bar exam was the only thing that had ever stood between them. Acting as if he had been sent off to slay that dragon just so that he could come home to claim his reward—Celia herself.

Oh, dear. She pulled gently against his embrace, not wanting to insult him. She must not have given very clear signals after all. And by encouraging him to be brave, she seemed to have created a monster.

Now what? He had lowered his face again, his lips rooting around, searching for hers.

Just her luck. At that very moment the silver bell rang out one more time.

And Patrick Torrance walked into the restaurant.

TWO HOURS LATER, Celia wanted to kill them both.

The three of them had eaten dinner together, all in the same roomy horseshoe-shaped booth. It had been a downright surreal experience. She’d expected tension, lots of it. Jerry might be suspicious of Patrick, the handsome stranger. Patrick might be jealous of Jerry, the cozy old boyfriend…

But she couldn’t have been more wrong. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to Jerry that Patrick might be anything more than what she said—a visitor to Enchantment who had courteously rescued one of her patients. Jerry’s lack of imagination, she remembered, always had been one of his most annoying shortcomings.

Even worse, Patrick hadn’t seemed to mind one bit seeing Celia in Jerry’s arms, with her lipstick all over Jerry’s mouth. He hadn’t even blinked. It was very depressing. Apparently he didn’t give a darn who she kissed.

In fact, the two men had hit it off like long lost brothers. Which, in a way, it turned out they were. Fraternity brothers, though from different universities, different years. Before the first course, they were exchanging hell week stories. By dessert, Patrick was cheerfully encouraging Jerry to sing the old fight songs, even though Jerry managed to hit only about one of every three notes correctly.

Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer.

She was sandwiched between them, so when she said “Excuse me,” both men moved instinctively.

Everyone laughed, and then Patrick relinquished the honor to Jerry gracefully. In her mood, that annoyed her, too. Patrick wasn’t even interested enough to fight for the right to let her out.

She didn’t head for the ladies’ room. Instead she went back to the kitchen, where Mitch was sitting on the counter, trying to keep his chef, a big genius named Julio, from quitting over a half-eaten duck breast with papaya vinaigrette.

“Be reasonable, Julio. Gina Vaughn is only five feet tall. Where would she put all that duck? She ate as much as she could.”

“It is an insult. My Duck Papaya is light, the wings of angels. Size does not matter when the food is made of the clouds of heaven.”

“Everyone knows your duck is the best, Julio.” Mitch turned toward Celia with the desperate face of a man at the end of his rope. “Don’t they, Celia?”

Celia looked at the chef without a lot of sympathy. Julio’s face was as red as a tomato, and he was brandishing a very large, very pointed knife. In her personal opinion, Celia thought, people like Julio should not be allowed to handle anything sharper than a butter knife.

“Of course,” she said, trying for Mitch’s sake to swallow her annoyance. But good grief, what an ego. “It’s a sad fact, Julio, that some people just don’t have a very sophisticated palate.”

His face calmed a little, and the knifepoint wavered, dropping an inch. “Yes,” he said, considering. “Tragically, that is true.” He turned to Mitch. “From now on, you will not let such people come into this restaurant.”

That was too much even for the patient Mitch. “You’re right, Julio,” he said, climbing down off the counter with a grunt. “In the future I’ll give them a palate-check at the door. It’s not like we need the business or anything.”

The knife went up again, along with Julio’s color. He knew sarcasm when he heard it.

“Mitch,” Celia put in. “Can I see you for a minute? It’s important.”

Julio growled, but Mitch followed Celia into his office. “God,” he said as he closed the door. “I hope you and your two boyfriends ate every damn bite of that crème brûlée. There’ll be bloodshed here tonight if you didn’t.”

“We did.” Celia smiled at him and perched on the edge of his desk. “But they’re not my two boyfriends.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mitch smiled back. “That’s not what Trish told me.”

She perked up. “She told you about Patrick? What did she say?”

“The truth? She said she thought you were about to make a big mistake. She said this one is a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy. To be perfectly honest, she asked me to do whatever I could to discourage the whole thing.”

“Oh.” She plucked disconsolately at her skirt. “Then I guess you wouldn’t be interested in helping me get a little time alone with Patrick.”

“Who says I wouldn’t?”

She looked up at him. “If Trish told you to discourage—”

“What does Trish know about romance? She is clearly a bad judge of these things. Otherwise, she would have said yes to me a year ago.”

His laugh held a poignant note in it, and Celia felt a rush of affection for this very nice man. He was more than landlord and friend—though he was both of those to her. For several years now, he’d been like a father, and he was a far sight more gentle and understanding than her real father, a successful surgeon whose interpersonal skills weren’t quite as good as his surgical ones. In fact, her dad’s preferred method of dealing with opposition was to mow it down like a Sherman tank.

Mitch was tolerant, wise, good-natured—and kind of cute, in a big brown puppy sort of way. What on earth was Trish thinking? Good guys like Mitch Dixon didn’t come knocking at a girl’s door very often. Celia herself had been looking for one for years now.

“So you’ll help me?”

“I might.” He gave her a wink. “As long as you can promise me Trish won’t find out.”

“She won’t.”

“Okay, then let me guess. You need me to find some excuse to keep the Scratch and Dent guy here so that the Hit and Run guy will be the one to take you home tonight.”

She groaned. “God, Mitch, is that scratch and dent joke all over town?”

“Pretty much, I’m afraid.”

She shook her head helplessly. “Anyhow, yes, that’s exactly what I need. You see, my date was with Patrick. Jerry showed up unannounced. And now he won’t budge. He’s sweet, but he has very little imagination.”

His brown eyes twinkled. “Or maybe he has too much, and knows what might happen if he relinquishes the field.”

“It’s been over between us for months,” she said. “Jerry was supposed to forget about me. He was supposed to get on with his life.”

He smiled. “Well, speaking as a guy in a similar situation, I have to say I respect a man who shows a little persistence.”

“You’re not anything like Jerry, Mitch. And besides, the circumstances are completely different. Trish has had a tough life. It’s made her very—”

“Stubborn?”

She laughed. “I was going to say cautious. But you’ll get around that, I know you will. Just keep trying.”

They walked to the door, but just before they opened it Mitch put his hand on her shoulder. “One last thing,” he said. “I need you to promise me something.”

She looked up at him. “Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful. This Patrick guy seems nice, but you really don’t know much about him yet. And there’s something about him—I don’t know. He reminds me…”

He shrugged and let the sentence drop. “I just want you to go slow. Don’t go putting your heart out where anybody can stomp on it.”

Celia smiled. “Mitch, honestly. Don’t listen to Trish. She worries about everything, and she—”

He shook his head. “This isn’t about Trish. It’s about you. Face it, Miss Scratch and Dent. Trish may not be a romance expert, but neither are you.”

PATRICK WASN’T SURPRISED when Celia accepted his offer to drive her home.

After all, she’d gone to a good deal of trouble arranging to get rid of Jerry, the well-meaning but rather dim bulb of an ex-boyfriend. She’d clearly enlisted the help of the restaurant owner, Mitch.

Mitch was one of those honest guys who didn’t make a very good actor. He’d poked his head out right around closing time and stiltedly announced that he had some sales contracts on which he needed legal advice. Would Jerry please come back and help him out?

Jerry obviously didn’t like it but was too polite to say no. Besides, he undoubtedly knew that he was a bit of a third wheel on Celia’s date anyhow. He was going to have to concede defeat sooner or later, and Mitch’s offer allowed him to save face.

Still, Patrick felt sorry for the kid as he said good-night and trudged back to Mitch’s office. After having spent the evening watching her golden hair sparkling under the Silver Eagle’s chandeliers, listening to her intelligent conversation, enjoying her cute, music-box laughter and occasionally catching a soft waft of her cinnamon-and-wildflowers perfume, he understood that losing Celia Brice couldn’t be easy.

He kept her talking on the way home—partly because he enjoyed the sound of her voice. And partly because getting information from her was still his main agenda.

He asked a few questions about the buildings they passed, and she offered a couple of anecdotes about Enchantment. He enjoyed it. She told a great story. She was witty and insightful, and although she poked gentle fun at her little town, clearly she loved Enchantment and everything in it.

When they arrived at her complex, he turned off the engine and looked over at her. Illuminated by the moon, her hair seemed almost white, and her profile looked like the princess carved on a silver coin.

He ought to ask another question. He needed to work the conversation around to the Linden family somehow. He didn’t want to be stuck in Enchantment, New Mexico, forever while he tried to ferret out Angelina Linden’s location.

But, his private agenda aside, he was still a normal, red-blooded male, and Celia Brice was a pretty amazing woman. The urge to kiss her was beginning to be distracting.

And if one kiss led to another… If one thing led to another… What would be the harm in that? They were both consenting adults, after all.

As soon as he began formulating those rationalizations, though, he knew they were pure bull. He recognized her kind. Though it was rare, it wasn’t extinct. Every inch of her projected a clean, idealistic innocence that told him she wouldn’t be very good at short-term flings.

She would sleep with him. Patrick hadn’t met the woman yet who wouldn’t surrender sooner or later. Usually sooner. But she wouldn’t understand the rules.

She’d get hurt.

And that was the very thing he’d vowed he wouldn’t do. He wasn’t his father. He didn’t hurt people for fun.

In the silence left behind while he wrestled with his conscience, Celia sighed. She stretched a little, like a silver cat in the moonlight.

“It’s been such a lovely evening,” she said. “Would you like to come up for some coffee?”

Her smile was so unaffected. It made the classic question seem utterly sincere.

He knew, though, what would happen if he went into her apartment. He knew as if he saw it played out before him like a movie.

“That probably isn’t a great idea,” he said. She looked crestfallen, and he smiled. “But your apartment complex looks like a fascinating old building. Spanish Colonial, isn’t it? I’ll bet it has a courtyard that looks great by moonlight.”

That beautiful smile again. Ivory and silver and stardust. Yes, he’d seen a lot of women in his day, but he’d never seen one quite as tempting as Celia Brice.

“Yes, it does!” She opened her door. “Come on. I’ll show it to you.”

The night was clear and chilly, and there were so many stars it looked as if someone had knocked over a bottle of glitter. Patrick realized he wasn’t used to seeing the sky without peeking through skyscrapers. Out here it was so big it made you feel as if you could actually breathe better.

The complex, Celia explained quietly, obviously reluctant to disturb her sleeping neighbors, was an abandoned Spanish Colonial hotel that Mitch Dixon had renovated and turned into eight large apartments.

A two-story white structure, it had been designed in a square, with arched colonnades on the first floor, and cool, shady loggias on the second. The back doors of the apartments all opened onto a common area, an open, bricked courtyard complete with ivy climbing up the walls, hanging baskets of bougainvillea, potted trees and, of course, the requisite water feature, a bubbling, three-tiered fountain.

“We spend a lot of time out here,” she said as she led him to the center to get the best view. “All of us know each other pretty well by now. Lately we’ve started having potluck dinner parties out here at least once a month.”

He propped one leg up on the rim of the fountain’s lower basin and scanned the pretty courtyard. “That must be fun.”

“Oh, it is!” She gestured toward the rooftops with her pale arms. “We string lights, and we mix up sangria in punch bowls. Eddie Lopez in number 5, he’s a painter, and he plays the guitar like a bard. We get a little tipsy, and we dance like gypsies.”

She spun around, playfully illustrating. Her long white skirt twirled like a whirlpool of moonbeams. Watching her, he could almost see the parties. He could see her dancing, her hair tangled, her lips and cheeks red from the wine. No wonder Eddie was inspired to make poetry on his guitar.

When she stopped spinning, she was very close, close enough for him to see the silver spangles of moonlight in her golden hair.

“You should come to the next one.” She tilted her head. “If you’re still here, I mean. If you’d like to.”

“Celia—”

She took a deep breath. “You know, I don’t honestly know how to bring this up, but I just thought I should tell you. Jerry—the guy you met tonight. Jerry isn’t…you see, we’re not…”

“I know you’re not.”

She frowned. “You do? How? He was kissing me when you came in. He’d never done that before, not ever. But I was afraid that you’d think that he—that we—”

He chuckled. “No,” he said. “I definitely didn’t think that.”

“Oh, really.” She tilted her head, giving him a teasing smile, as if she thought that might not be a compliment. “Why not?”

She was standing right next to the fountain, and it splashed tiny droplets of water onto her cheek. They clung in the downy blond hairs that grew near her temples. He could hardly take his eyes off those shining dewdrops. He had the sudden ridiculous notion that he’d like to kiss the place where they nestled.

“Well, why not?” she asked again.

“Because I know what a woman looks like when she wants to be kissed. It’s written on her face. It’s written in every muscle of her body. And that’s not how you looked.”

“It’s not?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Oh.” She looked at him for a long moment with clear, unblinking eyes. She took another deep breath. “Well, how do I look now?”

He started to toss back a flip response, but then he realized she wasn’t being coy. Both honesty and urgency lay behind that liquid gaze. She was so different from anyone else he’d ever known—and that alone was somehow exciting. Something hot spiked in his blood, like a jolt of electricity.

“Celia, listen—”

He wasn’t sure what he thought he was going to say. But it didn’t matter. Suddenly nothing mattered except that she wanted him to kiss her. And he was going to do it.

He slid his hand behind her back, her fragile bones curving against his palm. He pulled her in, and he felt the warmth of her breasts against his chest. Her heart was very light and fast, a sweet counterpoint to his own pounding beat.

Yes. He closed his eyes against a sudden flood of desire. He was going to kiss her, and it was going to be as intoxicating as drinking undiluted moonbeams.

“Celia?” The new voice seemed to come from a long way away. “Are you out there? Don’t you think you should come in, sweetheart? It’s getting very late.”

Like a star falling out of the sky and smashing onto the courtyard bricks, reality crashed into the picture. As if someone had shut off all the special effects—the shimmering moonlight, the mist drifting around their feet, the aroma of starflowers and the far-off echo of liquid music—the courtyard became once again mere bricks and mortar, potted geraniums and electrically pumped fountain water.

Celia, too, became a mere woman, tensing in his arms with frustration, and something that looked a little like embarrassment. He followed her gaze with his own. The woman’s voice had come from one of the arched colonnades—one of the downstairs apartments.

“Yes, Trish. I’m here.” Her voice was polite, but laced a little more tightly than before. “Patrick brought me home, and I was showing him the courtyard.”

The woman spoke again. “It’s getting cold. Don’t you think you should come in?”

Celia cleared her throat and smoothed her hair around her shoulders. “Trish, come meet Patrick. I know it’s late, but I’ve been eager for you two to meet each other.”

A pause. Then a small, uncomfortable laugh. “All right,” Trish said. “Just for a minute.”

After the first sting of animal frustration, Patrick hadn’t been particularly annoyed at the woman for interrupting them. If anything, he was grateful. Things could quite easily have gone too far.

And besides, if this really was Trish Linden, she was—

Angelina’s sister. The very woman he had come to Enchantment to meet.

In spite of himself, his pulse began to thrum. Trish Linden was his aunt. His aunt. The first and only real blood relative he’d ever set eyes on.

But even now something in him wanted to reject the idea. Patrick realized how intensely he wanted Don Frost’s information to be wrong.

He didn’t want this hideous history.

He hated the idea of being the town tragedy, the bloody urban legend, the ghostly infant who had haunted the dreams of high school girls for more than thirty years.

He hated the idea that his mother had left him there to die.

But it was no longer up to him. He’d set this investigation in motion, and now he’d have to live with whatever he discovered. And so he watched in complete silence while the newcomer walked toward them, emerging from the shadows.

He realized he was holding his breath. And as soon as he met Patricia Linden’s wide, horrified eyes, he saw the truth.

This woman knew him.

She had recognized him in one look. And it had taken the breath right out of her. Her mouth was open, as if she were choking. It was clearly all she could do not to cry out—or run away.

So, God help him, it was true. It was true, in all its glorious, horrible irony.

Patrick Torrance had come home.

CHAPTER SIX

TRISH QUIETLY CLOSED HER DOOR and locked it. Then she went into her bedroom, sank to the edge of her bed and folded her hands in her lap.

Her fingers twitched against each other, and under them her knees were trembling as if she were cold.

Somehow she steadied them. She must not fall apart.

A mournful ripple of guitar music came in through the window, like the sound of someone crying. She started for a moment, then realized it must be Eddie, her next door neighbor. He frequently practiced at odd hours, trying to learn some of the old Mexican ballads, which were invariably sad. Death, lost love, murder, ghosts. No wonder she found it hard to sleep.

Oh, look. She’d left the window cracked. That must be why she was so cold. She reached across the bedside table, pulled the window down and locked it.

That was better. Now nothing could get in.

For many minutes she stared at the blank, butter-colored wall in front of her, gathering her composure. She had decorated this apartment with a monastic simplicity, and that simplicity braced her now. She lived like a woman with no past—and no real anticipation of a future.

The twin bed was hand carved, but needed refinishing. The wooden floors were clean and bare. Three homemade quilts were folded on their rack under the window, ready to be donated to The Birth Place. The armchair in the corner held the beginnings of her fourth. Over the years, quilting had helped to pass many a sleepless night.

The bedside table held only four things: the reading glasses she’d recently begun to need, the novel she’d borrowed from the library, a plain lamp and a picture of the Bridge of Sighs in Venice.

In a way, this spare apartment symbolized the bargain she’d made with Fate a few years ago, after the last of her futile attempts to put together a normal love life had failed.

She wasn’t going to bother with all that anymore. She would work hard. Be useful. She would not ask for the things other people had. She wouldn’t ask for trinkets and frills, any more than she would ask for love and family and laughter.

She’d lost any right to those things thirty years ago, the night her sister and Tee Ellis disappeared.

That horrible, horrible night.

No one knew the whole truth about that night. Some people knew pieces of it—other people had guessed a little more. But no one, not even the police, who had tried to find out, knew exactly how Tee Ellis had ended up at the bottom of a mineshaft, or why Angelina’s body had never been found.

No one knew that but Trish herself.

And only she knew that the tragedy was really all her fault. Only she knew how much damage a fifteen-year-old’s desperate jealousy could do. Only she knew how a fat, gawky girl could envy her butterfly-brilliant older sister. How her lumbering, stolid body could hide a painful love…for the boy in her sister’s arms.

She remembered the night those unwanted feelings had been born. Tee had always been reckless—it was part of his appeal. But that night he had been worse than ever. He had made love to Angelina at three in the morning, in their own front yard, while a frozen, hypnotized fifteen-year-old Trish had listened from the upstairs window.

She had been so afraid—afraid of what their daddy would do if he heard, but even more afraid of the strange feelings that stirred in her own clumsy body as the muffled noises below grew primal, piercing. It was almost as if Tee were hurting Angelina, as if he were killing her.

Tee had known Trish was there, of course. When it was over, he had looked up at her window and grinned. Blue-eyed, black-hearted Tee—with that smile that could make good girls do very, very bad things.

Tee’s smile… Suddenly the face Trish had just seen in the courtyard—Patrick Torrance’s face—rose before her, as vivid and clear as if she had hung his picture on her wall.

Oh, God.

It was no coincidence. Patrick Torrance was Tee Ellis’s son. Her whole body knew who he was. He had Tee’s eyes, Tee’s mouth, Tee’s hair. Yet he was indisputably a Linden, too. He had the same small cleft in his chin that had been a part of Angelina’s famed beauty, and their father’s domineering charm.

Trish reached out and opened the drawer of her nightstand. Her fingers were still trembling, so she moved very carefully.

In the drawer, under her spare glasses and her hand lotion, were two pictures she had never framed.

The first one was Angelina and Tee together. Angie sat on the ground, and Tee knelt behind her, his hand under her chin, getting ready to tilt it ruthlessly upward, so that he could kiss her. Tee looked as cocky and dangerous as ever. Angie looked mesmerized—hopelessly in love.

The other picture was of Mitch Dixon, taken last summer. He stood halfway up a ladder, sweaty and disheveled from repairing the roof of the apartment complex. He was laughing, waving his hand to make her put the camera down. He thought he looked too dirty, but Trish loved the picture. He looked kind and purposeful, lighthearted and good.

So she’d kept it, though she knew she had no right, considering the deal she had long ago made with Fate. If only she could be forgiven for her sins, she’d promised, if only they could stay buried in the past, she wouldn’t ask for more.

Maybe that’s why this had happened tonight. Maybe Fate knew she had begun to fudge on her side of the bargain. At the Silver Eagle, hadn’t she been looking at Mitch, wondering if maybe she could be allowed to have something of her own after all? Hadn’t she been thinking, for that one weak moment, how nice it would be to open her heart and let Mitch Dixon in?

What a fool she was! She should have known it was impossible. If Mitch knew the truth about her, he wouldn’t want her anymore, anyhow.

She took the picture of Tee and Angelina, held it at both ends, and began to tear it into small pieces.

Two pieces. Four, six… She should have done this years ago.

Because the past wasn’t going to stay buried. It was free. And it had found her.

“Trish?”

The apartment was small enough that she could hear Celia’s careful whisper. She heard the light knocking. “Trish? Are you still awake?”

But Trish didn’t answer the door. She didn’t want to see Celia right now. Though she didn’t realize it, Celia was the one who had brought the past to Trish’s door.

Trish was not so delusional that she could make herself believe Patrick had ended up in Enchantment by pure chance. No, he was there because he knew. He knew about his birth, and now he would insist on knowing more.

Patrick would want to know about his father, who had lain for two years in the silent, sunless air of a forgotten mineshaft. He would want to know how such a thing could happen.

And then… The torn pieces of photograph dropped from her limp fingers and fluttered to the ground.

And then he would want to know where he could find his mother.

“SOY ARREPENTIDO, señor, pero yo no puedo fijar su coche hoy.”

Patrick stared at the mechanic, a skinny young Mexican boy named Lugo. Lugo’s father, who had fixed Patrick’s car in the first place, wasn’t around. So now that Patrick’s car had begun to make strange noises again, it was Lugo who looked at it, shook his shaggy black hair and finally, wiping his hands on his dirty rag, pronounced that indecipherable sentence.

Patrick thought of the years of Japanese and Chinese instruction he’d taken—which had resulted in a fairly decent acquaintance with both languages, enough at least for a comfortable professional dialogue. But he’d never taken Spanish, which he now saw had been a serious mistake.

The boy looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Soy arrepentido, señor,” he repeated, a little louder and more slowly. “Pero yo no puedo fijar su coche hoy.”

Patrick made out just three words, but they were enough. No, hoy and señor. Not today, mister.

He cursed. The boy’s face darkened, and Patrick quickly apologized. He’d forgotten that some words were pretty much part of a universal language. “I need my car,” he said. “Surely it’s just a belt or something?”

The boy folded his arms. “No.”

“Well, how long? Tomorrow?” He searched his mind. “Mañana?”

The boy shrugged. “¿Por qué usted está en tal apuro? Nuestro pueblo tiene muchos lugares interesantes para ver.”

Patrick didn’t comprehend a word of that one. He went over and peered at the engine, as if he might see something Lugo had missed. The kid watched him, his expression just barely short of contemptuous eye-rolling. Apparently Lugo measured a man’s worth by the calluses on his hands, and he had already judged Patrick a citified loser.

Patrick saw nothing, of course. He thought about asking Lugo when his dad would be back, but decided it would insult the boy.

Great. Now what? Suddenly Patrick’s cell phone rang. He straightened up, banged his head on the hood of the car, which gave Lugo a chuckle, and answered the phone.

“Yes. What.” It wasn’t a very polite greeting, but damn it, his head hurt, and Lugo was getting a rather conspicuous kick out of watching him rub the sore spot.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Patrick? It’s Ellyn. I’m sorry if I’ve caught you at a bad time, but you did ask me to call you.”

He shut his eyes. “Sorry. I’m just having a really rotten day.”

“Then come on home,” she said sweetly. “I’ve got a Elves and Fairies SpringFest fund-raiser for the ASPCA next Saturday. Everyone will miss you if you’re not there.”

Good God. He tried to imagine the costume Ellyn probably had picked out for him to wear. Suddenly the small-town, casual, fresh-air feel of Enchantment didn’t seem so bad after all. It beat a bunch of bored grown-ups playing elves and fairies in the backyard of some millionaire’s faux-Versailles estate.

“I’m afraid I can’t make it,” he said, trying to sound disappointed. “I haven’t finished my business here, and besides, my car is making weird noises. It’s probably not safe to drive, and they can’t repair it right away.”

“So?” Ellyn sounded confused. “Get a loaner from the dealership.”

He tried to imagine exactly where in Enchantment, New Mexico, they would put the Mercedes dealership. “Can’t,” he said. “Town’s too small to have one.”

“It is?” Ellyn was a nice woman, but she was San Francisco born and bred. The only small towns she’d ever actually seen were quaint little Italian rooftops that formed the view from her rental villas. “Where on earth are you?”

“Enchantment, New Mexico.”

Her pause spoke volumes.

“Oh,” she said. He could tell she was itching to ask him why—but she’d been brought up to believe that gracious women never badgered men for information the men didn’t offer voluntarily. “I see.”

She didn’t, of course. How could she? She didn’t even know he had discovered he was adopted. She certainly couldn’t have guessed that he had traced his origins to the dingy girl’s bathroom at the Enchantment public high school. If he told her the whole story right now, she probably wouldn’t believe him.

He hardly believed it himself.

But apparently it was true. Actually he’d known it was true the minute he’d met Lydia Kane at The Birth Place. Don Frost’s notes had indicated that Lydia had handled the adoption. She was a midwife, not an adoption counselor. There couldn’t be all that many babies under her care who got offered for adoption—so of course the name Torrance had been familiar.

Even before he gave his name, though, she’d recognized his face. That had been interesting. He must look a great deal like either his father or his mother.

And, just in case he’d needed more proof, Trish Linden’s ashen face last night had provided it. After meeting him, she had managed to make a bare minimum of respectable small talk, but her panic had been palpable. She obviously recognized him, and she couldn’t wait to get away.

Apparently the Linden family still didn’t want to acknowledge their relationship to Patrick Torrance. Apparently they were still eager to run away from the responsibility, the scandal, the shame.

Well, it may have been easy to run away from the whimpering baby on the bathroom floor. It was going to be somewhat more difficult to escape the grown man—the man who intended, for the first time in thirty years, to place blame squarely where it belonged.

On the shoulders of Angelina Linden.

“Ellyn, I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”

“Of course,” she said. “Do you need me to come get you?”

“No, I’m fine. I just need you to mail me something.”

If she was disappointed, she didn’t let it show. “Of course. What?”

“In the left hand drawer of the desk in my office at home, there’s a file, a large one, marked Dr. Anton Misrati.”

“All right. I’m sure I can find that.”

“Thanks. If you’d just mail me that file, I’d appreciate it. Just address it to me, care of the Morning Light Bed and Breakfast, Enchantment, New Mexico. Send it priority, if you would. I’d like to get it in a couple of days.”

She didn’t ask who Dr. Misrati was, or what was in the file so urgent he needed to get it ASAP. Ellyn was one of a kind, which was why he’d chosen her for this task.

He had put all the documents into a closed envelope, but the seal could be easily broken by anyone who wanted to snoop. Patrick trusted his employees—to a point. Ellyn was different. She’d been so well bred she’d never, ever pry into someone else’s affairs, no matter how curious she might be.

Which was a very good thing, because these documents would shock even people far less sheltered than Ellyn Grainger. In that overstuffed file were copies of all the emergency room reports, X rays and doctor’s notes—dozens of them, each in dry but graphic detail—that documented more than ten years of Julian Torrance’s systematic abuse of his adopted son, Patrick.

Ten long, hard years. Julian’s violent side hadn’t begun to spiral out of control until Patrick’s mother was too sick with her final cancer to intervene. Patrick had been about five. And it hadn’t ended until, at sixteen, Patrick had finally been big enough to shove back. Julian was a coward, of course—all bullies were, weren’t they? He hadn’t been quite as eager to pick on someone his own size.

At the time, that helpless decade had seemed endless. Also in the file were a few of Patrick’s own Polaroids of some of the cuts, burns and bruises that hadn’t received medical attention. How naive he had been, hiding there in his room, fighting back tears while he photographed his own arms. He’d actually believed that, with enough proof, a ten-year-old boy could make Julian pay for his cruelty.

Julian Torrance never had paid—unless you counted all the money he spent to keep the story quiet, to keep the doctors from going to the authorities. No, Julian hadn’t paid. But maybe, if Patrick could get Trish Linden to reveal her sister’s location, the infamous Angelina Linden would.

CELIA HAD RECENTLY BEGUN spending late Tuesday afternoons volunteering at the Teen Drop-in Center. Several of the kids there were her patients, and it helped to interact with them in such an informal setting.

If you watched carefully, you could learn more about what bothered a kid from playing basketball with him, or helping him with his homework, or sharing a bag of popcorn, than you could ever learn sitting across a desk from that same kid for fifty minutes of formal “session.”

Besides, it was fun. She was getting pretty good at basketball, and the center had the best popcorn in town. It was the highlight of her week.

But that day she was having a little trouble concentrating.

Her mind kept drifting back to last night. To the kiss that hadn’t quite happened. And to the meeting with Trish, which most definitely had.

So…Celia’s initial reaction to Patrick hadn’t been purely her imagination after all. He did look like Tee Ellis. He looked so much like Tee, in fact, that both Lydia and Trish had done rather dramatic double-takes the first time they saw him.

But was it just a coincidence? People resembled other people all the time, without the similarity having any significance. The world was riddled with Elvis and Marilyn lookalikes. The bio-pic movie industry depended on it. Heck, there was a girl working down at Slim Jim’s Diner who, if she had the money for implants, would be a dead ringer for Britney Spears. That didn’t mean they were related.

“Hey, Miss Brice! Heads up!”

Celia looked up a nanosecond too late. The basketball hit her on the head. “Ouch!” She tried to catch it, but her feet tangled. She fumbled with the ball, stumbled and fell on her bottom with a bang.

Dylan Carson, one of the kids who helped out at the teen center, came loping over. “Oh, man, I’m sorry, Miss Brice. I thought you knew what play we were running.”

She rubbed her forehead, which was burning so much she knew she was going to have a nice big red circle there. Dylan looked so concerned. What a darling boy he was! Hard to remember how recently he’d been sour and difficult and eager to leave Enchantment.

“I did know, Dylan,” she said. Laughing, she put out her hand to let him help her up. “I just zoned out. I’m sorry. I’m really not much use today, am I?”

Nolan McKinnon, the editor of Enchantment’s local newspaper, and one of the Center’s strongest supporters, came over, too.

“What can I tell you, Celia? You play like a girl.” Nolan pushed back her hair to check her forehead. “Better go in and put some ice on that.”

She stuck out her tongue at him and wrinkled her nose. The two of them had become good friends over the past few months, while she’d been counseling his niece, Sammy. Sammy had lost both parents at the beginning of the year, and Nolan had been woefully unprepared to take over guardianship.

And yet Sammy had come through magnificently—partly because Sammy was a brave little soldier, and partly because Nolan McKinnon had been smart enough to fall in love with Kim Sherman. Kim surprised everyone by turning out to be the perfect woman to create an integrated family out of the pitiful, heartbroken pair. They were going to be married this summer.

“In fact,” Nolan said, “maybe you should just go on home? It’s almost six, and I hear your love life has been heating up lately. I wouldn’t want you to miss a big date.”

Dylan and a couple of the other boys made teasing “hoo-hoo” sounds. Celia rolled her eyes at all of them. “And maybe you guys should mind your own business. Do I interfere in your love lives?”

Dylan bounced the basketball against the concrete. “Heck, yeah, you do,” he said, grinning. “Except you call it counseling.”

She had to laugh at that. “Okay, I’m leaving! You wore me out anyhow.” She picked up her towel and wiped her arms, which were damp from the exertion. Enchantment was going through a pretty severe drought—so though the spring days were blue and beautiful, the afternoons could be relentlessly hot.

She’d be glad to get inside. Besides, Nolan had been right, in a way. She was hoping Patrick might call tonight. That kiss last night would have been something special. Little electrical sparks had been flashing all over the place, hinting at the big explosion to come.

It had been difficult to accept the interruption gracefully. She only hoped Patrick was as eager as she was to give it another try.

“Oh, Celia, by the way,” Nolan said, following after her as she headed through the center’s back door. “Is there any chance you’re stopping by The Birth Place on your way home? I have some papers for Kim—and I thought you might be willing to drop them off.”

She snapped her towel at him. “I knew you had your own agenda for sending me away. I knew you weren’t just worried about my love life.”

He looked sheepish. “Okay, you caught me. But…can you do it?”

God, he was shameless. But he wasn’t the only one brought low by love. She’d seen it a hundred times, beginning with her own mother, who was always walking in her father’s shadow, acting grateful for the chance to shelter there.

Celia looked at Nolan’s handsome face, with that goofy, dreamy look on it. And she thought about the transformation she’d seen in Kim Sherman. Wow. When you thought about it, true love was so powerful it was actually kind of scary.

Maybe Trish was right. Maybe Celia did pick men she was in absolutely no danger of falling in love with. Maybe this total surrender thing plain terrified her. Maybe she felt more comfortable when she was in control.

But that wasn’t a very attractive quality, was it? She frowned. Surely that couldn’t be completely true…

“Fine, I’ll stop by The Birth Place.” She held out her hand. “But it had better be some pretty darn important papers.”

Nolan’s sheepish look deepened, and he dug in the pocket of the bomber jacket he had hung by the back door on his way out to play ball. He retrieved two sheets of wide-ruled elementary school paper.

Celia stared at them, disbelieving. They were letters to Kim from Sammy, probably written at school today and decorated with large red crayon hearts.

She looked up. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He twisted his mouth. “Darn it, you were going by there anyhow. And Sammy wanted her to see them right away.”

She shook her head, laughing, and took the papers. “Love,” she said. “It’s made mush-meat of you, Mr. McKinnon.”

Nolan kissed her cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t it great?”

AS SHE PULLED INTO THE NEARLY empty parking lot of The Birth Place at about six-thirty, Celia had an idea.

Trish’s car was already gone. This might be the perfect time to talk to Lydia privately about Patrick.

It was a little awkward. When she’d met Patrick, Lydia had obviously found his looks surprising, but she hadn’t ever mentioned it to Celia. In fact, after the first odd expression of shock, Lydia had acted quite normal—if perhaps a little cool—toward him.

But now, after Trish’s reaction, Celia felt that it was important to find out more. After leaving them in the courtyard, Trish had sequestered herself in her apartment and hadn’t answered either the door or the phone. Clearly if she had any thoughts about Patrick and Tee Ellis, she didn’t feel like discussing them with Celia.

Celia could respect that. To Trish, Tee Ellis represented her sister’s shame at the least—and at the worst he might even somehow be responsible for her sister’s disappearance. If Patrick resembled Tee just out of coincidence, it was amazing but ultimately unimportant.

But if Patrick resembled Tee because he really was Angelina’s abandoned son…

Well, obviously the emotional ramifications of that were enormous.

So perhaps the better place to start asking questions was Lydia, whose connection was far less complicated.

Lydia had been responsible for The Homecoming Baby until the police investigation could be completed, and a new home found for the infant. If anyone around here knew the name of The Homecoming Baby’s adopted parents, it would be Lydia.

Celia turned off her engine and marched into The Birth Place, her mind made up. Kim was away from her desk, perhaps upstairs going through some of the files kept in storage, so Celia dropped Sammy’s letters on the desk. That would make a sweet surprise when Kim returned. Then she moved across to Lydia’s office.

The door was shut—unusual for Lydia. Celia knocked twice. She heard a rustling noise, so she knew someone was in there.

“Lydia? It’s Celia. Do you have a minute?”

Lydia’s voice responded, but it was muffled and weak, and Celia wasn’t sure what she’d said. Suddenly worried, she opened the door.

Lydia was kneeling by her filing cabinet. At first Celia thought she was just looking for something, but then she noticed that Lydia’s arm was draped across the open drawer. Her head was resting on her arm, her face turned toward the floor.

And then she saw the broken vase on the floor. Lydia’s Native American pottery collection was beautiful—and always treated gently, like the valuable art it was.

What had happened in here?

Celia hurried over and knelt beside the older woman. “Lydia! Are you all right?”

Lydia raised her head. Celia was shocked at how gray her skin looked, how gaunt her strong-boned face. Her eyes seemed to be set deep in dark circles, their normally intense, piercing gaze foggy and slightly unfocused.

“I’m fine,” Lydia said. “Just a momentary dizziness. Can you help me up?”

Celia reached out, and with some effort Lydia climbed to her feet, leaning heavily on Celia’s shoulder.

Lydia stood a moment, breathing deeply. And then, still holding Celia’s hand, she took small steps toward the large leather sofa at one end of the office. She let go of Celia’s hand as she sank onto the thick, comfortable cushions with a ragged exhale.

Lydia’s eyes were shut now, as if she didn’t quite have the energy to hold them open. Celia went over to the massive oak desk and put her hand on the telephone.

“I’m going to call 911.”

Lydia shook her head. “I’m fine,” she repeated. She opened her eyes and gave Celia a small smile. “Trish has been warning me I’m working too hard. I thought she was just being Trish, you know. But it appears she was right.”

Celia wasn’t convinced. Lydia always worked hard. It wasn’t in her nature to live any other way. And even though she was seventy-three years old, age was something you rarely considered when you were around Lydia. She was always the most impressive, powerful life force in any group of people, whatever their sex, age or physical condition.

She was looking a little better now, though. Her color was returning to her face, and her eyes were more focused. Still, Celia was troubled.

Something had caused Lydia’s dizziness. Was she ill? Could it be emotional stress? Celia had seen many unhappy patients fret themselves into a physical decline. But though Lydia had been through a lot lately, with the clinic’s financial crisis and the surprise arrival of Kim Sherman, who turned out to be the granddaughter she’d never known.

She was still clearly on the outs with Devon, her other granddaughter. And Celia knew that hurt Lydia deeply. But surely it was not enough to bring this amazing lioness literally to her knees.

“Do stop wringing your hands, Celia,” Lydia said. “If you’d like to be helpful, please pick up the pieces of that vase. I promise you I’m not planning to keel over on this sofa and die in the next few minutes.”

Celia had to chuckle. Lydia’s tart voice was getting back to normal, too.

“No, I can see you’re not,” Celia said, squatting down to pick up the broken vase. “But what did happen? Did you fall?”

“Not quite. I felt a little dizzy, that’s all. But when I tried to catch myself, I knocked over the vase.” Lydia shrugged. “Not a good trade-off, I fear. That vase is more valuable than I am—and considerably more aesthetically pleasing, too.”

Celia put the broken pieces on the end table. Then she sat next to Lydia.

“I’m sure you’re fine,” she said. “But you really should see a doctor, just in case. To see what brought on the dizzy spell. Don’t you want me to call someone?”

“What I want is to go home and get a good night’s sleep.” Lydia patted Celia’s hand. “I appreciate your concern. But I’m just tired. Really.”

“Lydia. You can’t just—”

Lydia stood. “Heavens, I hope the worry-wart mentality isn’t catching. You’re starting to sound exactly like Trish.”

Celia folded her arms. “Didn’t you just admit that Trish was right about how you’ve been working too hard? Well, I’m right about needing to get a doctor to check you out.”

Lydia scowled. “Your appearance is deceiving, Celia Brice, did you know that? You look like a pretty little flower child, but you’re really a fifty-year-old drill sergeant at heart. Always determined to make people straighten up and fly right.”

Celia didn’t blink. Lydia stared back for a minute, then she shook her head and sighed. “You’re not going to let this drop, are you?”

Celia shook her head, smiling.

“All right, then, sergeant.” Lydia waved a hand in surrender. “I’ll let a doctor check me out. The first free minute I have.”

“Tomorrow.”

Lydia glared at her. The look would have been intimidating if Celia hadn’t been so sure she was right.

“For heaven’s sake. Fine. Tomorrow.” Lydia picked up her satchel and started putting papers in it. “Now may I go home and get some rest?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Celia answered sweetly. She moved toward the door, but once there she turned and gave the older woman one last searching look. She wanted to reassure herself that Lydia was steady, breathing normally, no signs of pain or confusion.

Lydia looked up. “Yes? Did you have further instructions for me, sergeant?”

“No, of course not,” Celia said. Her original mission—asking Lydia about Patrick Torrance—suddenly seemed absurd.

The Homecoming Baby was such a mythical part of Enchantment folklore. Walking in here and saying she thought she might be dating the Homecoming Baby was as ridiculous as saying she had seen Elvis at the Laundromat.

And could Lydia really give Celia any information? She might not ever have known the name of the baby’s adopted parents. If she did know, her ethical code would prohibit her from revealing it.

Besides, Celia thought, even though the crisis had passed, Lydia’s strong, angular face still looked exhausted. New, deeper hollows had formed in her cheeks, under her eyes. Celia would not dream of troubling her right now about anything.

Lydia’s health was real. Important. Celia’s love life was not.

Her curiosity would just have to wait.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHEN, JUST BEFORE 7:00 P.M. the next night, Celia heard noises in the reception area of her downtown office, she wasn’t at all alarmed. Her only thought was that her patient must be early, which meant she wasn’t going to have time to finish her cheese-and-tomato sandwich without gobbling it, and she was undoubtedly going to end up fighting heartburn all through their session.

But that would be better than conducting the session with her stomach growling. She’d worked straight through lunch, too. She was starving, but when Malcolm Glamis had called to say he really needed to talk, could Celia please stay late and work him in, she hadn’t been able to say no.

So she wolfed down the last bite of sandwich and opened her door.

“Just come on in, Malcolm,” she said as she wadded up her napkin and tossed it into the trash. “I let the receptionist go ho—”

But it wasn’t Malcolm. It was Tad Gallen. And he clearly was extremely drunk. His round face was very red, and she could smell the tequila all the way across the reception area.

The split second she stood there, processing the situation, was enough to let him into her inner office. He shoved the door as he passed through, banging it against the wall. “I need to talk to you, bitch.”

He was at least six feet tall, and he must weigh well over two-fifty. The forefinger he was shoving toward her face right now was nearly as thick as her wrist. From Rose’s stories, Celia knew that Tad had a mean streak.

Still, she stood her ground, even though every instinct was strongly suggesting she back away from his nasty breath—and his nasty temper.

“Do you? Well, perhaps we can arrange that,” she said. “But if you really want to talk to me, Tad, you’re going to have to monitor your language.”

He frowned. “Huh?”

She kept her voice level. “You’re going to have to stop using words like ‘bitch.’”

“Oh, yeah?” His black eyebrows dug so low they seemed to be trying to crawl down his nose. “How about this word, then? Homewrecker!”

“Better.” She nodded, moving around to sit in the chair behind her desk, talking as she went. “Yes, that’s much better. At least it begins to address your issues with some specificity. ‘Bitch’ is a fairly generic term and doesn’t really further the dialogue, do you think?”

He still looked angry, but he looked confused, too, and that slowed him down a little. It was as if he’d just found out that the rules of the fight had been changed—and the new ones were written in a language he didn’t understand.

Good. She had guessed right, then. She knew Tad’s type. A bully, but not very smart. He was easily intimidated by authoritative people who seemed more articulate and more controlled than he was. According to Rose, Manny on the Enchantment police force had broken up many a fight at the Gallen house using a similar technique.

So she dug out every multisyllabic word in her arsenal and kept firing while she sat down. Once there, she shuffled some papers around and, at the same time, hit the speed dial feature that automatically called building security.

It was always better to have backup. Tad was blinking and bewildered right now, but drunken bullies were unpredictable, and she wasn’t foolish enough to take dumb chances.

“Sit down, Tad,” she said. “I’m sure we can evaluate the dimensions of the dilemma here, but only if you’ll lower the temperature and outline for me the specifics of your complaint.”

She almost had to laugh when, with a mutter of frustration, he tossed his huge body into her little chair. She could almost picture Tad Gallen at ten, or sixteen, wearing that same sullen, mulish face, plopping into the chair in the principal’s office.

“Listen, bitch,” he said, obviously trying to reestablish control over the conversation by using the forbidden word. “I know you told Rose to leave me. I want to know what goddamn right you think you have to butt into my marriage. I want to know who the eff-ing hell you think you are.”

She folded her hands on the desk. “I think you misunderstand the role between a psychologist and her patient, Tad. Therapists rarely instruct their patients to do anything. Instead we try to clarify the issues and let the patients discover their own answers.”

His face seemed to swell and redden right in front of her eyes. Maybe she had overdone it. Careful, careful… She needed to gauge exactly where his confused submission would explode into unendurable frustration—and that was tricky. She knew Tad’s type, but she didn’t really know him very well.

“Bullshit,” he said, spitting onto the desk with the force of his emotion. “You damn well did tell Rose to leave me. She wouldn’t ever have done that on her own. She’s taken the money, too. I know damn well that was your idea. Rose wouldn’t even think of it on her own.”

So that was what this was about. Celia should have realized Tad didn’t care whether Rose stayed in the home they’d shared or not. He had another girlfriend—had been living with the new girl for a month now. What he did care about was the joint bank account.

“Tad, I’m sorry, but I’m not able to discuss with you what Rose and I have said in our sessions. I’m sure you can understand that our talks are private, and—”

Suddenly he was out of his chair in a lunging rage. “Private? I’ll tell you what’s private, you bitch. A man’s marriage is private!” He swept her papers to the floor. The phone went, too, clattering and emitting a false ring, like a mechanical whimper. “A man’s wife is private! A man’s money is private!”

For a minute she thought he might climb onto the table so that he could get his fat hands around her throat. She’d underestimated how drunk he was. He wavered on his feet, and his eyes seemed half-crossed with fury and liquor.

She realized she already had the letter opener in her hand, her subconscious having identified it as her best weapon even while she talked on so calmly and pompously, trying to defuse the situation with words.

She was ready. And, while he kept bellowing obscenities, he didn’t seem clear-headed enough to figure out how to overcome the obstacle of the desk between them. But still—she was very glad to hear the front door open and realize that the security guard had arrived.

The guard wasn’t alone. Patrick Torrance was with him, leading the way. He didn’t say a word to Celia. He merely advanced into the room slowly, his eyes locked on Tad. The guard was right behind him.

Patrick was every bit as tall as Tad, and ten times as fit. Tad’s extra weight, which had made him appear so huge and dominating compared to Celia, now just made him seem bloated, weak and unwieldy.

But he was too drunk to assess the situation very clearly. He didn’t even seem to notice the security guard. He turned his red face toward Patrick and said, “You stay out of this. Miss Brice and I are having a private conversation.”

Patrick didn’t stop coming. “Then it’s too bad everyone can hear you clear out to the street. Three people have already called the cops, including me. So frankly, bud, I think you can assume this conversation is over.”

And it was.

Before Celia could quite absorb what was happening, the office was teeming with people. Patrick, Ken the security guard, two of Enchantment’s finest—and of course Tad, who raged around like a stuck bull for a couple of minutes before they managed to get the handcuffs on him and lead him away.

Apparently he’d rammed his truck into Rose’s car—which was parked outside her mother’s house—and sideswiped two others before he had made his way to Celia’s office. The police had already been looking for him.

Finally, though, it was all settled. Celia gave her statement, they took Tad to jail, the security guard went to answer a double-parking complaint and now she and Patrick were alone in the office.

And it wasn’t quite eight o’clock—the hour at which Malcolm Glamis was due to arrive for his session.

She saw that she was still holding the letter opener. Her fingers shaking, she set it down on the ransacked desk and looked up at Patrick.

“I can’t imagine what I thought I’d do with that,” she said with a sheepish smile.

“I hope, if we hadn’t shown up, that you would have stabbed him with it,” Patrick said. “The man’s a maniac.”

She shivered a little and shook her head. “He’s just drunk. I don’t think he really would have hurt me. He’s a bully. Mostly noise.”

Patrick must have seen the shiver, though she’d tried to hide it. He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. “You’re cold. Let’s lock up, and I’ll take you home.”

She looked at him, incredulous. “I can’t go home. I have a patient coming any minute.”

Patrick didn’t even seem to hear her. He had started picking papers up off the floor and stacking them as neatly as possible back onto the desk. “You can make sense of these later. They told me at The Birth Place that most days you work here, so I was coming by to see if I could take you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” She thought of the rushed sandwich and sighed. It would have been so nice.

“Yes, but dinner doesn’t seem like a priority right now. Right now we just need to get you home.”

He put the phone on the desk. “You probably still need something to eat, but we’ll bring something in. You need a long, hot bath—and then plenty of sleep.”

He was like some kind of admiral, laying out the master plan without considering the possibility of a mutiny. He hardly even looked at her, intent on restoring order so that they could leave.

She put her hand out and stopped his arm. “I can’t go home,” she repeated. “I have to stay. I have a patient.”

He frowned, as if she were talking gibberish. “For heaven’s sake, Celia. You’re shaking. Tell whoever it is you’ve had an emergency, and you’ll have to see them another time.”

She stiffened. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

He heard the change in her voice, obviously, because he didn’t jump back with an automatic contradiction. He just looked at her.

After a minute, he said, “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Of course I’m not,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Patrick, I very much appreciate your help with Tad—and I am very grateful for your concern. But I’m a professional. This is what I do. I promised this patient that I would see him tonight. He expects me to be here. He needs me to be here.”

She took off his jacket and held it out. “And I am going to be here.”

He didn’t take the jacket. “Alone?”

“Alone.”

“I could wait in the front room—”

“My patients expect privacy,” she said. “Thank you, Patrick. But no.”

He finally accepted his jacket. He folded it over his arm.

“All right,” he said. “It’s your decision, of course.”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you for respecting that.”

And then, with only a simple, polite goodbye, he was gone.

For a minute she fiddled with the chaotic stacks of papers. But she couldn’t read anything. It was as if her vision were blurred. Did adrenaline do that?

Finally she sank onto her chair, trying not to give into the waves of cold confusion that seemed to sweep through her body like an unseen tide of emotion.

She wondered if Patrick might have been right after all. Maybe she was too shaken to help any patient tonight.

No. She was right. She had a commitment, and she had to honor it. She was strong. She could do it.

But…why had she been so brusque? She might be right, but couldn’t she have been softer, sweeter, more feminine about it all? Did she always have to prove to everyone that she was more competent, more courageous, more independent, than her blond, elfin image might imply?

Oh, why did any hint of a domineering male bring out the worst in her? Patrick had only been trying to help. He came in like a knight in shining armor, and she knocked him off his horse and showed him the door.

Brilliant. Had she forgotten that this was the guy she was trying to seduce? Had she forgotten that she’d spent the past two days imagining what might have happened if Trish hadn’t interrupted them in the courtyard? Imagining what his kiss would have been like?

Way to go, Celia. She shoved her letter opener in her drawer and slammed it shut. You’ll never find out now.

“I HEAR YOU HAD SOME excitement at your office last night.”

Celia, who had been standing by the reception desk at The Birth Place, reviewing her notes for her next patient, looked up and saw Mitch Dixon standing in front of her. He held two large, flat packages wrapped in brown paper, one under each arm.

“Yeah, it was pretty wild,” she said. She put down the notes and gave him a hello hug, though he was too encumbered to return it. “I guess I’m going to have to stop offering evening hours. Trish is all over me about how stupid it was.”

Mitch smiled. “She would be. But this time she’s right, you know.”

“I know.” Celia eyed the packages. “What have you got there?”

Mitch shifted his burden self-consciously. “Presents. Well, not really presents, nothing all that special. Kind of ‘thank you’s’, really. For you and Trish, for all those times you’ve helped out over at the Eagle.” He looked around the room. “Is she here?”

“She went to lunch.”

Mitch’s smile faded. “Already? It’s only eleven-thirty. I was sure I’d catch her. I thought I might take her to lunch myself.”

Poor Mitch. “Apparently it’s going to be busy around here later. You know how she is. She went when it was convenient to everyone else. Maybe you could come back at closing time and give it to her then. Maybe ask her to dinner.”

“I’ll be stuck at the Eagle. Oh, well. I’ll just leave it. If she likes it, maybe she’ll stop by to thank me, and I can talk her into staying and eating.”

Celia grinned. “Or running the cash register?”

Mitch’s face brightened. “No, that’s the good part. I hired the triplets. They start tonight. I’m hoping my staffing problems are over, and I won’t have to impose on you two anymore. That’s why I brought these.”

Celia reached out. “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I am here. I’d like to open mine!”

Mitch handed one of the packages over. Celia propped it on the reception counter and untied the twine that held the wrapping on. After that, the thick brown paper unfolded easily, revealing the most beautiful framed photograph of Red Rock Bridge she’d ever seen. A full white moon hung so low it almost touched the rock, and cast a silvery glow over the whole scene.

Looking at this haunting, mystical photograph, she could really understand why the Native Americans had believed the place was magical.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, kissing his cheek. “It’s my favorite place in the world—and you’ve captured everything that’s extraordinary about it! You are really an artist, Mitch.”

“Oh, good grief.” He shook his head, but he was obviously moved by her enthusiasm. “Trish told me you love it there. She says you go there sometimes when you need to think. It worries her, of course.”

They shared a grin. “Of course.”

She looked back at the photograph, and she realized there was a small white envelope tucked into the corner.

She frowned at Mitch. “There’d better not be any money in that envelope, mister,” she said. “We’ve told you a thousand times we won’t take a nickel for helping out at the Eagle. With all you do for us—”

“It’s not money. Look.”

She pulled out the envelope and opened it. Inside was a small note card with a charming photograph of the fountain in their complex courtyard, bubbling in the sunshine, catching rainbows. She unfolded the card. A Farewell To The Fountain, it read. Sunday night. Bring a friend. 7:00 p.m. till????

She looked up. “A farewell to the fountain?”

Mitch nodded. “The drought is getting serious. Water restrictions go into effect Monday, and I’ll have to turn off the fountain. So I thought it might be fun to have one last courtyard party and give the thing a formal goodbye.”

Celia did a small, happy tap dance, one tap with each foot so that she wouldn’t look too silly to the patients seated in the waiting area. But, oh, Mitch was brilliant! She had been racking her mind, trying to think of an excuse to call Patrick. And now here it was!

“I see you like the idea,” Mitch said, smiling. “Let me guess. Your favorite part is the part about bringing a friend?”

She nodded. “I need an olive branch, and this is the perfect one. He was so nice last night. He practically rescued me from the railroad tracks, and I wasn’t very gracious about it. I’d like a chance to apologize.”

“Well, that’s great.” Mitch went around the counter and arranged the package for Trish on her desk, careful not to mess up any of her neat stacks of charts and papers. “Then it’ll be a good excuse for both of us. The only times I ever get to see Trish are when she’s working at the Eagle, or when we have one of our parties. And now that I’ve hired three new waitresses—”

Celia grinned. “We’ll have to have courtyard parties every single night!”

“Works for me.” He patted the package one last time. “And if you wanted to return the favor, you might just hint that it would be a good idea to stop by the Eagle tonight to say thanks.”

“I’ll try.” Watching him get ready to go, Celia had a sudden anxious thought. She bent her head and lowered her voice. “Mitch, I have to ask you something. It’s kind of crazy, but I’m a little worried—”

“What? Is something wrong with Trish?” He bent his head, too. His face was suddenly intense, somber.

“No, nothing like that. This sounds kind of silly, I know. But I have to ask someone, and you were around when it all happened. You knew everyone, so you’ll have a better idea—”

“Celia. Make sense.”

“Okay.” She bit her lower lip. “Have you noticed that Patrick—well, that Patrick kind of looks like Teague Ellis? I mean, like the pictures of Teague Ellis that I’ve seen, anyhow.”

Mitch nodded. “Sure. We’ve all talked about it around town. It’s kind of a shock, the first time you see the guy. But after a few minutes it wears off. He’s really not very much like Teague. If you’d known him, you’d see what I mean.”

“Good. That’s what I thought, too. But then, the first time Trish saw him, she was—uh, she seemed really upset. I know the memory of Teague can’t be a happy one for her, no matter what really happened to Angelina.”

“Angelina ran away,” Mitch said, his voice growing louder.

Celia tilted her head curiously.

“Anybody who says it was a suicide pact, or murder, or whatever…anybody who says she’s still at the bottom of that mine shaft—well, they just don’t know how hard we looked. Between the town and the police, we went over every square inch of that place.”

Celia was surprised by his vehemence. A suicide pact? That actually was one interpretation of the legend she hadn’t ever heard.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I’m sure you’re right. That’s not what I meant, anyhow. It’s just that anything about Tee would remind her of Angelina, wouldn’t it? And losing Angelina was the toughest thing she ever endured. I wouldn’t want to cause her any pain by bringing around a guy who looks just like Tee Ellis.”

Mitch’s face cleared. He looked embarrassed. “Oh, I see. Sorry. I was in Angelina’s class at school, you know. The whole thing seems pretty real to me, and I get tired of all the cheap speculation about what happened that night.”

She nodded. “I can imagine. Well, what do you think? Is bringing Patrick to the party going to make it difficult for Trish?”

Mitch considered a moment. He took everything about Trish’s well-being quite seriously. “No,” he said. “I’m sure it won’t. Patrick Torrance isn’t anything like Tee Ellis, really. Tee was a thug, a real badass. He was trash, and I’m not just talking about how much money his family had. He and I came from the same side of the tracks, so I don’t set much store by all that.”

“I know that,” she said. No one could accuse Mitch of being a snob. He was the fairest man in Enchantment. He’d worked his way up from nothing, and everyone respected him for it. He had friends who lived in the glitzy chalets high in the mountains, and he had friends in the Lazy H Trailer Park on the south side of town.

“Anyhow, I don’t think it’ll bother her a bit,” he said. “The resemblance is all superficial. Once you get past the coloring and the good looks, those two men are as different as night and day.”

Celia felt a selfish relief sweep over her. She loved Trish—loved her like a mother—but, even so, it would have been very difficult to give up the hope of more time with Patrick.

Mitch chucked her under the chin, obviously aware of all the conflicting emotions she’d been struggling with.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I think you just may underestimate our Trish. She’s actually a very strong lady.”

BY SIX-THIRTY SUNDAY NIGHT, even the sky was dressed up for the party. Below its darkening bodice, it wore a flamenco skirt trimmed in striped ruffles of aquamarine and peach.

Celia was ready early, so she went out to enjoy the sight. At this time of day, the courtyard always went through a magical transformation. The sunset made the bricks glow warm and golden. It painted the white walls with peachfire. And it made the fountain seem—

Halfway across the courtyard, she stopped in her tracks. The fountain seemed to be foaming over with sunset-colored suds.

Finally she noticed Mitch, who was still in his jeans and rolled-up shirtsleeves, doggedly scooping suds out of the water and dumping them into a trash can, accentuating every movement with an irritated grunt.

“Mitch, what happened?”

He looked up, scowling. “Some damn fool put soap suds in the water. Careful where you step. I just mopped the courtyard. Bricks were covered in it and slick as hell.” He scooped another handful. “Dancing would have been impossible for sure.”

She moved toward him. “Here. Let me help.”

“No—you’re all dressed up.” Mitch seemed fully aware of her for the first time. “Wow. You look gorgeous.”

His reaction was obviously sincere, which gave her hope that Patrick might like it, too. She’d tried on everything in her closet before deciding on this one, a soft blue dress that had a low gypsy neckline, loose sleeves gathered at the wrist, a tightly smocked waist, and a flowing, knee-length skirt.

It wasn’t San Francisco designer elegance, but it made her eyes look very blue and her waist look very small. And when she added her best dangly opal earrings and teardrop pendant, which had a lot of colorful fire in them, she had dared to believe she could compete.

She pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. “I’ll be careful,” she said. “You’ve already done most of it. Why don’t you let me finish, and you can go clean up?”

He looked torn, as if he wanted to decline, but couldn’t deny being glad to have some help. “Okay, just a few more scoops. I don’t care if there are suds left, as long as they’re not foaming over the sides, okay?”

“Okay.” She dug her hands in and pulled out an armload of sparkling, peach-tinted bubbles that shimmied and popped against her skin.

They worked together maybe ten minutes, filling three more trash cans. Then, when she could see they were finished—the rest of the suds fit safely within the deep basins of the fountain—she picked up one last handful and held it in front of her face.

“Mitch,” she said. He looked up, and, pursing her lips, she lightly blew the pretty foam in his direction.

Several tiny bubbles landed on his hair. He made a small growling sound. He obviously hadn’t recovered his sense of humor yet.

“Go get dressed,” she said. “Your party is about to start, and you’re going to miss it!”

He checked his watch, though he had to blow away suds to see the numbers. “Damn,” he said. “You’re right.”

But before he was able to take a single step toward his own apartment, Eddie from number 8 came out, all dressed in black, which was his standard artistic affectation. Trish, who looked lovely in a royal-blue pantsuit clasped with a wide turquoise and silver belt, followed him.

“Mitch! Celia! Wait!” Eddie was rushing toward the fountain, his guitar dangling from one hand. “I need your help with something.”

Celia looked over at Trish, who was smiling but shaking her head in that tolerantly amused way she had when she thought people were being foolish. Eddie frequently brought out that look from everyone. He was a genius on the guitar, but he wasn’t firmly attached to reality. He slept all day, played guitar all night, ate only fruit and nuts, and was generally infamous for his whacky, New Age ideas.

“I’ve found it! I’ve found the answer!” He seemed oblivious to the suds in the fountain. He propped his foot up, steadied his guitar on his knee, tossed his long, lank black hair out of his face dramatically and strummed a chord.

“The answer to what?” Mitch seemed a lot less amused than Trish. But then, he was covered in sticky suds and perspiring from his exertions.

“The drought, of course,” Eddie said. “I’ve been researching Native American rain dances. I can teach them to you. They’re quite simple. I’ll accompany you on the guitar, and you three can dance, and before you know it, the heavens will open.”

Mitch looked as if he might grab the guitar away, but Trish, who had always had an inexplicable soft spot for this young man, put her hand on Mitch’s arm. “Maybe we should wait until after the party, Eddie. If it pours, it will spoil everything.”

Eddie strummed again, just one melodramatic note. Several more residents had come out into the courtyard, and he realized he had an audience.

“No. Enchantment cries out for rain. Our pitiful party is totally insignificant compared to the damage being done to our environment. With every moment that passes, something out there dies.”

Mitch leaned over and whispered into Celia’s ear. “A few more of his brain cells, for instance.”

Probably fifteen or twenty residents and guests now crowded the courtyard, which was dimming to a dark, shadowed rose as the sun sank completely behind the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The overhead strings of lights began to emerge like low-hanging stars.

Eddie strummed again, and someone started the chant. “Rain dance. Rain dance. Rain dance.”

Celia spotted Patrick among the others, and suddenly her blood felt as twinkling and bright as the lights strung between the rooftops. When she’d telephoned him with the invitation, he’d said he’d be glad to come. But it felt as if she’d been holding her breath, just waiting for him, all week.

Maybe even longer than that.

He was smiling. It was such a sexy smile. And it was a beautiful night, Eddie’s guitar had begun a rhythmic, primitive melody, and her body was already responding. She squeezed Trish’s hand, tossed an “oh, well” grin at Mitch, and then moved toward Patrick, her hands outstretched in welcome.

“You’re just in time,” she said as she reached him. “Come on, Mr. Torrance. Rain dance!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT FIRST, PATRICK HAD FELT as if he’d stumbled onto the set of a Zorro movie. The Spanish colonial courtyard, the classical guitar, the casks of red wine, the guests all dressed in cowboy boots, string ties and Mexican peasant skirts…

And a rain dance.

However, he soon realized he was too accustomed to Ellyn Grainger’s themed costume parties. Ellyn could have staged a scene exactly like this one to benefit abandoned Appaloosa horses or some nearly extinct turtle.

But this wasn’t a stage set. This was the real thing.

He could hear the authenticity in Eddie Lopez’s guitar. He could smell it in the perfumes that rose from the lush geraniums—not sweet, as Ellyn thought all flowers should be, but sharply pungent and alive.

He could see it in the sky, which was vast and black over their heads, not like a foggy canopy, but like the beginning of infinity.

He definitely wasn’t in San Francisco anymore.

After the nonsense of the rain dance, the real party had begun. He had danced with Celia for an hour that felt like a minute. They didn’t talk a lot privately—people were always coming by between songs, keeping a steady conversation of chatter and gossip.

And when they were dancing, the experience was too quiet, too physical and personal for words. Celia was a wonderful dancer, and whenever she moved the opals at her ears flickered with fire. He could have watched them forever.

But eventually even Eddie Lopez grew tired of playing and wanted a break. People drifted toward the long tables laden with food, talking and bursting into bits of song, sometimes Spanish, sometimes English, sometimes a mix of the two.

A woman came up asking Celia for help mixing a new batch of sangria, so he relinquished her reluctantly, glad to see that she looked disappointed, too. He went to see if he could help Mitch with the food.

Mitch looked grateful. “Food’s all right, but I think I should bring out some soft drinks. If you could lug one end of the cooler, I’d appreciate a hand.”

Patrick agreed, and the two of them walked toward the southern end of the square.

“Sorry about the mess,” Mitch said as they reached his door. “I renovated the rest of the apartments first, and what with the restaurant and all, I haven’t had time to get around to my own.”

“I’ll bet this complex took a lot of work. It looks wonderful. You did it all yourself?”

Mitch nodded. “Hired out what I could. But I turned out to be the cheapest help I could find. Not the best, necessarily, but the cheapest.”

Patrick chuckled. He liked the older man’s attitude. He obviously worked hard and kept a cheerful attitude about it.

The apartment was unlocked—another indication that Patrick definitely wasn’t in San Francisco anymore—and Mitch told him to make himself at home in the living room while he washed up.

“I’m crusted in dried soap suds. I kept meaning to come back and wash off, but there hasn’t been a free minute. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time. I’m fine.”

Patrick always enjoyed seeing how other people lived. It told him a lot. It didn’t take a psychiatrist, for instance, to look around his own father’s living room and see that a very sick, very rich man had lived there. The theme of every piece of expensive art he had possessed was domination. Romans in chariots whipped their horses, eagles lifted off with their talons full of prey, Sabine women were dragged off by their hair.

Mitchell Dixon’s living area, on the other hand, was the room of a thoughtful, intelligent man. He mostly had hung his own photographs on the walls—just as he had at The Silver Eagle.

They were interesting. Scenes of local landscape, local people. Patrick studied them. Mitch had an extraordinary talent for capturing the stark beauty of New Mexico. Patrick knew that in San Francisco these would be hailed as masterpieces.

The man owned a lot of books, too, which appealed to Patrick. Cheap bookcases strained to hold hundreds, some expensive art volumes, some tattered paperbacks—all well loved, well read. Patrick scanned the titles. Everything from Proust to Grisham, and one whole shelf that seemed to be…high school year-books.

Patrick’s curiosity quickened. Linden High Lions. The books were arranged in chronological order, and they covered about twelve years. That was odd. Nobody spent twelve years in high school.

Mitch came out of the back, rolling up the cuffs of his fresh white-oxford-cloth shirt. He saw immediately what had caught Patrick’s attention and smiled.

“Only the first four are my own high school career. The rest I bought because I took a lot of the pictures in them. I was trying to build my photography business, so I donated my time to get the exposure.”

Patrick laughed. “I was wondering,” he admitted. He looked at the dates on the earliest ones. The fourth from the left—that was the year of his birth. “Mind if I take a look?”

Mitch shook his head. “No, help yourself. In fact…”

He came over and pulled out one of the books. Patrick looked at him questioningly.

“There’s something in here that might interest you. I don’t know if anyone’s had the nerve to mention it to you outright, but there’s this guy who used to live in Enchantment. A guy named Teague Ellis. Weird thing is you look a helluva lot like him.”

Patrick wondered what the most natural response was. He had heard it a couple of times. Just this morning, the woman who waited on him at Slim Jim’s Diner had blurted it out within ten seconds of meeting him.

“Yeah,” he said. “So I’ve been told. But I haven’t seen a picture of the guy, so I can’t judge whether it’s true.”

Mitch made a low, snorting laugh and began leafing through the pages. “Oh, it’s true. I went to school with Tee, and I can tell you the resemblance is uncanny. At least at first. After that, the differences are fairly easy to spot. Tee was kind of rough around the edges.”

He held out the book, pointing to the left-hand page. “Take a look for yourself. I’ll be right back.”

Patrick took it. Keeping his face under control, he lowered his gaze to the picture.

It was an artsy black-and-white photo of a dark-haired teenager on a motorcycle. The cover page to the “Interests” section, it was larger than the average yearbook picture, taking up almost half a page, so it was easier to see the details.

The yearbook felt very heavy, and Patrick propped it against the bookcase so he wouldn’t drop it.

So this was Tee Ellis. No wonder everyone did a double-take when they saw Patrick. He stared at the teen, who appeared to be staring back defiantly. Except for the shaggy hair, the snarling curl to the full lip, the dark eyebrow raised in a devil-may-care arch, it might have been a picture of Patrick himself.

It was damn unnerving. And it was practically impossible to think of this boy, with his angry attitude, his thin, bony elbows that said he was always a little hungry, as anyone’s father—much less his own.

He didn’t look old enough, for starters. He was probably no more than eighteen, twelve years younger than Patrick was today.

After a couple of minutes Patrick had to look away. He turned toward the back of the book, where the junior class pictures were collected, in row after row of identical little rectangles.

J…K…L… Laramie, Leichester, Linden.

Linden, Angelina.

Patrick counted the spaces with his forefinger, and he stopped on a black-haired beauty so perfect he heard himself take in an astonished breath.

Angelina Linden. She was every high school boy’s dream. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect skin. Her laughing eyes, meeting the camera with an almost speaking look, said country club poise, dean’s list brains. Her glossy hair, graceful neck and flawless makeup said privilege and class.

But where in that stylishly thin body had she hidden a baby? Had no one noticed that she suddenly switched to looser clothes, or that she seemed to put on weight?

She probably, as Don Frost had suggested, had starved herself. She wouldn’t have minded if it damaged the baby, would she? After all, she didn’t want the baby anyhow. Dirty diapers and dawn feedings would hardly fit into the princess-perfect life she loved.

Still…if Angelina really were a perfect princess, where did Tee Ellis come in? Patrick looked closer. And he kept looking, going to the front for club shots, candid shots—the list of page numbers after Angelina Linden’s name was two lines long.

Gradually, in the subtler details, he found the answer. Her intelligent eyes might say dean’s list, but her full, sensual lips said…restless. In the candid shots, her head was frequently cocked to one side, as if teasing the cameraman. Her skirt was always just the telling inch or two shorter than the girls around her.

The real Angelina Linden wanted to escape from her button-down, country-club world. The real Angelina Linden wanted trouble. And apparently she’d bought herself some, wrapped up in a skin-and-bones, badass boyfriend named Tee Ellis.

And an unwanted infant named…

The Homecoming Baby.

CELIA DIDN’T KNOW WHY PATRICK and Mitch had left, but she knew that the minute Patrick wasn’t there anymore, the party lost its sparkle. She fooled around with the corn-and-beans salad, stirred the chili, and made the best small talk she could.

But all the while she was watching, willing Patrick to hurry. She wanted Eddie to start playing again. She wanted to be back in Patrick’s arms. Even when she’d been dreaming about this, she hadn’t dreamed how right it would feel.

She found Trish putting out new blue cornmeal dumplings. Earlier, before the real dancing started, she had noticed Patrick and Trish having a short conversation at the sangria bowl. It had seemed to go well—both of them had been smiling—so Celia hoped Patrick had made a good impression.

“Well?” She began helping to arrange the dumplings on the plate. “What do you think of him? He’s pretty fantastic, don’t you think?”

It seemed that Trish took an extra second before answering. Celia waited anxiously, but finally the older woman smiled.

“He’s really surprisingly nice,” she said.

Celia nibbled on a corn chip. “Nice? That’s kind of an understatement, don’t you think? I mean, he’s gorgeous, he’s friendly to everyone, he’s smart, he’s witty, he’s a superb dancer, he—”

Trish touched her hand, stemming the flow of superlatives. “I like him, Celia,” she said. “I like him quite a bit. I’m very pleased that he turned out to be so—”

Celia made a teasing face. “So nice?”

Trish gave her a steady look. “There are worse things to be.”

“Mitch is nice,” Celia observed. Turnabout was fair play.

“Yes,” Trish said, her gaze moving to the side, and softening with a sudden awareness. “I know he is.”

Celia looked, too. Her heartbeat did a little double-time skipping thing. Patrick and Mitch were headed their way, carrying a huge cooler between them. They dropped it in front of the food table.

“What’s that?” Trish asked.

Mitch knelt down to open the cooler. “Gotta offer people something besides sangria, or come morning we’ll find everybody passed out in the fountain.”

Trish nodded. “Should I make coffee, do you think?”

“Good idea,” Mitch said. “I’ll help.”

As Mitch and Trish walked away, Celia turned to Patrick, who seemed a little subdued. She hoped Mitch hadn’t been giving him the third degree. After all, a guy passing through town shouldn’t have to fill out an application to have a brief fling with one of the willing locals.

“Want another glass of sangria?” She didn’t particularly want one herself, but that table was on the far side of the courtyard, and she wanted to be alone with him.

“Sure,” he said. “Although that’s particularly potent stuff you guys have brewed up over there.”

They walked side by side to the wine table. Each filled a glass, and then, as if by agreement, they moved over to one of the shadowy arches overgrown with bougainvillea. It created an illusion of privacy, although they were still close enough to hear every rippling note of Eddie’s guitar. The young musician was mellower now, and his songs were romantic and slow.

Celia looked at Patrick, who seemed lost in the music. He really did have an intelligent face, she thought as she enjoyed his somber profile. When he smiled, he was so charming she just about fell right out of her clothes. But when he was serious, he looked like a man she could spend an entire night just talking to.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about the other night,” she said abruptly. Not very gracefully done, she thought. But she needed to apologize. She wouldn’t feel completely comfortable until she did.

He turned his face toward her. He looked as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

“When you were at my office. You know, with Tad. You were right, I should have gone home. I really wasn’t much help to my patient anyhow. I was just being stubborn. I suppose I felt I needed to be…stronger than that.”

“I know.” He smiled.

“Anyhow, I’m sorry I was so ungrateful. I hope you don’t think I didn’t appreciate your help, and your offer to stay.”

“Not at all. I was actually very impressed with your professionalism.” He grinned. “And, of course, I knew you’d stab me through the heart with your letter opener if I didn’t do what I was told.”

She laughed, relieved that he hadn’t taken offense, that he wasn’t the kind of man who felt threatened by a woman who refused to cling and weep and admire his superior strength.

Although she could sense how comforting that strength could be in the right circumstances.

They were silent another minute. It was a very comfortable silence. The others were all dancing, even Trish and Mitch, who must be finished brewing coffee. Trish looked so lovely tonight. The strands of light caught a few flecks of gray in the dark brown pageboy, but it didn’t make her look old. It sparkled, like silver. Not that Trish cared about things like that. She could have been beautiful, if she’d worked at it. But she would have thought that was frivolous, when there were so many other kinds of work to be done.

Mitch thought she was beautiful, though. Celia watched her two friends, who looked so right together, and wondered why some people found it so difficult to give in to love.

She toyed with a sprig of bougainvillea that grew along the nearest wall. It had thorns, she knew, so she touched the soft petals carefully.

“You know,” she said suddenly. “I’ve been thinking. I wonder if maybe my issues all go back, somehow, to my father.”

She heard herself with a sense of shock. How many glasses of sangria had she consumed? She counted and came up with only two before this one. She wasn’t drunk, then. So why was she blurting out such half-baked psychobabble?

“What issues?” Patrick looked at her with a small smile. “Your determination to handle everything on your own? Your fear of being smothered by a domineering male? Your habit of choosing boyfriends who are comfortably needy and weak?”

She was momentarily unable to speak. When she could, she said, “Did Mitch tell you that? Or was it Trish?”

He chuckled. “Neither one. I’ve been in Enchantment for a week now. That’s plenty long enough to hear about the Scratch and Dent Club.” He leaned against the archway, facing her. His eyes glittered in the shadows, and she could tell he was smiling. “And of course I did meet Jerry Killebrew.”

“Oh. Right.” She let her head fall back against the cool plaster wall. It was all too obvious to bother denying. The only bewildering thing was why it had taken so long for her to understand the heart of her own problem. Physician, heal thyself, indeed.

“What is your father like?” To her surprise, Patrick really sounded as if he wanted to know.

“Brilliant. Authoritative. He’s a surgeon.” She hesitated, thinking it through. “I love my father, I really do. But he’s very overwhelming. Very demanding. I can’t remember a single day that my mother hasn’t spent trying to placate him. She is a smart, talented woman who, because she adores a tyrant, has been reduced to a slave. She cooks his meals, entertains his friends and strokes his ego. That’s her life.”

“And you think that might happen to you.”

She sighed and shifted, resting her shoulder against the wall so that she could watch Eddie coax magic from his guitar. And so that she wouldn’t have to look at Patrick.

“It might, if I ever fell in love with a tyrant.”

“Then you’re right to be cautious.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Patrick’s glass glide upward, catching the light from the courtyard. “You’re right to want to protect yourself.”

“Am I?” She felt something move deep inside her, something that felt like a powerful yearning. But for what? Safety? Or something more exciting?

“Am I?” she repeated in a half whisper. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”

He didn’t answer. His glass moved again. Then she heard the soft clink of crystal against concrete as he set it down. He moved to her side of the archway, and he stood close behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

Eddie was singing an old Mexican lullaby, a melody so poignant Celia felt an aching in the pit of her stomach. She leaned her head back against Patrick’s chest, which was solid and warm behind her.

After a few minutes of that intimate silence, Patrick finally spoke.

“I think maybe we all live our lives in reaction to what our parents were like,” he said. “I know I do. My own father was…an extremely violent man. When I was little, my mother tried to explain it. She said he couldn’t help it, because his father had been violent, too.”

Celia turned without leaving the circle of his arms. She looked up at him, but the alcove was too dim to reveal the nuances of his expression.

“How terrible,” she said. “Her explanation must have seemed dreadfully inadequate.”

He nodded. “It did. And yet, the idea of that inescapable inheritance of violence has shaped my life. I’ve always felt it would be too dangerous for me to fall in love, to get married, have children and start the cycle all over again.”

“Yes, I can see how it would feel that way,” she said. “But it isn’t really true. People break those patterns all the time. Strong people do. And you strike me as a very strong person.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t say it was logical. I just said it was true.”

She scanned his handsome face. No one would ever guess he carried scars like this inside. He was strong. Strong enough to survive all that and still be generous and kind.

“I don’t think it is true,” she said. “I don’t believe for a minute that you’d ever be cruel to anyone weaker than you. You simply don’t have that kind of violence in you.”

He looked down at her. They were so close that his breath, warm and clean and tinged with sangria, blew softly against her forehead. He reached up and feathered his fingers through her hair.

“You’re very sweet,” he said. “Is this how you salvaged all your Scratch and Dent boys? When your eyes burn with so much conviction, it would be very hard for any man to doubt you.”

“Patrick—”

But she didn’t get to finish her sentence. He put his arm around her and pulled her deeper into the shadows. And then he kissed her.

It didn’t start off with a gentle, hesitant exploration. They both knew they were stealing seconds, and there was no time for that.

Instead, their lips met hard, urgent, sangria-sweet—and then their tongues. She gripped his shoulders. His hands buried themselves in her hair. The wall was behind her, and when he pressed, there was nowhere to go but against each other. Their bodies met, intimately, perfectly. She would have cried out, but his mouth was there, soothing the sound into silence.

For five seconds, ten… Time stopped, while Eddie’s guitar wept lullabies into the courtyard. The heat and the music, the kiss and the shadows, all melted together, until she was dizzy with wanting him.

Finally, though, the song was over. And Patrick pulled back.

She looked up at him, slightly dazed. It couldn’t have lasted a full minute. But it felt like a lifetime.

“Patrick,” she began. It seemed impossible that they would rejoin the party, and yet she knew there was no alternative.

“We have to go back,” he said.

“But—” She touched his fingers.

The smile he gave her was oddly remote, and somehow very sad.

“I know,” he said. “It wasn’t enough. But I think perhaps it was a great deal more than I deserve.”

CHAPTER NINE

“THERE YOU ARE!” Trish said as soon as they emerged from the archway. “We’ve been wondering where you two had wandered off to!”

The light in the courtyard was so much brighter than the shadows of their alcove it took Celia’s eyes a couple of seconds to adjust. But she could hear the tension in Trish’s voice, and, with her own emotions in turmoil, she found herself resenting it. She had been gone less than ten minutes. Was that really such a crime?

But then she noticed that someone new was standing by Trish’s side. A woman Celia had never seen before. The woman was smiling, watching Celia and Patrick with a polite but intense curiosity.

She was about thirty, and beautiful, with pale skin, auburn hair and a creamy silk pantsuit that even Celia, who didn’t find clothes particularly interesting, recognized as a big-name, high-ticket item.

Maybe it was the outfit, which had not been bought anywhere in Enchantment. Maybe it was the possessive quality of the gaze she turned on Patrick. But Celia knew somehow, even before anyone spoke, that the woman had come here for him.

“Patrick, there’s someone—” Trish began.

But Patrick had already begun to walk toward the woman. He was smiling. “Ellyn! What a surprise!”

The woman held out her hand to greet him. “Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” she said. Celia thought she heard a note of anxiety in the woman’s voice.

Patrick’s expression should have eliminated any doubts. He looked completely unperturbed by her arrival. “Of course not. But how on earth did you find me?”

“When I inquired for you at the bed and breakfast, they told me you’d be here.” She glanced at Trish and Mitch, who were standing together. “They didn’t mention it was a party. I’m so sorry to crash like this.”

Mitch shook his head. “Everyone’s welcome. ‘The more the merrier’ is a cliché that was invented for parties like this. Can I get you some sangria?”

“I don’t know—maybe I should be going—” She looked at Patrick. “I just brought you that file you asked for. I can always give it to you tomorrow. I’ve booked a room at the Morning Light myself.”

She had come all the way from San Francisco to New Mexico to deliver a file? Celia didn’t believe it, and she could tell Patrick didn’t, either. What she couldn’t judge was how he felt about the situation.

“Don’t be silly,” Patrick said. “It will hurt Mitch’s feelings if you leave before you have a glass of sangria. Come on, let me introduce you to everyone.”

Ellyn Grainger was her name. She was a friend of Patrick’s from San Francisco. Friend, Celia noticed. Not assistant, or secretary, or co-worker—or any other title that would be expected to fetch and carry business files.

She also noticed that Ellyn Grainger slipped her arm through Patrick’s as if that were its natural place. Patrick showed no signs of minding.

When Celia’s turn came, she met Ellyn’s bright smile with one of equal wattage. She, too, was introduced as a friend. The two friends professed themselves delighted to meet one another.

What exactly was happening here? Celia felt as if she had been thrust onstage in the middle of a play, but she didn’t recognize the script. Was it a comedy of errors—or the opening act of a tragedy?

Nonsense, she told herself. How could it possibly be a tragedy? Even if this woman were Patrick’s girlfriend, fiancée, wife…Celia might be disappointed, but on a mere week’s acquaintance, disappointment was as strong a word as she had any right to use.

When Eddie struck the chord for another ballad, and half a dozen couples drifted around the bubbling fountain, locked in each other’s arms, Celia saw Ellyn glance inconspicuously at Patrick. Immediately he turned and asked her to dance.

Smiling carefully, Celia turned toward the food table. She hadn’t been helpful enough tonight. She’d been selfish, lost in her own flirtation with Patrick Torrance, leaving the bulk of the work to everyone else.

She met Trish’s sober gaze over a plate of raw vegetables.

“Celia—”

Celia lifted her chin, picked up a stalk of celery and pointed it at her friend.

“Don’t say it. I know you told me so, but don’t you dare say it.”

Trish shook her head. “I wasn’t going to, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Some things simply don’t need to be said.”

THE NEXT MORNING was a little difficult.

Celia rose early, so that she could get an hour or two of work done in her herb garden before her first patient arrived at nine. Trish, who was a first-rate gardener and had taught Celia everything she knew, would be disappointed in her if she let it go to seed.

And spring was such a busy time in a garden, even a tiny one like hers. She had to thin all the woody stems from her clay pots of thyme. The rosemary was still blooming its heart out and needed to be pinched back. Over in the dappled shade of the wisteria-threaded ramada, her border of sweet Cicely was delicately flowering. She was going to have to decide how to handle things if this drought didn’t end soon.

It was getting late. The morning light threw her shadow before her on the pink brick path that wound between beds of green herbs and colorful flowers. She should go in and shower. It must be nearly eight.

She looked down at her cordless phone. She’d brought it with her into the garden an hour ago, but it had been stubbornly silent. She pressed the talk button, just to be sure she had a dial tone. Yes, of course she did. She sighed and clicked it off again. Darn phone.

Celia wasn’t a martyr by nature, but somehow she hadn’t quite been able to stop thinking about how Patrick and Ellyn had spent the night at the same bed and breakfast. Probably they were having the breakfast part now.

As for the other part…

Trish’s voice came suddenly from behind Celia’s left shoulder. “Hey. Wake up. Have you weeded yourself right into a trance? It’s eight-fifteen. Don’t you have a session at nine?”

Celia looked up at Trish with a smile. “Oh, yes, thanks. I lost track of the time.”

Trish looked down at the telephone, its hard beige plastic so alien against the dusty soil. She obviously knew what its presence out here meant about Celia’s state of mind.

“Celia,” she began again. She’d started ten sentences that way since last night, but Celia hadn’t let her finish any of them.

“It’s okay,” Celia said. “I just thought maybe…” She shook her head. “Really. It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“Well, of course it is. He’s thirty years old,” Celia said, wiping the dirt from her knees and putting her clippers and trowel into a small plastic pot. “A thirty-year-old man has a life. He has a past. It’s inevitable. Even I knew that.”

“A past that will come chasing five hundred miles to find him?” Trish held out her hand to help Celia to her feet. “Frankly, that sounds a little more like the present, don’t you think?”

“Maybe that’s Ellyn’s perspective. But maybe Patrick doesn’t see it that way. Remember, Jerry Killebrew was dead wrong about me.”

“And you think Ellyn Grainger is as dense as Jerry Killebrew?”

Celia picked up her phone and slipped it into her pocket. “I don’t know what to think, Trish,” she said. “I just know that it’s possible things aren’t what they seem. I want to wait and hear what he has to say before I jump to conclusions.”

She remembered what Patrick had said about how she had looked when Jerry Killebrew had kissed her. Something in her face, in her body language, had assured him she wasn’t really interested.

Well, something in Patrick’s body language last night had said the same thing. She went over it in her mind one more time, trying to figure out where the clues lay—or whether it was all a serious case of wishful thinking.

He had been polite to everyone. He and Ellyn had stayed a respectable time, almost another hour. They stayed for the formal dousing of the fountain at midnight, which was, of course, the climax of the evening.

In that hour, Patrick had danced twice more with Ellyn, once with Gina Vaughn, who was safely married, and once with Trish. He had not asked Celia to dance again.

When Ellyn shivered delicately, Trish had loaned her a sweater, and Celia had brought over a cup of coffee. But nothing seemed to warm Ellyn enough—she hadn’t dressed properly for a cold New Mexico spring night—and finally Patrick said he’d better take her home.

He had been the perfect big brother, the perfect friend…but nothing in his manner really cried out that he was the perfect lover.

Of course, perhaps he had just found himself in the awkward position of having two would-be lovers at the same party and was playing it cool, keeping both of them at arm’s length.

Oh, she was driving herself mad with all this analysis. Celia vowed to put it out of her mind. He’d either call with an explanation, or he wouldn’t.

“I’d better get that shower,” she said to Trish, who was still frowning, biting her lower lip.

“Please protect yourself, Celia,” Trish said. “I really don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know you don’t,” Celia answered. “But I’ve discovered there’s a serious problem with always playing it safe.”

Trish raised her eyebrows. “And what’s that?”

Celia smiled, remembering the hot, stolen kiss under the bougainvillea.

She touched Trish’s tense shoulder affectionately. “You miss all the really good stuff.”

BREAKFAST AT THE MORNING LIGHT Bed and Breakfast was plain, but hearty—eggs and ham and toast and cereal, with lots of hot tea and coffee. You could eat in your room, the common dining room, or outside on one of the garden tables—as long as you were willing to bring your own dishes back to the kitchen.

Patrick had opted for the garden. The common area didn’t provide enough privacy for the serious talk he could see looming on the horizon. The bedrooms, on the other hand, provided way too much.

It had not been a relaxed meal so far. Ellyn had been watching him carefully over the small nibbles she took of her dry toast, and he knew she was waiting for the perfect psychological moment to start asking questions.

“It was a darling party last night,” she said. It was the social equivalent of the first move in a chess game. Tentative. The inching of a pawn, to see what kind of response came back.

“Yes, it was.”

“And it was so nice of them to include me on the spur of the moment like that.”

“Yes,” he said. “They’re very low-key around here. Very friendly.”

“You didn’t mind, did you?” She was smiling. “I mean, when I first got there, you seemed…busy. With that pretty psychologist from the birthing center.”

That was a much bolder move than Ellyn usually risked. A sudden thrust forward of a key piece. But Patrick didn’t feel like playing chess anymore. He liked Ellyn. He liked her too much to play games with her feelings.

He leaned forward. “Ellyn, what’s really going on here? You know we’ve both always dated other people.”

It was true. He and Ellyn had been good friends, and sometimes more, for years now. They’d become the other’s official fallback companions—the ones who could always be counted on in a pinch. But exclusivity had never been part of the deal.

She nodded, still smiling. “Yes, I know,” she said. “I guess I can assume you’ve already given me the answer to my next question. You are dating Celia Brice.”

He shrugged. “Dating? That doesn’t seem like quite the right word. It’s…complicated.” But that sounded cagey, like more game-playing. He gave her a straight look. “But if you’re asking am I attracted to her, the answer is yes.”

She nodded again. “I thought so. Women can always tell those things.”

“Oh, yeah?” He laughed. “That’s pretty scary.”

The spring wind was gusty today, and filled with the scents from the garden’s purple lilacs. Patrick liked it, but the breezes were playing havoc with Ellyn’s glossy auburn hair. She kept tucking it back behind her ears with a small tick of frustration. Something was bothering her. Could it really be that she was jealous of Celia—someone he’d known for only about a week?

Not possible. Ellyn had never said a word about his other women friends. Not even the ones he took on holiday to Cancún, or weekends in Paris.

“Ellyn,” he said, suddenly serious. “Why did you come all the way out here? And don’t tell me it’s the files. It would have been much easier to mail them.”

She glanced at him once, then, to his surprise, she looked away. She fiddled with her hair, and then she looked down. She pinched a tiny pleat into her green silk skirt. Then she took a deep breath, smoothed her skirt, and looked up at him again.

“I’m not sure I can explain it,” she said. “I just had the feeling I ought to—” She raised her eyebrows. “Would it sound too weird if I said I had some kind of sixth sense?”

“About what?”

“About us, I guess.” She smiled at him. “Tell me the truth, Patrick. I think it’s time for me to hear it, out loud. In words. What you and I have… It’s not really—” She tilted her head. “We aren’t ever going to get married, are we?”

He must have had some kind of sixth sense, too. He’d been half expecting this question all through the eggs and toast, though they had never uttered the word, not even once, throughout their entire relationship.

“No,” he said gently. “I don’t think so. Do you?”

“No.” She sighed. “Once, I thought maybe… I mean, I— But no. I don’t think so, either. I just needed to hear you say it.”

He touched her hand. He couldn’t believe she was really heartbroken—he’d never led her on. And Ellyn was a champion at the chess game of relationships. She’d been bred to it.

“It has nothing to do with you, Ellyn. I’d be very surprised if I ever get married. Somehow I don’t think I’d make a very good husband.”

Her green eyes darkened. One corner of her mouth turned up—and then, with an oddly brittle sound, she began to laugh.

“Oh, you’ll get married, Patrick. In fact, I bet you’ll probably marry half a dozen times. You’ll have to hire a new secretary just to mail out all the alimony and child support checks. One day the San Francisco phone book will have a whole page devoted to former Mrs. Patrick Torrances.”

That was as close to being cruel as Ellyn Grainger had ever come. Patrick looked at her, listening to the echoes of her laughter dying away in the lilac-scented air, and felt like hell.

He hadn’t meant to, but he must have hurt her after all.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” she responded with her usual lovely smile. She gracefully dropped her napkin onto the small iron table and stood up. “As least now I know I won’t be one of them.”

AT LUNCHTIME, TRISH WENT looking for Mitch.

She tried the restaurant first, but they said he’d gone home for a little while. He might be resting. She knew all too well how tired he always was. But, much as she hated to bother him, she had to talk to him.

And she had to do it before she lost her nerve.

The courtyard of their complex seemed oddly silent with the fountain turned off. She saw a small piece of sparkling aluminum foil skittering across the bricks, chased by the feisty spring wind. Left over from last night’s party, no doubt. She stooped, caught it and wadded it up in the palm of her hand.

It took Mitch a while to answer her knock, and when he came to the door, he looked bleary-eyed and disheveled. His shirt was unbuttoned over his T-shirt, and his brown hair stuck up in little spikes that were dangerously endearing.

He didn’t seem to mind that she’d interrupted his nap, though. “Hi, there,” he said, yawning around a big smile. “Come on in.”

She hesitated, which was absurd because why else had she come? She glanced at her watch. “I can’t stay long,” she said as she entered the living room. “I have to be back at The Birth Place in half an hour.”

He gave her a curious look as he shut the door. “Okay. Have you had any lunch? I could make a sandwich from last night’s leftovers.”

“No. Thanks. I’m fine.”

He scooped up a couple of books from the sofa and stacked them on a pile in the corner. “Sit down, then,” he said. “I’m sorry about the mess.” He grinned. “I seem to say that a lot. I guess I really should do something about this place, huh?”

She looked around. He hadn’t turned on any lights, and the room was cluttered and dim, even at the noon hour. Mitch’s ex-wife, Marcy, would have hated this apartment. During their marriage, she and Mitch had lived in one of the new, stylish cabins high on the mountain. Marcy, with her usual flair, had made the home a designer’s showplace. When the divorce forced them to put it up for sale, the Realtor had found an ecstatic out-of-town buyer within forty-eight hours.

That was when Mitch had bought the apartment complex, a run-down piece of Enchantment’s most-forgotten real estate. He’d labored two years now to restore the rental areas, but his own apartment was still old-fashioned and slightly ratty.

He didn’t complain, but he was human. Trish knew he must sometimes miss his swanky mansion on the mountain.

Not to mention his glamorous, extravagant wife.

He’d been very angry when Marcy left, naturally. But Marcy had been gorgeous and sophisticated and sexy. Men could forgive a woman like that anything—and usually did. Mitch was no exception.

Trish remembered how, like so many boys, he had pined over the unattainable Angelina in high school. He hadn’t noticed the pudgy, boring younger sister Trish back then, and he probably wouldn’t much notice her now, except that he was still lonely.

And still on the rebound. If Marcy ever came breezing back into Enchantment, cooing about how sorry she was, how long before Mitch would be eating out of her hand all over again?

“Mitch, I need to talk to you about last night.”

He broke off in the middle of a yawn, obviously recognizing her tone of voice. He tilted his head. “Hey. Don’t start backpedaling already. Last night was nice. No big deal, just nice. Can’t we just wait and see what happens next?”

“Nothing is going to happen next. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

He made an exasperated sound. “Come on, Trish, it was just a dance and a kiss. Don’t sound so Victorian. I’ve got plenty of ideas, but there’s nothing wrong with them. They’re good ideas. Great ideas, in fact. And what’s more, I think you know it.”

She clutched her elbows and leaned against the front door.

“We’ve talked about this so many times, Mitch. You know I like you very much. And I’d hate to lose our friendship, which is very special to me. But you have to accept that’s really all it can be. A friendship.”

He stared at her, his jaw working. “Well, what if I don’t accept it?”

She shook her head. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what? I’m sorry, but I don’t accept it. You know what I think? I think you’re as attracted to me as I am to you. I think you’re afraid of something, but I’ll be darned if I know what the heck it is.”

“Maybe I’m just afraid of ruining our friendship. Good friends are hard to replace.”

“No.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, no. That’s not what you’re afraid of. It’s bigger than that. Is it because I’m divorced?”

She started to deny it, but he took a deep breath and spoke over her.

“Look, I don’t go around trashing Marcy as a rule, but if you want to know what went wrong in my marriage, I’d be glad to tell you. It’s pretty pathetic, but it wasn’t because I beat her, or cheated on her, or wore women’s clothing after dark.”

In spite of herself, Trish laughed. “I know that,” she said. “Everyone knows you treated Marcy like a princess.”

He frowned. “Are you afraid I’ve still got a soft spot for her? Because I don’t. The only soft spot I ever had for her was in my head, not my heart. And I’ve recovered from that, thank God.”

“Mitch, this is ridiculous. I only—”

“Oh, hell,” he said. “Is there somebody else for you? I thought—I mean, everybody you date seems to be just a friend. I know there was that one guy, a few years ago, the one who turned out to be married—”

Trish flushed. “That was ten years ago. I can hardly remember what he looked like.”

Mitch was clearly frustrated. His brows were tightly knit, and he ran his hand through his hair. “Damn it, Trish. What is it, then?”

He came over, so close she could see the wrinkles in his shirt from where he’d been sleeping on it. He touched her arm.

“I know I’m not a movie star, but there have been some women who haven’t actually turned to stone at the sight of me. And while Marcy didn’t leave me with much, I make a fairly respectable living, and—”

She couldn’t stand it. The idea of this decent, generous, delightful man trying to prove himself worthy of her was too outrageous. She almost sat down right then and blurted out a detailed confession, a list of all the sins of her past, just to make him be quiet.

Just so that it would finally be over.

But, as it had so many times over the past year, the dread of seeing that look of shocked horror come over his face stopped the words in her throat.

Besides, if she was right about who Patrick Torrance was, Mitch—and everyone else in Enchantment—would learn the truth soon enough. She simply didn’t want to be there when Mitch heard it. She didn’t want to see his expression go from admiration to disgust.

“Mitchell, don’t. I have to go back to work now.”

The interruption was sudden—and harsher than she had meant it to be. She saw him recoil slightly.

“Fine,” he said, stepping back and holding his hands out, palms forward. “Go ahead and run away. Isn’t that what you always do?”

CHAPTER TEN

BY LUNCHTIME ON MONDAY, Celia had seen four patients, responded to six telephone calls, dictated two letters—and told herself a thousand times that Patrick was probably just busy. He’d call when he had the chance.

She’d brought a bag of fruit, intending to eat lunch in her office, but when the time came she couldn’t do it. The walls were starting to close in on her. She needed to get outside, see people, take her mind off…things.

She went to The Silver Eagle, hoping she could sit in the kitchen and watch Mitch argue with Julio, which was always amusing. But Trixie—or was it Dixie?—told her that Mitch had taken the afternoon off.

Darn it. Still, she knew Mitch needed all the business he could get, so she parked herself in a corner booth, decided to order a huge comfort-food veggie burrito and pulled a new paperback novel out of her purse.

“You’d better be bloody fantastic,” she informed the book. “With the mood I’m in, pretty good isn’t going to cut it.”

“Huh?” Trixie was standing before her, pad and pencil in hand. Her mouth dropped open enough for Celia to see the little tooth-pocked oblong of gray gum. “Gimme a break, lady. It’s only my second day.”

Celia looked at her a minute. Then she held up the novel. “Not you. I was talking to my book.”

Trixie frowned, as if her brain were processing the information, searching old files for a match on the word “book.”

“Oh,” she said finally, nodding. She chewed her gum for a minute. “Why?”

Celia smiled. “I don’t like to eat lunch alone.”

The girl gave her a weird look that pretty clearly said maybe Celia would have better luck getting a lunch date if she didn’t carry on conversations with inanimate objects. But she didn’t actually say a word. She just took Celia’s order with a surprising competence and then hurried off, no doubt eager to tell Julio all about the crazy lady in booth six.

The book was excellent, and yet Celia felt herself growing grumpier by the minute. Even the fact that the girl turned out to be an excellent waitress, anticipating her every need, didn’t help. She didn’t even care that Julio had outdone himself with the burrito.

Her mind kept drifting, and she found herself thinking far too frequently about her pocket, where her cell phone rested like a leaden lump, refusing to ring.

When the bell over the front door jangled, she looked up, grateful for any distraction. The Silver Eagle got more tourists than most of the less-expensive Enchantment eateries, but locals did frequently come here—sometimes for business lunches, sometimes, like Celia, purely out of loyalty to Mitch.

The new customer wasn’t a local. But Celia recognized her, anyhow. Even if she hadn’t recognized that enviable auburn hair, she would have known that the chic sleeveless yellow sundress came straight from an upscale West Coast boutique.

Nobody in Enchantment would spend that much on a dress. And nobody in New Mexico would trust the hinky spring weather enough to go sleeveless in early May. Ellyn Grainger might as well have hung a sign around her neck that said, Not From Around Here.

Celia had an uncomfortable moment, wondering if Patrick might be about to enter the restaurant right behind his file-delivering “friend.” But no one appeared, and a minute later Celia heard Ellyn’s low, cultured tones tell Trixie, “Yes, just one, please.”

She seemed preoccupied and didn’t notice Celia tucked away in the corner booth. She let Trixie lead her to a table by the window—Trixie obviously knew by instinct who rated the best view—and then she spent a long time staring down at her menu.

Too long.

Curious, Celia watched her from behind her paperback. For at least five minutes, Ellyn kept her hands folded in her lap, and she never turned from wine list to appetizer, or from appetizer to entree. Finally, just when Celia was wondering if the woman was all right, Ellyn slipped her hand in her pocket, pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.

Was she crying?

Celia fought with herself for all of thirty seconds. It wasn’t any of her business, really. And yet she had to know. Was Ellyn crying over Patrick Torrance?

She slid her paperback into her bag, stood up and went over to the window table.

“Hi, Ellyn,” she said with a tentative smile. “I’m Celia Brice. We met last night.”

The other woman looked up, clearly surprised. Yes, Ellyn had been crying. Nothing dramatic, of course. All very well-bred and restrained. But still, she had cried off all the mascara on her lower lashes. Her tissue had several black smudges across its ivory surface, and her eyes looked young, red-rimmed and vulnerable.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” Celia said. “But I wondered—if everything is all right.”

Ellyn managed a smile. “Yes, fine,” she said, though she was obviously lying. “It’s good to see you, Celia. How are you?”

“Fine.” Celia touched the chair back in a delicate question, and after the briefest hesitation, Ellyn nodded.

Celia sat down. “I eat here a lot. Maybe I can recommend something.”

Ellyn waved at her menu. “I thought I might just have coffee. I’m not terribly hungry, and I have to get going soon. I need to get to Taos in time for a six o’clock plane.”

Celia was so surprised she couldn’t quite hide it. “You’re leaving? Already?”

Ellyn nodded. “Yes. There’s no reason for me to stay.” To Celia’s horror, her green eyes began tearing up again. She reached up with the tissue. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a rather difficult morning.”

Suddenly Celia felt ashamed of herself. She shouldn’t be bothering this woman. It was selfish, and staggeringly bad manners. The cold truth was, she was just being a snoop. She wanted to know what those tears meant. She wanted to learn whatever she could about Patrick Torrance.

Like whether he and Ellyn Grainger were a couple. Like whether Trish had been right. Was he just a hit-and-run flirt, enjoying the chance to cheat a little without fear of getting caught?

But she had no right to intrude on this woman’s unhappiness. Pure self-centered curiosity didn’t confer any rights on anyone.

“I’m so sorry,” Celia said. She made a motion to stand. “This isn’t any of my business. I’m sure you’d rather be alone, and—”

“No,” Ellyn said with a weak smile. “Stay. Actually, it is your business, in a way.”

Celia paused, her hand on the back of the chair. “It is?”

“Yes.” Ellyn refolded her tissue, hiding the smudges. “If you’re interested in Patrick Torrance it is.” She looked up. “Are you?”

Celia thought about denying it, but that would have been foolish. She probably was as easy to read as that menu.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “At least, I’d like to be. If there’s…no reason I shouldn’t be.”

“You mean if I don’t have a prior claim on him?”

“Well, yes.” Celia grimaced. “Something like that.”

Ellyn made a low, scoffing sound. “No woman has ever had a claim on Patrick Torrance,” she said. “Not one. Least of all me.”

“Oh. Well.” Celia wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Not that I didn’t try,” Ellyn went on. “Once, a few years ago, I thought I wanted to marry Patrick more than anything on earth. But I’ve known for a long time now that it wasn’t ever going to happen.”

Celia waited. It seemed that Ellyn wanted to talk. And Celia’s training had prepared her to be a good listener. They were silent a moment as Trixie brought them water and a plate of soft, crusty bread, and then, finally, Ellyn continued.

“It isn’t as if he led me on,” she said. “If anything, he’s always been brutally honest about his lack of intentions.” She smiled. “Of course, it’s human nature to think you’ll be the one to change his mind.”

Celia knew all about that. She remembered the parade of Scratch and Dent men she’d believed she could fix. “I guess so,” she said. “But it’s a lot harder to change a person than you think, isn’t it?”

Ellyn took a sip of her water. “It’s impossible, at least with Patrick. He’s dead set against commitment, exclusivity, marriage—the whole package.”

Celia nodded. “Because of his father, you mean?”

Ellyn looked confused. “What about his father?”

“His father’s temper. You know how he seems to feel destined to end up being just as violent. It’s not true, of course, but I think it’s enough to make him very wary.”

“No, I don’t know.” Ellyn put down her water. “Patrick’s father was violent? He’s never said a word about that to me.”

Now it was Celia’s turn to be confused. “He hasn’t? Uh, just last night, before you arrived, he was saying that—” She stopped. “I don’t know. Maybe I misunderstood.”

“No, you didn’t.” Ellyn was looking at her narrowly. “This is fairly amazing, you know that, don’t you? In one week you’ve learned something intensely personal about Patrick that I never learned in, what…about ten years?”

Celia shook her head. “It’s not so amazing, really. People always find it easier to talk to a stranger. You know, someone who isn’t a part of your normal life.”

Ellyn’s gaze was still focused, appraising. “No,” she said. “I don’t really believe that’s all it is. Do you?”

There was a long silence. Celia laced her fingers together and looked at them. “Honestly, Ellyn, I don’t know what to believe. For some reason I’ve felt a little turned around ever since I met him.”

Ellyn laughed. “You and the rest of the female population west of the Mississippi.”

Celia tried to think how to say this. “At first I just thought he was terrifically attractive. I thought it might be fun to, you know, flirt a little. Nothing serious. But then, when you arrived last night, I—”

“You thought I had a prior claim.”

“That’s right.”

“And you discovered that you didn’t like it. I mean, really didn’t like it.”

Celia sighed. “That’s right.”

Ellyn reached out and patted the back of Celia’s hand. “It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t have a claim. And neither does anyone else, for what that’s worth. Go for it.”

“But—” Celia looked down at Ellyn’s tissue. “You’re clearly unhappy. If that’s because of Patrick. I mean, because of me—”

Ellyn laughed out loud. “No, bless your heart for caring, but honestly it’s not that.” She leaned forward. “You want to know why I was crying? You want to know the real, honest, embarrassing truth?”

Celia couldn’t help half-smiling in response. Ellyn’s voice was so wry, as if she had something truly ironic to impart. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

“All right, here it is. I’ll admit I’ve been sort of tearful off and on all morning, ever since Patrick and I talked. He made it clear he wasn’t going to change his mind about being exclusive, and I made it clear that I was ready to move on to someone who could.”

Celia waited, well aware that this wasn’t the end of the confession.

“But while I was packing, feeling a little sorry for myself, I suddenly decided it’s not so much Patrick himself I’m going to miss.” Ellyn bit her lower lip and wrinkled her nose. “It’s his money.”

Celia couldn’t help it. She was shocked. His money? This elegant, intelligent woman was actually a gold digger?

“His money?”

“It sounds awful, I know.” Ellyn held up thumb and forefinger close together. “But he was this close to writing a big check toward the building fund for my new animal shelter. It was the check that was going to put us over the top. We were planning to break ground this summer.”

She sighed heavily and picked up her menu, obviously ready to order after all. Trixie, whose instincts were eerily accurate, began trotting over.

Ellyn smiled at Celia. “Deep inside, I knew I’d never get my greedy hands on Patrick Torrance’s heart. But oh, what high hopes I had for that lovely two million dollars!”

PATRICK PULLED UP IN FRONT of The Birth Place just before 1:00 p.m. It was a pretty building; he’d noticed that last time. Simple adobe with turquoise tracing around the windows and roofline. Buckets of pink flowers by the door. Towering green pines that seemed to stand guardian, whispering in the breeze and casting silently moving shadows on the cream-colored walls.

Hardly cutting edge architecture. And yet the simplicity wasn’t boring. It was strangely peaceful. Patrick hadn’t ever realized how many things competed for your attention in a big city. In San Francisco you were bombarded visually by a thousand things at once, leaving little mental space for your own thoughts. Here in Enchantment, it felt as if you had more time to get to know yourself.

The parking lot was nearly empty. But Trish Linden’s car was there—and Celia’s wasn’t. The perfect arrangement.

He turned off his car and went up the walk, carrying Trish Linden’s sweater in one hand. He’d offered to return it for Ellyn, and things had been awkward enough between them that she’d been glad to let him.

His luck held. Trish was at the reception desk, but the waiting room was, for once, completely empty. She looked up as he walked in. Was it a trick of the light, or did she pale slightly at the sight of him?

“Hi,” she said. She cast a doubtful glance behind her, where the administrative offices were located. “Celia’s not here right now, but—”

“I didn’t come to see Celia. I came to return your sweater. Ellyn says thanks very much.”

He gave her an easy smile, hoping he could keep her from being too nervous.

To his surprise, he had discovered he liked Trish Linden. He had heard some of the stories, and he knew she had never been anything like her wild older sister, Angelina. Trish had always been self-effacing, overly conscientious and willing to do anything for anyone.

He felt a little guilty now, realizing that he was hoping to exploit that generosity. He wanted her to do something for him. He wanted her to tell him where Angelina was.

He was pretty sure she knew. When she’d met him for the first time, her reaction had been a frantic jumble of emotions. Shock, mostly. But with the shock had come other things. Recognition. Disbelief. Pain. Confusion.

And fear.

Why fear? If Angelina Linden were dead, as so many people in town liked to speculate, she couldn’t be held accountable, legally or morally, for what she had done that night thirty years ago. The reappearance of her abandoned son couldn’t hurt her anymore, couldn’t embarrass her or reveal her shame to a new husband, new friends, new children.

No, Angelina was still alive, and Trish knew it. Why else would a faint scent of fear seep from her whenever she was around Patrick?

She held out her hand and took the sweater. “Thanks. You didn’t have to come all the way out here to deliver it, though. You could have given it to Celia.”

“It was no trouble.”

He looked around the empty waiting area, where the magazines were neatly stacked, toys tossed in the basket, clean mullioned windows twinkling as spring sunlight peeked in and out of pine shadows.

“Things seem calm for once,” he said. “Have you had lunch? I’d love to take you somewhere for a sandwich.”

“I’ve eaten. But thanks anyway.” She looked down at her appointment book. “I don’t think this is one of the afternoons Celia sees patients here, but I’ll double-check—”

He knew it wasn’t. And he knew she knew. She was the ultraorganized type who probably knew the schedules of everyone at this clinic by heart. But he let her look anyway. It bought him a little time.

He came closer, casting a seemingly casual glance at her work station. People betrayed a lot about themselves by the trivial items they collected.

But her desk had nothing. It was uncluttered. No cutsie teddy bears with hearts on their tummies, no postcards taped to the computer monitor, no dried rose petals or ticket stubs or silly quotes. No snapshots of friends and family.

Just computer tower, keyboard, files, appointment book, small basket of pencils, telephone, telephone book, stapler, Scotch tape dispenser…

A small wave of frustration moved through him. This was like the desk of a robot secretary, not a real flesh-and-blood person. Didn’t anything foolish or sentimental make it past her relentless common sense?

But then the sunshine shifted again, and something gleamed from the corner.

And he finally saw it. The one incongruous note. A small, silly glass snow globe. Nothing expensive or artistic. Just the kind of cheap, fun junk you could buy at any airport or souvenir stand.

Venice, Italy, the lettering across the bottom read. And inside the globe, tilted ridiculously in its clear bubble of water, lay a crude black gondola, like a shipwreck.

He picked up the globe and shook it. The gondola rocked as a blizzard of fake snow swirled around it.

Trish went subtly more rigid, though she didn’t take her gaze from the appointment book.

He had to work to keep himself from revealing his wash of triumph. Why should his touching this make her tense? He shook it again, watching the snow drift into the little boat.

This snow globe was the place to start, then. This was the one frivolous thing she hadn’t been willing to purge from her carefully arranged life. He wondered if it might be the clue that would eventually lead him to Angelina.

“I love Venice,” he said in an easy, conversational tone that held nothing of what he was really thinking. He set the globe down and looked at Trish with an open smile. “It’s the most fascinating city in the world, don’t you think?”

She hesitated a moment before answering.

“It certainly seems so in the pictures I’ve seen,” she said, turning her pencil around and around between her fingers. “But I’ve never been there. A friend sent that to me.”

“Oh, you should go,” he said with enthusiasm. “It’s extraordinary. Very elegant and mysterious.”

She fidgeted with a file, pretending to straighten it. “I don’t know.” She looked up, finally, and smiled. “I don’t really travel much.”

“Still, someday you should go. Maybe you could stay with your friend. It might be worth it, just for a change of pace. It’s about as different from the American Southwest as you can get.”

She stared at him a minute, then looked down at the snow globe. She touched its clear plastic dome.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve always thought that, too. But maybe that’s why I don’t go. I suspect I belong here. And Venice—” She looked back up. “Venice has all those shadows, all that complicated beauty. All those secrets.”

For a split second he wondered if she were trying to tell him something. She sounded so sad, so haunted, so filled with inarticulate longing, that he had a strange impulse to reach out and give her a comforting hug.

He didn’t, of course. He had no right—no relationship had been openly acknowledged between them. She might not even be certain he was her sister’s child, though she clearly suspected something.

If Patrick, a near-stranger, grabbed her, she might well be downright alarmed.

Which suddenly was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

But at that moment his antagonism toward Angelina deepened even further. Why should she be off in Venice—or Switzerland, or China, or wherever her search for excitement had led her—while in her wake decent people like Trish still suffered, missing her so keenly it etched premature lines into her face?

Maybe, when he found Angelina, he’d mention that, too. Her careless abandonment of people who needed her may have begun with her baby, but it hadn’t ended there. There was Tee. And she must have had parents. And obviously her sister grieved even now…

Hell, he didn’t need to pump this nice woman for information. He could probably find Angelina Linden by following the trail of broken hearts.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PATRICK DIDN’T GO STRAIGHT back to the Morning Light. He drove around Enchantment for a while, getting better acquainted, looking over some of the areas he hadn’t seen yet. It seemed like a good way to clear his head.

He could have drawn a map of the entire town, border to border, from memory. But still he felt no sense of belonging, which was strangely disappointing.

Realistically, though, how could he? He didn’t know where the Lindens had lived thirty years ago—or Tee Ellis, either, for that matter.

And the little town had so many faces. In the east, grassy ranchlands sprawled open and free. In the south, poverty gnawed holes in the sides of dilapidated trailer homes and pounded dents into rusty pickups. To the north, the landscape morphed into a moonscape of fantastic red rock shapes.

Then, as the sun began to go down, he turned west, drawn by the magnificent display of fiery red that spilled over the tips of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Switchback Road—he liked the name. If he felt like being philosophical, he might say that was the name of the road his life was on right now. Abrupt, unforgiving about-faces and hairpin turns. Sometimes facing forward—then suddenly dragged back to the past. Never secure that you were still headed in the right direction.

The real Switchback Road cut a jagged path through thick pine forests, ever upward. Progress was slow. Every few yards the road would turn again, and the nose of his car would suddenly seem to be pointing over a void.

As it grew darker, he decided it would be sensible to turn around and head back to level ground. He’d seen enough.

Besides, he wanted to call Celia.

Celia. She had been one of the things he’d meant to sort out. Her gentle voice, her lovely face and soft smile, her generosity and courage and laughter—they’d all begun to get under his skin.

And then, like a fool, he’d kissed her.

Now he had to get his head straight about what to do next. He could tell he really had only two choices. He could do nothing—or everything. She wasn’t an in-between kind of woman.

But he descended the mountain as uncertain as he’d been when he began to climb it.

Damn this place. No easy answers anywhere.

Maybe he ought to go back to San Francisco, he thought wryly as he pulled into the small parking lot of his bed and breakfast. His track record had been much better there.

But his troubling day, which had begun with Ellyn Grainger, wasn’t quite over yet.

When he entered the Morning Light lobby, he saw Lydia Kane standing at the check-in desk talking to Betty, the owner. Betty seemed to be in the middle of profusely thanking Lydia for a basket of homemade pastries.

“I was just thinking this morning that it had been months since we’ve had any of your wonderful almond muffins, Lydia. I guess things keep you pretty busy over at The Birth Place.”

“Yes, we’ve been swamped,” Lydia answered—but her voice sounded distracted. She obviously had just seen Patrick walk in, though she turned back to the other woman quickly and pretended to be fiddling with the basket. “If you put these in the refrigerator right now, they should still be fresh for breakfast in the morning.”

Patrick knew right then that this was no coincidence. Lydia hadn’t decided to deliver muffins on this particular day purely by chance. She’d done it deliberately because she wanted to see him, and she didn’t want to do it at The Birth Place.

He paused on the threshold, giving her time to pretend to be surprised at his appearance. But he had underestimated her. She might stoop to arranging a “casual” meeting, but she wouldn’t stoop to pretending shock.

“Hello, Mr. Torrance,” she said.

Betty made her excuses and headed for the kitchen with the basket. Lydia Kane waited until she was out of earshot, and then she gave Patrick a neutral smile. Minimal warmth, but no open hostility.

“I was hoping I’d run into you here,” she said.

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “And you did. How fortunate. Any particular reason?”

Lydia didn’t shrink from the question. “Frankly, I wanted to get another look at you. I wanted to see if my first impression was accurate.”

He accepted her blatant, head-to-toe inspection. “And was it?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes. You do look very much like the man everyone believed to be your father. With all the advantages of wealth added in, of course. Tee Ellis never really had enough meat on his bones, and even when he stole watches or sneakers, he never got hold of anything as expensive as the things you’re wearing.”

He had to admire her. She looked strong, all bones and angles and intelligent eyes—and obviously it wasn’t just an act. She wasn’t going to allow herself to hope that his arrival had been a coincidence. She was a woman who met life head-on.

“Maybe we should sit down?” He indicated the roomy flower-upholstered armchairs in the lobby, just a few feet to the side of the reception desk. “We might as well be comfortable while we talk.”

“All right.” She followed him to the sitting area, and when they both had taken their chairs she gave him a straight gaze from her piercing gray eyes.

“I don’t see any point in wasting time dancing around the basic facts, Mr. Torrance. I know who you are, and not just because you’ve got Tee Ellis’s bad-boy smile. I know because I was the one who arranged your adoption.”

He smiled. “So I’ve been told.”

“Then may I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”

She took a minute to settle herself comfortably on the chair. She draped her long, gray braid across her shoulder, straightened the pink pendant she wore around her neck, and then, when she was ready, she spoke.

“When did you find out that you were adopted?”

“About a year ago. When my father died.”

“Your mother told you?”

“My mother died when I was six.”

“Oh.” Lydia absorbed that information with her first visible shift of expression. “I’m very sorry to hear that. She was a lovely woman, as I recall.”

Patrick shrugged. “I’m sure you remember her better than I do.”

“Who told you about the…unusual…circumstances of your birth?”

“A man named Don Frost, of Don Frost Investigations.” He crossed his legs comfortably. “I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Kane, but I don’t really think these are the questions you came here to ask, are they?”

Her poker face was extraordinary. He’d negotiated life-and-death stock deals with billionaires who couldn’t control their emotions as well as Lydia Kane.

“Not really,” she said, leaning back again in the chair. “Actually, I’m not sure I came to ask any particular questions at all. I think I just came to get an idea of what kind of man you are.”

“And have you come to a conclusion?”

She took another moment to study his face. “Not really,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I think it’s quite possible you haven’t decided yet.”

He raised one brow. “Haven’t decided what kind of man I am?”

“That’s right.”

He chuckled. “That may be a little too deep for me, Ms. Kane. Or a little too disingenuous. I’ll tell you what I think. I think you came to find out what I intend to do with the information, now that I know who I am. You’re wondering if I’m planning to rake up the old scandal all over again.”

“All right, then.” She folded her hands in her lap. They were strong hands, with long, capable fingers. “Are you?”

He let the direct question go unanswered. “As I understand it, the Linden family never acknowledged that The Homecoming Baby had anything to do with them. And there wasn’t any Ellis family, really. Just one old man who drank himself to death after his son disappeared. According to my sources, old Mr. Ellis was dead before Tee Ellis’s body was found in that mineshaft.”

“Your sources are very good.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think they are. So here’s a deal. I’ll answer your question about why I’m here and what my plans are, if you’ll agree to answer two questions first.”

She shook her head. “I can’t promise anything. I’d have to hear the questions before I agreed.”

“That’s fine. This isn’t a game, you know.” He smiled. “This is, though everyone seems to have forgotten it, my life.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said with the first real emotion he’d heard from her yet. “You lived with me an entire month, Patrick. I fed you and bathed you and rocked you to sleep until I could find a good home to take you in. You won’t remember that, of course. But I do.”

He ignored her use of his first name. He wasn’t in the mood to get sentimental with the woman who had put him at Julian Torrance’s mercy and then put him out of her thoughts.

“All right, then, here’s my first question.” He could tell she was braced for it, both physically and mentally. “How long had I been lying on that bathroom floor before the anonymous phone call was made to The Birth Place?”

For the first time, she clearly wasn’t sure what to say. He saw the temptation to lie flicker through her eyes. But then he saw her tighten the muscles around her mouth and force the truth through her lips.

“Three hours,” she said. “I can’t be sure, but I’d estimate about three hours.”

That was longer than Don Frost had said. Three hours. A chill passed through him as he thought of how slowly each minute would have ticked away.

“Well, Patrick? You said two. Do you have another question?”

“Yes, I do.” He tightened his mouth, too. “Do you think that the exquisite Angelina Linden ever once considered the possibility that a newborn baby could die if left untended on a cold, dirty bathroom floor for three full hours?”

Lydia’s hands were still folded in her lap, but the knuckles were white, and he could hear that her breathing had grown labored.

“I’m afraid I don’t have an easy answer for that, Patrick,” she said. “There is no proof who your mother really was, and there’s certainly no way to know exactly what went through her mind the night you were born.”

She took a deep breath that didn’t seem to come easily.

“I can tell you this, though. The girl who gave birth to you was young and terrified, and in more pain than most high school girls have ever known. She was lost, and she was completely alone. I very seriously doubt that she was doing what you’d call ‘thinking’ at all. I think she was probably just surviving. Perhaps, now and then, she prayed.”

He didn’t speak. He merely looked at her. Her face seemed infused with a passion he wouldn’t have suspected was in this iron lady.

They stared at each other for several tense seconds. Then, without another word, she stood.

“It’s your turn, Lydia,” he said. “Didn’t you have a question for me?”

She impaled him with that steel-gray gaze. Then she shook her head. “Not anymore,” she said. “You’ve already told me what I needed to know.”

CELIA HAD BEEN TRYING TO FIND Patrick all afternoon, but no one knew where he was. By the time she’d finished dinner, she was pretty much going crazy. She tossed her annoying, useless, nonringing telephone onto the bedspread and snatched up her car keys.

He had to sleep sooner or later. She was driving to Morning Light, and she was going to wait there until he got back.

His rental SUV was in the parking lot. She had just registered that happy fact when she saw him emerge from the bed and breakfast and stride toward the parking lot.

He wasn’t coming home, she realized with a stab of disappointment. He was going out.

She rolled down her window. “Patrick,” she called. “Hi!”

He glanced over, and for a moment his face was so stern and tense she hardly recognized him. He looked, in fact, more like Tee Ellis than he ever had—even that first day, at the ghost town.

“Hello,” he said with a clear note of surprise in his voice. He leaned down to peer at her through the open window. “What are you doing here?”

She squeezed the steering wheel. It would be pretty difficult to pretend she was just passing through the bed and breakfast parking lot. It was a semicircle that went nowhere.

“I was hoping to find you. But I guess I’ve caught you at a bad time. Were you going out?”

He hesitated. Then he shrugged. “Yes, but I haven’t got a clue where I was headed. It’s been…” He took a long breath. “Quite a day.”

“Want to talk about it?” She smiled. “I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.”

He shook his head. “I think I’m all talked out.”

She felt like an idiot. He probably just wanted to be left alone, and here she was, practically stalking him. She toyed with her gearshift, moving it back into Drive so that she could get out of his way.

Next time she’d realize that when her phone didn’t ring, that was a pretty clear message in itself.

“Sure, of course, I understand,” she said. “I’ll just let you go on and—”

“How about coming with me?” His eyes were very bright in the parking lot lamplight. “I’d like that.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Take me somewhere. This is your world. Show me what you love about it.”

She laughed softly. “That’s kind of open-ended. I love everything about it. Is there anything in particular you’d—”

“Anything peaceful,” he said. “Anywhere we can be alone and quiet. I’m tired. Every word I’ve uttered today has been dead wrong, and I’m sick of the taste of my own foot.”

She considered the possibilities. But the right one stood out like a spotlight. “I’ve got it,” she said. “How about Red Rock Bridge? No one to talk to out there but the man in the moon.”

“Sounds good. How far is it?”

She grinned. “It’s only about ten miles north—but it feels as if you’ve gone halfway to heaven.”

He nodded. “Perfect.”

Her car was obviously too small for him, so they took his rental SUV. It was large and comfy and better suited to the rocky terrain. But she grabbed a couple of blankets and a jacket from her own trunk. It could get darn cold on that bridge at night.

She navigated, and they found their way there in no time. Excited at the prospect of sharing this awesome, intimate pleasure with him, she felt her pulse quicken.

She had him park the car at the foot of the formation, where they had the best view. They got out of the car. And then she waited.

Thank goodness, he didn’t rush to say anything pat about how beautiful it was. She was so glad. She had been sure he would understand.

The moon was no longer full, but it was bright enough to turn the vast sky an inky purple, against which the natural arch of the bridge formation was silhouetted dramatically.

A shiver ran down her spine, as it always did when she came here at night, and she reached out for his hand. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. And yet the silence throbbed with earth music, as if your very blood thrummed its response to something you only half understood.

During the daytime, these twists and juts of rock were orange, yellow and red—easily explained seabed sediments full of iron that had oxidized over millions of years. But at night they were as cryptic as Stonehenge. Mysterious monuments that somehow spoke of the complicated interconnection of God and Nature and Man. Of eternity and courage and struggle.

She shivered again, and he turned to her quickly. “You’re cold,” he said.

She nodded. So he went back to the car, reached in and grabbed the blankets. And then he took her hand and began to lead her toward the rock.

His steps were so sure, his body so strong and well suited to anything athletic. She watched his graceful power, and found it thrilling.

Halfway up the abutment, she stumbled. Only his hand kept her from sliding down to the ledge just below them. She gripped his hand more tightly, unhurt, but strangely unsettled. This formation wasn’t treacherous. It had a mild slope, and plenty of wide footholds. She’d climbed it many times, ever since she was a little girl.

But this was the first time she had ever lost her footing.

It wasn’t terribly high—maybe only fifteen feet or so—and they reached the top quickly. He wasn’t even winded.

For several minutes they stood on the broad, flat ledge, staring out at the arching “bridge” that stretched before them. It had always been her own private fantasy place. Though no one in New Mexico would think of actually setting foot on one of these fragile environmental treasures, she had often danced on that bridge in her dreams.

He spread out one blanket beneath them, and opened the other one so that it floated across their shoulders. They sat with their backs to the rock tower, his arm around her, his hand resting on her knee.

Gradually she grew warmer, as if he’d spun a cocoon of soft wool and body heat. They didn’t talk. They just watched the bridge that arched away from them into the darkness. Stars swam over it like silver minnows, and the wind whispered into the hollows between rocks, speaking a language no human being knew.

He was relaxing, too. In all the places where his body met hers, she could feel the rigid muscles begin to smooth out. He let his head fall back against the rock.

“What a horrible day,” he said. Then a beat of silence. “I hurt people today. People I cared about.”

She looked at him. His eyes were shut, and his profile was as black against the purple sky as if he, too, were made of rock. She resisted the urge to touch him, to reassure herself that he really was flesh and blood.

She couldn’t do that—not yet. But maybe she could help.

“Was one of them Ellyn Grainger?”

He turned his head toward her. “Yes,” he said, his voice surprised. “How did you know that?”

“I saw her. We had a long talk.”

“About me?”

“Mostly. She came into The Silver Eagle while I was having lunch. She was crying, so I went over to see if I could help.”

“She was crying?” He frowned sharply. “Are you sure? Things must have been worse than I imagined. Ellyn never cries.”

Celia smiled. “Well, maybe I should say she was delicately damp around the eyes. It wasn’t exactly wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

“No. Never that, not with Ellyn.” He hesitated for a second. “Would it be betraying a confidence to tell me what she said?”

“Not at all. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I was looking for you tonight. I wanted to tell you what I found out. I was hoping it might make you feel better about everything.”

“Why? What did she say?”

“She said that the two of you had broken things off. At first, she said, she’d been hurt. But then when she thought it through, she realized what bothered her most was the thought of losing the two million dollars you’d promised to her animal shelter.”

He just looked at her for a moment. And then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. The sound was beautiful and clear in the empty, open sky.

“That’s exactly how I thought you’d react. At least I hoped you would.”

“She should have known I never intended to withdraw the offer. God, I wouldn’t dare.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head, still amused. “You don’t know Ellyn. If I don’t help her build that damn shelter, she’ll have me adopting every stray dog in the Bay area.”

“She’s a lovely person, isn’t she?” Celia sighed happily. “I like her.”

“So do I. Even if she was only after my money.”

She chuckled, trying to imagine anyone even remembering that Patrick had money when sitting this close to him.

She put her hand softly on his leg. “So what else is bothering you?” Her voice was warm and teasing. “Maybe Dr. Celia can make it go away, too.”

Within a fraction of a second, she regretted saying anything so foolish. His easy posture changed, and she felt him pull slightly away from her.

Something was hurting him. She could feel it in the tension of his broad shoulders. She could see it in the shuttered resistance of his face. He ached somewhere, somewhere deep inside that he hardly knew how to access.

She touched her own chest, which ached, too, suddenly. What was it? Something about his father?

She had no idea. But she knew it was there as plainly as if it had been a simple, visible gash on his cheek. She knew because the pain in him set up an answering pain in her, as if they were different pieces of the same body.

At first it frightened her. She’d sat next to people in pain so many times. It was her job. But, though she listened and empathized and counseled, she always maintained a professional distance. She had never felt connected in this vulnerable, almost mystical way…as though, if someone cut the palm of his hand, she would open her own and find it full of blood.

A piece of a poem came unbidden into her mind. “A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.”

She couldn’t remember where the quote came from, probably something she’d learned at school. But right now, up here, she felt as if she truly understood it for the first time in her life.

For a moment she couldn’t breathe. How could she have let this happen? It was impossible. And it was obviously hopeless. But it was too late to guard against it. In defiance of all common sense, in spite of all her best-laid plans, she had fallen in love with Patrick Torrance.

And that meant his happiness had now become more important to her even than her own.

“Please tell me,” she said again, soberly this time. “Maybe I can help. Maybe I can make it go away.”

He shook his head.

“The rest of the day was significantly more complicated,” he said. “I can’t fix it with a check. Not with a hundred checks. You can’t fix it, either. No one can.”

She reached up and cupped his strong face in her hands.

“I didn’t say I could fix it,” she whispered. She leaned in and kissed the pulse that beat hard against his throat. “I said I could make it go away.”

He swallowed roughly. His jaw was tight and throbbing under her hands. “No—”

“Yes.” She rose up on her knees and faced him. His eyes glimmered, and his breath was coming fast.

“I can, Patrick. I can make it go away. You just have to open up and let me in.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

EVEN A VERY GOOD MAN couldn’t have resisted her.

And he wasn’t a very good man.

He was an angry bastard, born to a mother who knew nothing about love, raised by a man who knew nothing about mercy. He had come to this town with resentment in his heart, determined to feed pain by the fistful to the people who had been responsible.

He had even exploited this beautiful woman in order to get the information he needed to find them.

No, he was far from a good man. But bitterness was like a caustic running through his veins, and she was offering the milky sweetness of her body as a respite from the pain. How could he say no?

He could have pretended it was the purple night, the otherworld quality of this strange rock formation on which they lay. He could have pretended he was caught in one of the vortexes people liked to believe swirled in the air out here. Hypnotized by the ancient murmuring of the wind, seduced by the stars.

He could have pretended those things…except for the condom he’d put in his pocket before he left the bed and breakfast. Except for that, the proof that he had always known it might come to this tonight.

He had no excuse. She peeled away his shoes, and he didn’t say a word. She opened the buttons of his shirt, and he didn’t stop her. She unbuckled his jeans, and slid them down his legs, and he gripped the rock under his hands until it began to crumble. But he didn’t stop her.

He forced himself to lie motionless, a sacrifice on that rocky altar, while she touched him. His scars were clearly outlined by moonlight, and her hands found them all. She stroked the small ones with the tips of her fingers, and the longer, deeper ones she kissed, murmuring soft noises like healing spells.

The air was cold, and she was hot, and his whole body felt just on the verge of disintegration. But still he didn’t stop her.

She wore only a plain denim jacket over a loose, flowered dress. She shed the jacket and tossed it carelessly to the side. He heard it slide over the rim of their ledge and, after a small silence, he heard it land softly on the rocks below.

Then she pulled off her dress, folded it and tucked it safely under the edge of the blanket.

But he was hardly aware of that. The instant he saw her kneeling there, white-hot curves against the cold purple sky, her breasts tipped in darkness, her hair flowing with moonlight, he had to close his eyes on a groan. He felt his torso jackknife forward once, doubled over by desire.

He reached out for her. It was too much. He couldn’t wait.

She put her hand on his chest and pressed him back against the rock. “Lie still,” she said. “There isn’t much room. We have to be careful.”

He wanted to protest. This wasn’t how he made love. He gave before he received. He controlled. He never relinquished control himself, never. This wasn’t who he was….

But it was who she wanted him to be. And so he took shallow breaths and dug at the rocks with his fingers and forced his body to be still.

She positioned herself between his legs, and, very slowly, she bent over him. Her moon-white hair teased his skin first, and then her warm, panting breath. He felt unseen muscles begin to twitch and burn.

When she closed her mouth over him, he cried out so harshly it rang from one thrusting rock tower to another, and back again. He heard it from a great distance. The only reality he knew was the blinding ache between his legs, and the gentle, rhythmic agony of her mouth.

At the last possible, spiraling moment, she stopped. She shifted, and he knew she was going to climb onto him, with the void dropping away on either side of her knees, and she was going to absorb him into her body.

Yes. He reached up blindly and took her tight, pebbled breasts into his hands. His body was still rocking slightly, as if her mouth were still on him. Yes.

He couldn’t possibly wait.

But he had to.

He reached out with one hand and fumbled through his twisted jeans, which were inside out. And then he found it, thank God he found it before he could give in to the voice that said go ahead, who cares, to hell with the condom.

Her smile was dazed and tender. Her fingers were trembling, yet sure as she put it on him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“No,” he said thickly. She must not thank him. She had brought this fevered blessing, this fierce sweetness to him, and he didn’t deserve any of it. But it was hard to speak, and he couldn’t think of the words. “No.”

With a small, hungry whimper that said she was as ready as he was, she lowered herself onto him.

“Celia—”

But then she moved. She moved again. And again. The rock beneath him caught fire. The purple sky turned red.

And every word he had ever known went up in the dazzling flame.

THE NEXT MORNING, Trish arrived at The Birth Place very early and began straightening up the waiting room, stacking the toys a little more neatly and making sure the magazines were all current. The busy-work was comforting to her. It gave her the illusion of control. The appearance of order.

She had thought about staying home today. Though it was something very few other people realized, May 15 had always been a difficult day for her. It was the anniversary of the day they found Teague Ellis’s body. The day the investigation into Angelina’s disappearance opened up all over again.

It was also the day she and her father had had their final argument, the one from which their relationship never recovered. Her father, embarrassed and infuriated by the renewed investigation, had been calling his missing daughter all kinds of names.

He’d started with the usual. Tramp. Selfish bitch. But it got worse. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she pushed that poor boy down that shaft.”

Poor boy. That was a real joke. When Angelina and Tee had been dating, J. P. Linden had called him names far less sympathetic.

And finally he’d said the words Trish could never forgive him for. “Any fool knows she hoped that baby would die. Even an animal would protect its young better than that.”

Trish had flown at him in a rage. He’d been stunned. He’d never seen a temper in his younger daughter before. But when she told him to shut up, to stop saying such disgusting things about Angelina, he didn’t know anything about it, not anything, he had been furious.

He was already raw, easy to inflame. He knew the town had been talking. They thought it was ironic, in a deliciously macabre way, that Angelina had decided to deliver her unwanted, illegitimate baby at the school named after her arrogant, wealthy father. Angelina had really thumbed her nose at the old tyrant that time, hadn’t she?

So when Trish sided with Angelina, it had been the last straw. They hardly spoke after that. She moved out as soon as she could, and when he died ten years later, he left all his money to a college in Santa Fe. Trish got a silver tea service. Angelina’s name wasn’t even mentioned.

All because someone found Tee’s body at the bottom of a forgotten mineshaft.

Twenty-eight years ago today.

She tried to shake off the whole black cloud of memory. It was only a date on the calendar. It didn’t mean anything. It was ancient history. Why not come to work? There was nothing to do at home but remember and brood.

Just before 8:00 a.m., she heard a car pull up in the driveway. She went to the window, and saw that it was Mitch. Instinctively her hand went to her hair, smoothing it into place. She tugged at her skirt, hoping it wasn’t rumpled. In spite of everything, it made her heart race to see him walking up the front steps.

But what did he want?

She stood there, a small stuffed elephant in her hand and waited. The door was already unlocked, and he pushed through like a man who had something on his mind.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“All right.” Her throat felt slightly dry. Something was wrong. But she managed to motion politely with the elephant. “Do you want to sit down?”

He shook his head. “I’m not staying. I just have something to tell you, and from there it’s up to you. You’re going to have to decide what happens next.”

“All right,” she said again. She’d never seen Mitch look so tense. Ordinarily, he was laid-back and tolerant, no matter how many things were coming unglued around him.

She tucked the elephant under her arm. “What is it?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “I’ve got a buyer for the Eagle.”

She didn’t answer immediately. She wanted to be sure she understood. “That’s good, isn’t it? You’ve been hoping to sell—”

“That’s not all.” He put his hands in his pockets. “These people want to buy the apartment complex, too. If I sell them both, I’m leaving Enchantment. The restaurant and the building are the only things keeping me here. If I sell them, I’m packing up and starting over somewhere else.”

“Oh.” She felt a little as if she’d been slapped. “I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” He set his jaw. “What I’m telling you, Trish, is that I’ve played the fool here long enough. I’m leaving this town unless you come to me and tell me flat out that you want me to stay.”

She wished they were sitting down. Her knees didn’t feel quite normal. She looked at him, at the flushed frustration on his kind, handsome face. “Well, of course you know I want you to stay—”

“Not like that.” He put his hand out to stop her quick protestation. “Not like a friend, not like a landlord. Like a man.”

“Mitch—”

“No. Don’t say anything right now. I want you to think it over.” He went to the door and put his hand on the knob. She saw that he held it so tightly his knuckles were pale.

“Listen, Trish, I don’t know who’s hurt you in the past, but it damn sure wasn’t me. So if you’re ready to move on beyond all that and have a real relationship, I’m here.”

He opened the door. “And if you’re not, I’m gone.”

CELIA FLOATED THROUGH HER MORNING, through a meeting with her accountant, a session with a patient trying to lose weight, and another who thought her husband was cheating. She floated through lunch, and even through signing the checks her secretary brought for her review.

When she hummed as she signed, the woman gave her a strange look—bill-paying day was usually one of Celia’s least favorite days of the month—but she didn’t come right out and ask any questions.

Questions like, Hey, boss, why do you have that stupid grin on your face? Why have you been humming the same tune for hours? What on earth did you do last night?

Celia was surprised that the truth wasn’t written all over her face. She went into the bathroom to wash her hands after lunch, and, looking in the mirror, it seemed pretty obvious to her. This pink-cheeked, dewy-eyed, idiotically blissful face belonged to a woman who had spent all night having soul-stirring, toe-curling, magnificent, marvelous sex.

And hoped to do so again tonight.

So, because this was the first time she’d ever really been in love, she just kept on floating, enjoying the sensation. If it once or twice occurred to her that she might be floating a little too near the sun, she put the thought out of her mind immediately. If her wings melted, so be it. At least she would have touched that wonderful, fiery star, which was more than most people could say.

After a short session at the teen center, she headed to the Birth Place for a couple of late appointments. She would probably run into Trish, something she both looked forward to and dreaded. The giggling, girlish part of her was eager to tell Trish all about it. Eager to tell Trish that, in spite of everything people said, there was such a thing as a perfect man.

But the tiny part of her that was still connected to reality knew that Trish would be distressed to know that Celia and Patrick had made love. Trish liked Patrick, Celia was sure of that. And yet Trish maintained the unshakable position that Patrick was not good for Celia.

Of course, Celia rationalized, Trish was always overly cautious. She lived every day as if it were a tightrope walk over an alligator pit.

Sometimes Celia, who tended to be impulsive, appreciated her friend’s sensible guidance. After all, that’s what mother figures were for.

More often, like today, she just wanted to let go and love life.

She arrived at The Birth Place at four, a full half an hour before her first appointment. Maybe she could find a little privacy to talk to Trish. She’d like to be the one to tell her…

But the minute she walked in the door, she knew something was wrong.

Trish hardly looked up as Celia arrived—which was completely unlike her. As the receptionist, Trish considered it her responsibility to greet warmly and personally everyone who entered the building.

Today, though, she was staring down at her desk, apparently lost in thought. She didn’t seem to hear the door at all. Worried, Celia waved at some of the patients in the waiting area, then hurried to Trish’s desk.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you okay?”

Trish’s head came up, and Celia caught her breath. Trish’s eyes were so shadowed and bleak that she looked like a stranger. A stranger who hadn’t slept for a week.

Celia glanced down at the desk, wondering what Trish could have been staring at. Trish’s left hand was resting on her little Venetian snow globe. The other was holding a pencil, point down against a sheet of paper, as if she had been in the middle of writing something, but couldn’t remember what.

None of that helped Celia to understand. But the desk calendar did.

Oh, God. She had forgotten. This was the anniversary of the discovery of Tee Ellis’s body. Trish didn’t ever talk about it; she wasn’t one to discuss her problems openly. But Celia had been her friend long enough to know that this was one of two days each year when Trish seemed to have difficulty putting the whole Angelina tragedy behind her. November 25, the anniversary of Angelina’s disappearance, and this day, May 15.

Still, Trish had never looked this done-in before. Usually the shadow on her spirits was subtle. They’d just go out to dinner, or rent a silly movie, and gradually the shadow would pass.

“Has something happened?” Celia touched Trish’s hand. “Tell me. Is everything all right?”

Trish glanced into the waiting room. “Not really,” she said. She tried to give Celia a reassuring smile. “I can’t really go into it here, but I’ve come to a decision, and there’s something I need to tell you. Maybe we can talk after work?”

Patrick’s face appeared in Celia’s mind—and his body, too. But she banished the thoughts immediately.

“Of course we can,” she said. “I have patients until seven. Want to have a late dinner at the Eagle?”

Trish shook her head, flushing. “No, not there. Let’s talk at the apartment. It’s more private. Is that all right?”

“Of course. But can’t you even tell me what it’s—”

Celia’s cell phone rang then. She almost missed it. Whenever she worked she kept it set on its lowest volume. It was little more than a soft chirping sound, as if she had a bird in her purse. Her heart sped a little as she rummaged through all the silly debris.

“Come on, come on,” she said to herself, praying that the chirping wouldn’t stop. Finally her fingers closed over the hard plastic case. Such an unromantic thing to have complete control over the paces and pleasures of her heart.

It was Patrick. She knew it would be. The minute he said hello, she felt the memories of last night sparking across her face like tiny firework explosions.

“Hi,” she said. Without thinking she ducked her head to hide her goofy smile. “I was hoping you’d call.”

He chuckled, and the sound went right through her. “Well, I was hoping you’d take the afternoon off.”

“Yes. Um…unfortunately, that won’t be possible,” she said in what she hoped was a semiprofessional voice.

“Will I see you tonight?”

She was careful not to glance Trish’s way. “Unfortunately, that won’t be possible, either.”

A short silence. Then another chuckle. “Now there’s a blow to my sensitive ego. You’re not going rock-climbing with someone else, are you?”

He was teasing, but under the laughter she heard a sudden animal growl of possession. The tiny fireworks began to ping randomly all over her body. She felt flushed and raw and charged with sexual energy. And all this from his voice…

“Someone else?”

“You know. Whatshisname.”

Rock climbing with Whatshisname. She couldn’t help smiling. Patrick didn’t really believe that for a minute.

“That seems highly unlikely,” she said carefully. But out of the corner of her eye she could see Trish frowning, and she knew she wasn’t fooling anybody that this was a business call.

“Good. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Yes. Most definitely.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He paused. “Unless you find a polite way to ditch Whatshisname early tonight. If you get free, you know where to find me. It doesn’t matter what time. I’ll just be dreaming about you, anyhow.”

She smiled into the telephone. “Who exactly do you think is Whatshisname?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

He yawned loudly, which made her want to yawn, too. Neither of them had slept a wink all through the amazing night.

“And I don’t care,” he added. “All I know is, I hope he’s afraid of heights and has to be home by ten.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TRISH HEARD CELIA’S KNOCK on the door at seven-thirty. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes to gather her composure, and then, smoothing her skirt as she walked, she went to the door and opened it.

It was only Celia, she told herself, trying to slow down her speeding pulse. Celia was not the judgmental type, and even if she had been, she would never judge Trish harshly.

Celia had often told Trish she thought of her as a surrogate mother. Trish had taken a lot of comfort in that knowledge over the years. It was nice, when you had no family left, to find someone to love.

Someone to mother.

So why was this so hard? If Trish couldn’t face telling this sweet, loving young woman the truth, how was she ever going to face the rest of Enchantment?

How was she ever going to face Mitch?

Celia had brought a take-out salad with her, obviously thinking neither of them had eaten dinner. But the minute she saw Trish, she set it down. Taking Trish’s hands in hers, she led her to the sofa.

“What is it? You look so—” She scoured Trish’s face with her worried gaze. “You’re starting to scare me, Trish.”

Trish squeezed Celia’s hands. “I’m sorry. The truth is, I’m a little scared myself. I’m about to tell you something I’ve never told another living soul.”

“You know you can trust me.”

“Yes.” Trish took a deep breath. “It’s just that hiding the truth has become a way of life for me. Sometimes I think I’ve even managed to forget what really happened myself.”

She was stalling, and Celia must have been able to see that. “Trish, please. Tell me.”

She wanted to. If only she could stop these stupid tears from rising, warm and helpless. If only she could tell it with some dignity. That might show that the past thirty years had brought her something—wisdom, maturity, perspective.

Instead the whole thing was as fresh and cruel as the night it happened. And she was still afraid.

But she had to find courage sooner or later. So she just picked a spot, and started there.

“Everyone in Enchantment has always believed that Angelina was the mother of The Homecoming Baby,” she said. “But it isn’t true.”

Celia’s clear brow wrinkled. “It isn’t?” She shook her head. “But surely—”

“It isn’t true,” Trish repeated. Her throat kept closing tighter, as if her very body were rebelling, still trying to guard its pathetic secret. She looked at Celia, though she could barely see her through the mist of tears. “It wasn’t Angelina’s baby born that night. It was mine.”

Celia’s hands clenched with an instinctive spasm of shock. She inhaled sharply. “Oh, my God,” she said. “That can’t be true.”

“But it is. I let people believe Angelina was to blame. It seemed so easy. For thirty years, I’ve tried to hide from what I did.” Tears began to spill over in spite of her determination not to cry. “But I’m tired of hiding.”

Celia was obviously trying to understand. Trish could feel her inner struggle. But it was clearly difficult. It contradicted everything she had thought she knew about the town legend, about Trish and the whole Linden family…

And about Patrick Torrance.

Her face showed she was trying, but somehow she couldn’t quite believe.

“Trish, how can it be possible? It was Angelina who dated Tee Ellis. Angelina who disappeared that night. And you—you must have been…what? Not quite fifteen?”

“Fifteen is old enough,” Trish said. “Physically, it’s old enough.”

Celia made a small sound. It was full of pity and pain and, finally, a horrified acceptance.

“Oh, Trish. How?” Her voice cracked. “Who?”

Strangely, Trish was feeling calmer now. She should have told someone years ago, she thought numbly. It seemed to have an instantaneously soothing quality. Just imagine if she had. If she had walked out of that bathroom with her baby in her arms and said to her father, This little boy is mine. Mine.

Through the years, she’d played the scene in her mind a million times, imagining what would have happened if she had done that. But she hadn’t. And no amount of wishing could undo the past thirty years.

“I’d like to tell you what happened,” she said. “If you’re willing to listen.”

Celia nodded. “Of course. I want to understand.”

“It’s hard to be sure where to begin.” Trish closed her eyes. “I guess—well, I was able to hide the pregnancy because I was a little overweight back then. The boys liked to call me Fatty Patty, and when I put on more weight with the baby, they just teased harder. ‘Lock up your refrigerator,’ they’d say. ‘Here comes Fatty Patty.’”

Celia made a low growling sound. “Bastards,” she said.

Trish shook her head. “Once I knew about the baby, I hardly noticed them. None of that seemed important anymore. Except…that was why no one thought of me. I was pudgy and shy, completely graceless. The exact opposite of Angelina. She looked like the kind of girl who would get pregnant and cause a scandal. I didn’t.”

Trish paused for a minute, trying to think how to proceed. Celia was silent—she just kept holding Trish’s hand and waiting. She must be an excellent therapist, Trish thought with a sudden grateful rush of affection. She didn’t try to contradict Trish’s evaluation of her teenage charm. She seemed to accept that Trish knew best how it had felt during those awkward years.

“I don’t guess it was any wonder that I developed a hopeless crush on Tee,” Trish went on finally. “He was always around. Occasionally he even talked to me, which was more attention than I was getting anywhere else. And of course he was paralyzingly attractive.”

“Yes,” Celia said. “I’ve seen pictures. And I’ve seen—”

“You’ve seen Patrick.”

Celia nodded. “Yes.”

Trish didn’t look surprised. “Did you already know who he was?”

“I didn’t know,” Celia said. “But I wondered.”

“I knew.” Trish’s voice was soft. “The minute I saw him. He’s Tee, the way Tee might have turned out if he’d been given a chance. And he has Angelina’s chin. The Linden chin. It’s ironic, isn’t it? It skipped me, but apparently it’s encoded in the genes.”

Suddenly Celia’s face darkened with concern. “But things like features, chins,” she said. “Are they enough to be completely sure?”

For the first time Trish smiled. “That’s just what I see. It’s not how I know.” She let go of Celia’s hands and put a soft fist over her heart. “I know here. It sounds melodramatic, but it’s true. You’ll see, someday. When it’s your child, you just know.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, Celia. I have the kind of proof you’re talking about, too. Lydia arranged the adoption, so she knows his new name is Torrance. She’s even spoken to him about it. She called to warn me.”

“Does Lydia know whose son he really is? I mean, that he isn’t Angelina’s?”

“I’m sure she does,” Trish said. “She’s never pressed me on it, but she’s always been—I don’t know…thoughtful, I guess, in a certain way that told me she knew.”

“But how on earth did it happen? I mean, Patrick looks like Tee. But if Tee was Angelina’s boyfriend—”

“That’s the ugly part. It’s hard to describe. It makes Tee seem like a monster, but he wasn’t, not really. He was just hard—and he had a lot of anger in him. His life had been tough, his mother dead, his father a drunkard. Sometimes he resented other people—wealthy people, happy people—so much it became a kind of madness.”

She remembered him so clearly, as if he stood before her now, eighteen, as sexy and dangerous as the devil himself. Celia was watching her with wide, unhappy eyes, almost as if she could predict where this sad story was going to end up.

“I thought I had hidden how I felt, but because of the way he’d lived, Tee was extremely street-smart. He read people with an almost animal cunning. He knew I watched him and Angelina. He knew I wished it could be me.”

She took a deep breath. She’d come this far, surely she could tell the rest. It was time.

“Anyhow, one night he was drunk, very drunk. He came to the house looking for Angelina. They’d argued, and she was out with another boy, punishing Tee, playing hard to get. I was the only one home, so I let him in. I told him about the other boy.”

She tried to recall clearly her emotions at that moment, that very foolish, destructive moment. “I was so jealous. I wanted him to be angry with her. Maybe I thought he’d notice how different I was, how much sweeter and more loyal I might be.”

“Oh, Trish,” Celia whispered.

“Yes, it was very stupid. But I was stupid, at least about him. Anyhow, it worked. He was furious. He smashed a vase, and the table it was on. He broke into our father’s liquor cabinet. And then he turned to me. He said that Angelina had promised him something, and if she wasn’t there to deliver, I’d have to do it for her.”

Celia was crying now, soundlessly. Odd to think that now that Trish herself had finally gone numb and calm, Celia’s control should crack.

It pained Trish to see it. Was she being selfish, sharing the truth with someone so gentle and good? Maybe she shouldn’t go on. She hated for this story to cause any more pain to anyone.

“Don’t stop now,” Celia said, as if she sensed Trish’s hesitation. “Tell me what happened.”

Trish centered herself, and then she went on. “He said he knew I’d been sneaking around, watching him with Angelina, fantasizing about him. He said if I wanted it so much maybe it was time he gave it to me.”

She made a small choking sound as remembered fear streaked through her, a lightning bolt of heat and humiliation.

“It was ugly,” she said. “And painful. But it was mercifully quick. He went into the bathroom afterward and threw up all my father’s Scotch. He didn’t have to warn me not to tell Angelina. He knew I wouldn’t dare. He left—and he never so much as looked at me again.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No. Not even when I knew there was something wrong, when I knew I must be going to have a baby. Sometimes I pretended it wasn’t true. That the nightmare on the bed had never happened. That the thing inside me wasn’t there.”

She looked at Celia, feeling drained. “Sometimes I almost believed it.”

“But how— What about that night? The night of the dance?”

“I didn’t want to go, of course. My father had persuaded one of his partner’s sons to take me. The boy was mortified to be seen with Fatty Patty, so he left me practically before we were through the gymnasium door. I can’t blame him. I looked terrible. I had hardly been able to zip up my dress. I thought surely my father would know. But he was fighting with Angelina, as usual. He didn’t have much time to concern himself with me. When he saw me, he just said, ‘Go on a diet, for God’s sake.’”

Celia just closed her eyes, and whispered, “My God.”

“I spent the entire dance in the bathroom. I had done that before, to avoid the teasing. But this time was different. This time there was so much pain. I didn’t really understand, but I knew enough not to cry out. I knew the pretty girls were always there, coming and going. Through the cracks in the stall door, I could see their sequined dresses, and I could hear them laughing. I think I really believed I might die there, there was so much blood. I wouldn’t have minded. I just wanted the pain to stop.”

“But you didn’t die.” Celia’s hands were in fists in her lap. Her face was shining with tear tracks. “You must have been so strong, Trish. You must have been so brave.”

“Brave?” Trish made a noise that didn’t quite sound like a laugh. “No, I wasn’t brave. Even after all that, I was still afraid of my father. I stole a coat to wrap the baby in, and I put him on the floor. I washed my legs and somehow got my party dress back on. I was the last one out. I didn’t dare leave the baby crying there until the other girls were gone. I went outside, where my father’s car was waiting. He was furious because Angelina had disappeared with Tee. He never even noticed I had fainted in the back seat.”

“But later you called for help. You called The Birth Place, didn’t you? That took courage. That part of the story is true.”

“Yes, that part’s true. But I waited until my father had gone out to look for Angelina. At least two hours. While Patrick lay on the bathroom floor, crying—maybe even dying—I waited in my room, still praying I wouldn’t get caught.”

She made a small noise and, hearing it, Celia grabbed her hand.

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Trish. You were so young. And he didn’t die. He was fine—just look at him now! He’s strong and smart and handsome. He’s rich and well-educated and…”

She leaned forward suddenly. “Oh, Trish, you must tell him. He must have come to Enchantment looking for the truth. Looking for his mother. He must think it’s Angelina. Everyone does. Just imagine how thrilled he’ll be to discover it’s you!”

Trish shook her head, and kept shaking it. “Not yet. I don’t want him to know yet. I’m not ready to face the possibility of losing him—when I’ve only now found him again.”

“But what do you mean? How could you lose him?”

“I’m going to tell him,” Trish said. “I’m going to tell everyone. But I have to pick the right time. I have to be prepared that he might…” She lifted her chin. “That he might not be willing to forgive me.”

Celia smiled. “Of course he will,” she said. “Oh, Trish, you know he will. He’ll be so happy.”

Trish shook her head. It frightened her to see that dreamy look come over Celia’s face. She was so innocent. Even after hearing this whole terrible story, she still had an absolute confidence in happy endings.

“Celia, be careful. Be realistic. You might be wrong about him.”

“I’m not,” Celia said. She sighed. “Just wait until you really get to know him.”

She hugged Trish, her joy clearly overflowing. It probably looked so neat and clean to her. The man she loves turns out to be the son of the woman she thinks of as a mother. Violins play, and everyone rides off into the sunset together.

“Honestly, Trish,” Celia said. “You’re underestimating Patrick. It may take a while for everything to sort itself out, but it will be fine. He’s a fantastic man. How could he be anything else? After all, he’s your son.”

Trish looked at Celia, warmed by her sweetness and love. But inside she continued to hear the small, uneasy voice that wouldn’t be stilled. The voice that said…

He’s Tee Ellis’s son, too.

CELIA SLEPT ON TRISH’S COUCH that night. The two of them had stayed up till nearly dawn, discussing the details, making plans, toying with the salad Celia had brought. At about 4:00 a.m., emotionally drained and finally talked out, Trish had agreed to try to sleep.

When Celia woke up about seven, the light was already streaming in Trish’s eastern window, tinged a pinkish gold as it filtered through the overhanging bougainvillea.

She eased Trish’s door open an inch, just enough to confirm that Trish was still asleep. Then she dug her cell phone out of her purse, quietly opened the front door and stepped a foot or two outside, just into the courtyard for privacy.

She’d already memorized Patrick’s cell phone number, even though she’d dialed it only a couple of times in her life. She knew he was an early riser, so she hoped he wouldn’t mind being disturbed. Though her mother had always drilled into her that nine was the earliest hour at which refined young women made telephone calls, she didn’t think she could wait.

Besides, Celia’s mother had had a list as long as the Sante Fe Trail of things refined young women didn’t do. She worshiped it almost as slavishly as she worshiped the edicts laid down by Celia’s father. The first independent decision Celia could remember making was to burn that list the minute she moved out of her parents’ house.

Excellent decision. Because right at the top of that list, undoubtedly, was a commandment that refined young women must never, ever make love outside, in the open air, on top of Red Rock Bridge.

And that was one memory she wouldn’t trade for anything on earth.

Patrick answered after only two rings. He didn’t sound a bit sleepy.

“Celia,” he said. “Are you all right? Where have you been?”

She was so taken aback she hesitated. “Well, I—”

“No, wait a minute. That was all wrong.” She heard him take a deep breath. “Let me start over. I don’t want to come off like a caveman here. I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? What’s the matter?”

“I went by your apartment last night,” he said. “Very late—after two in the morning. I thought maybe your date had run long, and you didn’t feel right coming by the bed and breakfast. But I wanted to see you, so—”

“So you came to me.” She smiled. “But I wasn’t there.”

“That’s right.” In spite of his determination to leave the caveman behind, his voice sounded tight. “Your car was, though. I was a little concerned.”

Concerned? He could call it whatever he wanted, but Celia’s heart did a happy thump-thump. He was jealous.

“You thought I spent the night with Whatshisname.”

A brief silence. “I didn’t know exactly what to think.”

“Actually you were right. I did.”

A longer silence—and icier. Finally she heard him shift the telephone. “I see.”

She laughed. “Except it’s actually Whatshername. And her name is Trish. I spent the night with Trish, just two doors down.”

This time the silence was ever so slightly sheepish.

“Okay, let’s see,” he said finally. “The last time I made this much of a fool of myself, I think I was nine years old.”

She leaned against the cool courtyard wall, smiling. “Oh, yeah? What did you do then?”

“I’d seen my sixteen-year-old baby-sitter kissing her boyfriend in the backyard, so I wrote her a very emotional letter accusing her of breaking my heart. Luckily she couldn’t read it, because my cursive was still so bad it was illegible.”

Celia laughed, thinking how cute he must have been at nine. His dark, wavy hair would have been tousled all the time, and his blue eyes would have been too big for his little boy’s face.

“Awww,” she said. “That’s so sweet.”

He chuckled. “I couldn’t help myself. She was very hot, for a sixteen-year-old.”

“Gross. Dirty old little boy.”

“You’ll be happy to hear I don’t go for sixteen-year-old girls anymore.”

“Really? What’s your favorite age now?”

“How old are you?”

She laughed. “Twenty-eight.”

“What a coincidence. That’s the one.” His voice was low and husky, and she closed her eyes, letting it move through her like warm water. “Now, to get to the more important questions. What time do you get off work?”

“Six.”

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to ditch your afternoon clients?”

“Nope.”

“How about dinner at six-fifteen, then? Meet me here at the bed and breakfast.”

She had to laugh. “Six-fifteen? That’s cutting it very tight.”

“Well, I expect to be pretty damn hungry by six o’clock tonight.”

She loved that tone, that teasing, growling, possessive tone. In fact, she realized, she loved practically everything about him. She couldn’t wait for Trish to have the chance to find out all the wonderful things Celia knew about this man.

“Patrick,” she said hesitantly. “I have a big favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about tonight. I know you were looking forward to being together, just us, but…”

“Looking forward to it? That’s a hell of an understatement. I’m starved for you, damn it. Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same way, because I won’t believe it.”

“Of course I do. But—”

She crossed her fingers, hoping he wouldn’t mind too much. “I feel kind of selfish leaving Trish out. She’s having a rough time right now, and I don’t like to leave her alone. That’s why I stayed at her place last night. Would you be terribly disappointed if I invited Trish to join us—just for dinner?”

The wonderful, wonderful man, he hesitated only a moment.

“All right. If you think she needs it, invite her to join us. But only dinner. After that, I want you to myself. I’ve sent the caveman back into his den, but he won’t stay there forever, you know.”

“I know.” She swallowed a fluttering sigh. Maybe she was only sixteen. She was so happy she could imagine scratching his initials into this adobe wall and then drawing a heart around it.

“So…” She held the phone against her cheek. “Shall I bring my hiking boots and blankets?”

“Hell, no,” he growled. “I’ve got a thousand things in mind for us tonight, none of them can be done on a cold, hard, red rock bed.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AT FIVE-THIRTY ROSE GALLEN called. Celia almost didn’t answer the phone. Selfishly, she didn’t want to give anyone or anything the chance to ruin the evening she had planned.

It wasn’t completely selfish. She was hungry to see Patrick, yes. But Trish’s happiness was involved, too. The idea of joining them for dinner had initially intimidated Trish, but Celia had refused to take no for an answer, and eventually she’d said yes.

How could she have resisted?

A quiet dinner with the son she had thought she’d never see again. Celia had seen the glow come back to her tired face, and she knew that, deep inside, in spite of the anxiety, Trish was as eager for six-fifteen to arrive as she was.

But the phone kept ringing, and Celia knew she had to take the call, whoever it was, whatever it meant about tonight. Her patients had put their trust in her, and she couldn’t let them down.

After talking to a frantic Rose, and promising to meet her at The Birth Place at six-thirty, she telephoned Patrick, her heart heavy.

How many annoying postponements would he be willing to tolerate? He had an intense physical desire for her, but he’d never hinted he felt any more than that. And he probably had a thousand women back home who would join him for a romp without dragging along all this baggage.

Heck, probably even a few women here in Enchantment could be easily persuaded. She’d seen them looking, and she’d known what those speculative, moist-lipped expressions had meant.

The phone went right to his voice message. He must be on the line. She’d noticed that he did a lot of his investment business by telephone, and he probably was spending the day getting some details taken care of.

So she just left a message, letting him know she’d have to be late. A patient was having a crisis, and she’d asked to see Celia at the birthing center at six-thirty. She’d meet him at the bed and breakfast as soon as she could.

She started to add how disappointed she was, how frustrated and aching and…

But that was unprofessional, not to mention embarrassing. So she signed off without anything more elaborate than a heartfelt “I’m sorry.”

She tried Trish, too, but she’d already left The Birth Place for the day, and she wasn’t answering at home. Celia wondered if she might be out shopping for a new dress. She would want to look her best. She would want to make her son proud…even if he didn’t know it.

Celia felt a lump in her throat, just thinking of how Trish’s life was about to change. Patrick’s, too. It was touching, and somehow a little exciting.

She tried not to be selfish, not to think of what it all might mean for her. But the thoughts insinuated themselves into her psyche, anyhow. Patrick wouldn’t just go back to San Francisco now, would he? He wouldn’t just leave and never come back. Now he was tied, at least in some small way, to Enchantment….

When she arrived at The Birth Place, she was shocked to see Patrick’s SUV already in the staff parking lot. He was standing beside it, looking devastatingly sexy in khakis and blue oxford-cloth shirt rolled up to the elbows. He was clearly waiting for her.

How lucky could a girl get? This black-haired, blue-eyed miracle belonged, at least for tonight, to her.

She hopped out of her Volkswagen, which she had parked in the empty space next to his. At this time of day, almost all the spaces were empty.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly shy now that they were actually face to face. “What are you doing here? Did you get my message?”

“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I don’t know who your patient is, but in case it’s the woman with the lunatic husband, I didn’t like the idea of you being out here all alone after hours.”

What a guy! She grinned like that sixteen-year-old ninny she seemed to have turned into, clutching her satchel to her chest as if it were her book bag.

God, what was happening to her? This was exactly what she’d been afraid of—that falling in love would turn her into a clichéd, helpless female. And she wasn’t even fighting it.

And this business about coming to stand guard… A week ago, she would have found that threatening. He’d dared to inject himself into her life, dared to imply she couldn’t handle things on her own.

It might even have alienated her, made her back off for fear he would turn out someday to be an over-bearing dictator like her father.

But, shockingly, she found that, when the right man worried about you and protected you and tried to battle your dragons for you, you didn’t really mind at all. You thought it was romantic and gallant and you loved him all the more.

“Thanks,” she said. “That’s very sweet. But I won’t really be alone. Lydia’s car is still here. She stays half the night sometimes.”

“Good.” He looked at her and held out his hand. “Come here.”

She went, without even caring that they were out in the open, without even wondering what Lydia would think if she happened to look through the window right now.

He didn’t seem to be thinking about that, either. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, long and slow enough to make her melt against him.

He lifted his head, finally, and smiled down at her.

“Hi,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

“I know.” She put her head against his chest. “Me, too.”

They stood that way a long minute, and then she felt him twist his wrist to look at his watch. “You’d better go in,” he said. “Your patient will be here soon.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“I think I’ll stay out here anyhow, just till you’re finished,” he said. “I’ve called the bed and breakfast and asked Betty to explain things to Trish. She’ll let her wait in my sitting room.”

She looked at him. She wondered if he could read her heart in her face. It felt as if it were pumping love out like a flooding fountain.

“You don’t need to, honestly. I’ll be fine.”

“Sorry, I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me. You see, if you have to stab that guy with your letter opener, you’ll be spending tonight in jail.”

He touched her cheek. “And you may remember, sweetheart, that I have other plans.”

CELIA AND ROSE TALKED for almost an hour, during which Rose told her that she’d decided to file for divorce. They discussed what the next steps would likely be, what kind of reaction she might expect from Tad, and which lawyer Rose ought to choose.

It was a good session. Once or twice Rose got a little weepy, but overall she was surprisingly strong.

“I might have stayed with him forever, if it wasn’t for the baby,” Rose said. “But he’s a selfish bastard, and he’s mean, and I won’t let my baby grow up with that kind of role model. My mom says it’s okay if we live with her until I can make it on my own.”

“It seems as if that decision makes you happy,” Celia said, looking over Rose, who for once seemed to have been correctly named. Her cheeks were pink and healthy, and her eyes were bright with hope. “You seem very sure.”

“I’m sure this little guy is worth ten of Tad,” she said, putting her hands over her stomach. “I think he gives me courage.”

When they were finished, Celia walked Rose out through the back door, where the young woman’s mother was waiting for her. And then, with a light heart—everything seemed to be going so well—Celia went back in for a minute, to say good night to Lydia.

But, in a troubling repeat of the last time, Celia got no answer when she knocked on the office door. This time, though, there was no noise at all coming from inside. Celia glanced out the window. Was Lydia gone?

But there were three cars in the parking lot. Her own, Patrick’s—and Lydia’s.

Celia’s heart began to race. She knocked again, more loudly, and then, acting on instinct, she pushed open the door.

“Lydia!”

The older woman had slumped into a half-sitting, half-lying position on her large sofa. She looked as if she had sat down to rest, but then collapsed. She was not conscious.

Celia rushed across the room, digging her cell phone out of her satchel and pushing the auto-dial for 911 as she ran.

“Lydia.” She knelt before the sofa and put her cheek against Lydia’s chest. She was breathing. Thank God.

“We need an ambulance sent to The Birth Place,” she said when the emergency operator answered. “The front door is open. I’m in the administrative offices, just behind the reception area, with Lydia Kane. I think she may have had a heart attack.”

Lydia stirred, then, as if Celia’s voice had roused her. She tried to raise herself.

“No,” Lydia said weakly but irritably. “No, I’ll be all right.”

Celia shook her head—she’d heard enough of that the last time. Lydia was the boss here, and everyone was accustomed to obeying her orders without question, but this was different.

Celia was no doctor. But she knew that Lydia’s gray face and thready pulse were very bad signs that couldn’t be brushed away.

Celia kept the 911 operator on the line, in case she needed guidance, but she took Lydia’s hand and smiled reassuringly.

“Lydia, someone needs to look at you. If you’ve had a heart attack, you know the sooner you get help the better.”

Lydia was too weak to protest any further. “Get me an aspirin?” she asked thinly. “In the desk drawer.”

Celia found it and brought it over. Lydia opened her mouth like a baby bird, and Celia put the tablet on her tongue.

“Chew it,” she said. Chewing dispersed the medication faster.

Lydia obeyed, though that small effort seemed to exhaust her. When she finished, she lay her head back against the arm of the sofa and shut her eyes. Her color was a little better, but she was still short of breath. She was perspiring profusely, though the spring night was cool and crisp.

She looked so tired, Celia thought. Her face was slack, her skin smooth over her strong cheekbones, which made her look strangely young and helpless.

Lydia. Helpless. That was like watching the moon come tumbling right out of the sky. Somehow Celia ignored the cold fear that ran through her system and kept murmuring soothing things and massaging Lydia’s hand.

The seconds stretched, time lost in the hyper-focused struggle to stay focused, stay calm, stay alert. But when she finally heard the siren of the approaching ambulance, she looked at her watch and only three minutes had passed.

The emergency medical technicians bustled into the office. To Celia’s surprise, Patrick was with them, his face almost as gray as Lydia’s.

As Celia backed out of the technician’s way, Patrick scooped her into his arms. “What happened? When I heard the ambulance, I thought—”

She looked at him, ashamed that she had forgotten that he was outside, waiting, guarding. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might hear the sirens and think something had happened to her.

“It’s Lydia,” she said. “She collapsed. I’m not sure exactly what happened. It may have been a heart attack.”

“Oh, my God.” Patrick looked over at the sofa, where two EMTs were talking to Lydia, starting their routine of stabilization. Another EMT came in just then, rolling a stretcher in front of him.

“I’m sorry, but could you two wait outside?” The young man looked sympathetic but implacably efficient. “We need the room.”

“Of course,” Celia said. She smiled at Lydia. “I’m going to call Kim,” she said. “Is there anyone else you’d like me to call?”

Lydia’s gaze was clearer now. She nodded slowly.

“Yes, please,” she said in a husky voice that sounded torn at the edges. “Call Devon.”

IT WAS ONE OF THE MOST difficult calls Celia had ever made. Devon was Lydia’s granddaughter, and though they had once been very close, their relationship had been strained for months. Devon was on the board of directors of The Birth Place, but she lived in Albuquerque and came to Enchantment as seldom as was humanly possible.

So Celia was very glad that Patrick was there, standing beside her, holding her hand and lending moral support. He seemed to recognize that this wasn’t his world, it wasn’t his tragedy, but he stayed close, near enough that she understood he was offering his strength if she needed it.

Strength. Funny—it wasn’t the domineering, terrifying quality she’d always imagined it to be. It was quiet and steady, and it didn’t diminish her own strength one bit. It buttressed it, so that, to her amazement, she ended up feeling stronger than ever.

The Birth Place was strangely silent. Lydia was gone, with Kim Sherman at her side in the ambulance. Kim had promised to call Celia’s cell phone as soon as they had news.

But now it was up to Celia to tell Devon.

Taking a deep breath, she dialed Devon’s Albuquerque number. It rang seven or eight times before anyone picked up.

“Hello.” Devon’s voice sounded crisp and impatient. She probably had seen The Birth Place on her caller ID, and she undoubtedly thought it was going to be her grandmother. Celia felt strangely sorry for Lydia, even though the woman hadn’t heard it. What an impersonal tone to take with your own flesh and blood!

“Hi, Devon,” she said. “It’s Celia Brice.”

Devon was a very smart woman. She obviously knew instantly that something must be wrong. Celia and Devon liked each other, but they weren’t in the habit of chatting long distance on the telephone.

“Hi, Celia. Is something wrong?” Her voice was still cool, but Celia thought she detected a note of smothered anxiety.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Celia said. “I think everything is going to be fine, but I wanted to let you know that Lydia isn’t well.”

She heard a sharp split-second of hesitation, then Devon spoke. “Not well? What exactly does that mean?”

“I don’t know yet. The ambulance has just taken her to the hospital. Kim was with her, and she’s going to call as soon as they know.” She kept her voice steady. “It may have been a heart attack.”

“Was she conscious?”

“Absolutely. She was telling us that she was fine, leave her alone, she didn’t need an ambulance. You know Lydia.”

“Yes.” Devon’s voice was wry. “Yes, indeed I do.” She was silent another moment. “Has anyone called my mother or uncle?”

Those were Lydia’s grown children. “I thought maybe you’d like to do that,” Celia said. “It might be easier to hear the news from you.”

“Okay. I’ll call them right away.”

Celia could tell that Devon was eager to hang up and get the details in order, but still…she wasn’t sure she’d said enough. Unfortunately she wasn’t sure exactly how much Lydia wanted her to say.

“Devon—”

“Wait. Tell me something, Celia. When you decided to call me—was that your idea, or did Lydia ask you to do it?”

“She asked me to.” Celia chose her words carefully. “I know you’re busy, but I think it would mean a lot to her if you came.”

Devon sighed, although over the telephone Celia couldn’t tell whether it was a harried sigh that meant I don’t have time for this, or a relieved sigh that meant at least she still cares enough to want me there.

“Then if you talk to her, tell her I’m taking the next plane out.”

When Celia hung up the phone, she didn’t realize her hands had started to shake. But Patrick did. He knelt on the floor in front of her, and he wordlessly wrapped his arms around her, holding tight.

She put her head against his collarbone. And then the seesaw emotions of the past few days finally caught up with her. She closed her eyes and, without even once wondering whether it meant she was weak, Celia began to cry.

TRISH SAT PATIENTLY in Patrick’s sitting room for at least an hour.

She felt kind of silly, in her new blue dress, which was much more expensive than anything she’d ever bought before—more expensive than she could afford, actually.

But she’d always wanted a slim silk sheath dress. Fatty Patty couldn’t have worn it, but she hadn’t been Fatty Patty for almost thirty years. Why should she still keep dressing like that poor little girl?

Besides, the dress was flattering. It made her look pretty. And she wanted to look pretty for Patrick.

She’d even had her hair cut, and for the first time when the stylist had said, “Oh, you really should let me do something new!” Trish had simply said, “All right.”

The result was a breezy collection of layers that looked messy compared to her old smooth pageboy, but everyone else had “oohed” and “aahed” as if she had been transformed into a movie star.

She stood up and went to the mirror that hung over the small corner fireplace. This was going to take some getting used to. She hardly recognized herself. But, whoever this new woman was, she looked about ten years younger than that other, more boring Patricia Linden. And about ten times happier.

She wondered what Mitch would think.

After a minute, she sat back down in her chair and tried to stay patient. But where were Celia and Patrick? Betty at the front desk had said maybe they’d be here by seven. It was seven-thirty already.

She found herself growing restless. At first it had been enough just to sit here, in Patrick’s room, with all his things around her. She had quelled any urge to pry. She wasn’t the prying type.

But eventually, as the minutes dragged on, the temptation became unbearable.

She knew so little about her son. She had missed everything, all the easy intimacy a real mother took for granted. All the days of folding his freshly washed clothes, all the nights of brushing back his hair from his forehead and tucking the sheet under his chin. She had never tended a scrape or put a wet cloth against a fevered cheek.

Someone else had done those things. She had spent a lot of time conjuring pictures of the woman, the new mother, and hoping her hands were gentle.

She stood again. As if she were about to commit a crime, she walked slowly over to the desk where he’d obviously been working today.

Papers were everywhere. His gleaming black fountain pen lay where he’d tossed it. His jacket had been draped across the back of the chair, for easy access later.

She touched the sleeve of the coat. It was a rich, soft material—such a fine weave. He had grown up accustomed to nice things, obviously.

That hadn’t necessarily been part of her dream for him. She’d grown up with money, too, and she’d learned the hard way that it didn’t guarantee happiness.

No, when she’d dreamed about the perfect life for her lost little boy, she had dreamed of a place that had lullabies and laughter, books and cookies and bikes and nice neighbors, and maybe a sister or brother, someone to break the Thanksgiving wishbone with.

She picked up the jacket and held it to her face. This was how he smelled, then. Clean, manly, and expensive. He didn’t smoke, that was clear. And he didn’t use much cologne, if any. She breathed deeply, trying to get to know him, trying to imprint him on her senses.

Eventually, though, she just felt foolish. She put the jacket down, and she looked over at the scattered papers on the sitting room desk. He was a busy man, wasn’t he? Would he still have time for a mother, even if he could bring himself to accept her?

Timidly she reached for the topmost paper. It was a balance sheet. Someone had invested a great many dollars in some pharmaceutical company, and the returns were impressive. Maybe it belonged to Patrick himself? But then she remembered Celia had said Patrick was an investment specialist. It might belong to anyone.

She knew little about such things, and all those commas distanced her from him. She had lived a very limited life since her father had disinherited her. Ironically she was sorry that her son was so very rich. It seemed just one more way their paths had verged.

She kept looking, though. Under all the intimidating numbers there might be some more personal detail. Something that would say, yes, this child is mine.

She came across a large, bulky file that obviously held something other than the standard impersonal papers. She glanced toward the front door, hoping she wouldn’t get caught at this. He probably wouldn’t understand this need to connect, this need to know. He wouldn’t have thought of her every day, missed her every day, the way she had missed him.

She pulled out an oversize, black sheet of filmy paper. Very odd. Not really paper at all. More like…

More like an X-ray.

She held it up to the light. It was someone’s arm. A small arm. And right in the middle, was a dense white line, almost like a lightning bolt. The arm was broken.

That was just the first of many X-rays. Many documents and photos and forms.

She kept looking, hardly breathing as she pieced together the story. The terrible, pitiful story of a broken child, told in impersonal, clinical terms.

Terms she’d never heard before, like “metaphyseal fractures,” “coagulation profile,” “callous formation,” “bilateral and symmetrical immersion, absent splash marks.”

Some of it was more straightforward. At only six months old, bruises to the torso. At three years, a dislocated elbow. At five, a broken rib. Then a twisted wrist, a burned shin, a torn ligament. And always more bruises and fractures, so many her own body began to ache as she read about them.

She turned back to the pile of documents. A letter from a private investigator, a man named Don Frost.

Further down, a list of names. Trish’s name was there, and Lydia’s. But Celia Brice was at the top of the list, with three telephone numbers next to it, her home, her office and her cell phone.

Celia’s name had been starred and underlined twice. Friendly, he’d jotted in the margins. Should be easy.

Trish shivered slightly, She made a small noise that sounded strange and hollow in the quiet air. She almost dropped the sheet of paper. But somehow she made herself hold on.

She couldn’t read all the rest of it here, not in his room, surrounded by the history of his pain. She grabbed a few of the X-rays and documents, spilling others.

And then, blindly, she turned and walked out of his room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE NEWS FROM KIM, which came through about an hour later, was guarded, but optimistic. Doctors were still running tests, but Lydia’s condition had stabilized, and all early indications were that the heart attack had been minor.

Celia, who got the call as she followed Patrick back to Morning Light in her own car, felt her grip on the steering wheel loosen. Thank God. Lydia was going to be all right.

After they’d straightened things up and locked The Birth Place for the night, Patrick had wanted Celia to leave her car there and ride with him. But he hadn’t protested when she insisted on driving separately, which pleased her.

Funny how, even at a moment like this, she was always watching, always hoping he wouldn’t reveal himself to be as bossy and dictatorial as her father.

How nice that he never failed these little tests, even though he had no idea he was taking them. This time he’d agreed easily, as if there were no question, naturally she should make her own decisions.

When they arrived at the bed and breakfast, they parked next to each other, and, after a quick kiss in the parking lot that promised fiery magic to come, they walked in holding hands.

They didn’t speak. He must have sensed she was too emotionally spent for chitchat. They’d communicate everything important with their bodies, as soon as they could get alone.

Dinner first. But they’d keep that short. And then…soon…

She felt need pulsing through her, and she squeezed his hand. Very soon, everything would be all right.

“Celia!” Betty, the owner of Morning Light, stood behind her check-in desk, waving her plump hand to get their attention. “Finally! I have a note for you.”

Celia glanced at Patrick quickly, but he looked as surprised as she was. “Really?” Letting go of his hand, she went over and took the small piece of stationery Betty was holding out. “Who is it from?”

“Trish.”

“Trish? But— Did she leave?”

“About half an hour ago.” Betty’s face had been designed by Nature to be round and cheerful—Celia wasn’t sure the older woman was capable of projecting a gloomy expression. But her smile did look a little less sunny than usual. Was something wrong?

She shut her eyes, realizing suddenly that she didn’t have much energy left for dealing with anything else tonight.

“Trish said to make sure you got it right away.” Betty’s glance moved in a dramatic sideways peek toward Patrick. Celia got the message. You, meaning Celia. Not both of you. Not Patrick, too.

He understood it, too. He moved to another small stack of envelopes—Betty always left guest mail on the counter—and sifted through it, checking for his own. Giving Celia space.

“Okay. Thanks, Betty.” Celia stepped aside, away from both Betty and Patrick, to open the note. She had to fight down a ripple of impatience. She and Patrick had sent a message about Lydia through Betty, and asked Trish to wait there. It hadn’t been all that long—less than an hour. Why had she left?

Had she’d simply lost her nerve?

But the handwriting on the note was jagged and hard to read. The writing of someone in a hurry. Someone very nearly in a panic.

“I’m so sorry,” it read. “Don’t say anything to Patrick, but please come right away. There’s something you should know before you—” She’d gone back and scratched out the last two words, though Celia could still read them.

And then again, as if Trish knew how frustrating such a request would be, she added one more time, “I’m sorry.”

No, Celia thought with a sudden flash of resentment. Damn it, no. Tonight was important to her. She wasn’t going to be yanked away, like a puppet on a string, by this overheated, cryptic note.

She loved Trish, but this was too much. Celia’s relationship with Patrick, whatever it turned out to be, and Trish’s relationship with him, however that played out in the end, were completely separate. Celia had met him, been drawn to him, even fallen in love with him, before she had any idea who he was.

It had nothing to do with Trish, or Angelina, or the Homecoming Baby. Shouldn’t they be allowed to pursue it without being buffeted by every ghostly ripple that washed their way from a thirty-year-old tragedy?

Or was she just being selfish? She wanted to go into that room with Patrick. She wanted to lie down on his bed and let him hold her, make love to her, be both her emotional harbor and her physical release. Did she want it so much that she was ignoring a very real call for help?

He came to her side and put the warm palm of his hand behind her shoulder. “Something else is wrong, isn’t it?”

She hesitated, so torn by her ambivalent emotions that she hardly knew what to say. She folded Trish’s letter and put it in her pocket.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “Maybe.”

He looked at her a minute, and then he smiled wryly.

“I’m sure most of your friends probably think you’re making a mistake, getting involved with a stranger. You don’t think they’d actually go so far as to have heart attacks one by one, just to keep you away from me?”

She tried to laugh, as he undoubtedly meant her to.

“I don’t think so,” she said. She sighed. “I think it’s just coincidence. Just a run of very bad luck.”

She looked up at him. His blue eyes were dark, almost as black as his hair. She remembered how soft his hair felt between her fingers. She remembered the strong, perfect lines of his body rimmed in starlight.

She wanted him so much she almost sank to her knees.

“Damn it,” he said quietly, but with feeling. “You have to leave again, don’t you?”

She was aware that Betty was still watching. Celia closed her eyes once, then opened them and met his gaze. She tried not to be swallowed by the dark depths.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I do.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, Patrick turned the key of his suite and opened the door, suddenly tired as hell, though it wasn’t even ten o’clock. He threw the keys, and they hit the nightstand, skittering into the nearest pottery knickknack with a loud clatter.

He looked back at it instinctively. He hoped he hadn’t broken the damn thing. Or maybe, if he were honest, that was exactly what he needed to do. It was bloody exhausting to maintain this civilized, modern gentleman facade when every natural instinct was calling for caveman tactics.

He’d had a moment there, out in the lobby, when he’d thought the only possible answer was to scoop Celia up in his arms and carry her back to the room whether she wanted to come or not.

Except that she did want to, damn it. You didn’t have to be a caveman to see that.

The “mail received” icon was blinking on his open laptop, but he ignored it. Who gave a damn how the DOW had done today? Instead he went into the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt roughly. He dragged the tails free of his slacks, but then left it hanging open, too weary even to shrug it off.

He seemed to remember a miniature bottle of something in the room’s mini-fridge. Whatever it was, he planned to chug it down like water.

And if that didn’t work, he was going to have something stronger delivered. He had been sitting on a razor edge of sexual tension for two days now, and if he didn’t find something to dull it, his psyche was going to end up sliced to bloody ribbons.

What the hell was happening to him? He couldn’t remember being this sick over any one woman in his life. It was just sex, for God’s sake.

Or was it? With Celia, out there in that strange place, it had been different. More. As poetic as fire and freedom, as primitive as bread and water, as clean as confession.

Hell, this bedroom was too small. He couldn’t get away from the mental pictures of what should have been happening in here right now.

He paced back out to the sitting room and flicked on the television. Some fool in a Ford Taurus was chasing some idiot in a Corvette. He changed the station. Somebody sincerely wanted to sell him allergy medication.

Now if they were offering a tranquilizer, that he might be interested in.

He snapped off the TV, yanked out the desk chair and sat. He might as well try to work.

But when he looked down at the desk, his heart, which had been pounding unpleasantly in its thwarted frustration, suddenly went into a paralyzed stall. He froze in place.

The packet Ellyn had brought him had been opened, its contents spilled all over the desk. Someone had been looking through it.

Not just someone. Trish. She was the only one who had been in this room. For more than an hour. All alone.

And somewhere during that time, she’d opened the file and looked at the whole ugly story. The X-rays and the anger. The bruises and the bitterness. The Polaroids and the plot a vengeful man had hatched to make somebody pay.

He stared down at the mess, suddenly seeing it through Trish’s eyes. And for the first time he saw it as it really was. He realized that the whole thing said as much about him as it did about Julian Torrance. Yes, Julian had been cruel. But Patrick was selfish, deceitful and vindictive.

Trish had undoubtedly seen that, too. That must have been why she ran.

And now she was telling Celia.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE GLORIOUS FULL MOON had cracked.

By midnight, when Celia was on her way back to the bed and breakfast, the moon looked like a smudged mother-of-pearl button with one side broken off. The sky was cloudy, but they weren’t the rain clouds Enchantment needed so desperately. They were ragged gray cobwebs. The whole thing looked like someone’s dirty attic.

Or maybe it was just Celia’s mood. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so miserable. Just on the ten-minute drive over here, she had swung from cold fury to weak despair and back again at least a dozen times.

But damn him. How could he? How could he have done this to Trish?

How could he have done it to Celia herself?

She’d called him as soon as she got Trish off to bed. The minute he’d answered the phone, she’d known he’d already discovered that Trish had taken some of his files. She could hear it in his voice. He wasn’t the same man she’d left two hours ago, the one who had been trying to laugh at their plight, their hungry desperation that kept being thwarted.

He was a colder man now. A man braced for recriminations. A man who didn’t necessarily believe himself guilty of anything, but who obviously knew that others would.

The conversation had been stilted and brief. She’d said merely that she was coming by. Would he please meet her outside so that she didn’t have to wake Betty?

Small towns closed up early on weeknights, so the streets were empty as she drove. The shadow of her car moved across silent storefronts like a ghost, and her mood fell deeper still.

Finally she got to the bed and breakfast. Patrick was standing at the edge of the parking lot, his silhouette breaking up an amber circle cast by the one streetlight near enough to matter.

He waited there while she parked. She opened the door, then leaned over to gather up the items on her passenger seat, which were spilling out of the inadequate envelope she’d found for them.

Finally she walked over to where he stood, her shoes clipping on the asphalt.

“I wanted to return your things,” she said. “I’m sure you realize Trish didn’t mean to take them. She was distressed. She wasn’t thinking very clearly.”

She could see his face better now. But it didn’t tell her anything new. He looked just as he had sounded. Cold.

Why shouldn’t he? He was cold. He had only pretended to be otherwise in order to get close to her. She could still see his bold, black handwriting in her mind’s eye. Friendly. Should be easy.

And hadn’t he pegged her exactly? How humiliating to think just how very easy she had made it!

“You know,” she said, “I think the part of all this I’ll never forgive is that you used me to hurt someone I care about. You made me the instrument of her pain. That was—” She swallowed. “Too much.”

He looked at her, his face a mask of parts that didn’t seem to move.

“We need to talk,” he said tightly. “But not here. Not in the goddamn parking lot.”

She lifted her chin. “Well, not in your goddamn bedroom, either.”

“Of course not.” He gestured toward the far end of the lot. “The gardens are back there. At least we can sit down.”

She hesitated. Even now, she didn’t feel entirely sure he couldn’t turn on enough charm to seduce the fury right out of her. Even now, she looked at him and some primal, mindless part of her said, touch me.

Make me believe this isn’t what it seems.

Finally, though, she nodded. She walked quickly toward the back of the lot, clutching the unwieldy envelope to her chest. She’d dressed warmly, jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater. But in spite of that, the night air was so cold a shiver was always just a ripple away.

She knew that in the daytime Betty’s gardens were beautiful, deep green foliage with pink flowers and glossy white wrought-iron furniture. But tonight everything was black and gray in the dirty moonlight.

Patrick led her to an upholstered chair, and she sat on the edge of it, the line of her back so straight it could have been drawn with a ruler. He took the bench across from her.

A moment passed during which neither of them spoke. Celia realized she was still hugging the file. She peeled it away from her chest and, leaning over, set it on the bench next to him.

“You didn’t have to bring those back,” he said.

“Of course I did. Obviously they’re very important to you. You’ve kept them twenty-five years. You’ve dragged them five hundred miles across the country. Surely you don’t want to lose them now.”

He looked at her, his eyes shining as they caught sharp silver shards of moonlight.

“You’re very angry,” he said.

“You bet I am,” she said, remembering somehow to keep her voice down. There were other guests at Morning Light. They wouldn’t want to be woken up at midnight by a shrewish dispute in the garden.

“Of course I’m angry. You used me, Patrick. You lied to me.”

He started to deny it. She saw him tense and take a breath. But he set his jaw and didn’t say a word. Because he knew. He knew that, though he might have been slick enough to avoid uttering any direct falsehoods, he had deliberately withheld information. He had deliberately set out to deceive.

“But if I got used, that’s my own fault, I guess. I’m so naive. So friendly. I made it so easy for you.” She laughed and waved her hand toward the files, which held the incriminating paper. “As you obviously knew I would.”

He glanced at the envelope, and even in the dim moonlight she could see his face grow slightly pale. He had forgotten, she thought. He had forgotten he’d doodled down his selfish musings.

But still he didn’t speak. He knew, of course, that he had no defense. That there was nothing he could say. Or else he didn’t want to bother. He’d come to inflict pain, and he’d been successful. Why would he need to waste his breath trying to sweet talk her now?

“I should have been smarter,” she said. “I will be, next time.”

She made her back even straighter. “It’s Trish who really matters. She didn’t deserve this. She’s been hurt enough as it is.”

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t intend for her to find those things. I know she’s very loyal to Angelina, and—”

She laughed, an unhappy sound that rolled across the garden and finally disappeared somewhere in the gray distance.

“You still don’t understand, do you, Patrick? You still don’t know what you’ve done.”

“Then tell me.”

“Your investigator was good,” she said. It almost frightened her to hear the stiletto points in her voice, like blades of fury. “But he wasn’t right about everything.”

Patrick didn’t ask what. He obviously knew she would tell him.

“You see, Angelina Linden wasn’t your mother. Her younger sister was.”

He moved, then. Just a momentary jerk, like a reflex.

“Trish?”

“Yes. Trish. A timid, insecure girl of only fifteen, whose father was nearly as nasty as yours. A girl who had been raped by her sister’s drunken boyfriend. A girl who has spent thirty years atoning. Paying for her sins. Praying that her little boy was safe and happy, and that her sacrifice had been worth it.”

She felt herself beginning to cry. “Damn you for hurting her, Patrick. With all your self-absorbed documents and records and timelines of brutality and pain. Wasn’t it enough that you suffered? Did she have to suffer, too?”

“Trish?” he asked again. His eyes looked a little dazed, and then he put his head in his hands. Blue-black hair spilled over gray fingers that might, she thought, be shaking.

But she refused to be moved. She reminded herself that he had exploited all of them, from beginning to end. Even the sex…that had merely been a delightful fringe benefit. Her only real value to him had been that she could provide a path to the truth, an entrée to the people who could answer his questions.

He didn’t have to go that far.

He didn’t have to make her love him.

“Damn you,” she said again, this time only a whisper. Her tears weren’t spilling outward anymore. They felt instead as if they were dropping into an empty place deep inside.

She stood. She needed to get away from him.

But he made a low sound, and he reached out and took hold of her wrist. His fingers weren’t shaking. They were strong and hard. It must have been a trick of the moonlight.

“Wait,” he said roughly. “I want to tell you something.”

She looked down at him. “What?”

“Just that—most of the things you accuse me of are true.” His voice was grim. “I came here to hurt someone. I came here to make someone pay for everything I endured from Julian Torrance.”

She knew all this. If he had something to tell her, he’d better get on with it. She was tired. In fact, she was exhausted. She felt like the leftover skin of a person, after the living part had crawled away.

He stood and, putting both hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him. She met his gaze, which looked almost as empty as her own eyes felt.

“And yes, I used you,” he said. “From the start, I tried to charm you. I hoped you’d become my friend, my guide, my confidante. I pumped you for information, and then I exploited your connection to the Linden family. I hoped that someone—most likely Trish—might tell me where to find Angelina.” He tightened his hand on her shoulder. “My mother.”

She smiled grimly. “And all along she was right in front of you. How ironic. I’m sorry you wasted so much time looking for the wrong woman.” She shrugged her shoulder, trying to dislodge his hand. “But I don’t need you to confirm everything I already know, Patrick. Let me go.”

He released her immediately. She started to walk away.

“I don’t expect you to believe me.” he said to her back, “but somehow, somewhere along the way, everything changed.”

She paused. It was stupid—she should keep walking. But she didn’t. Like a remote control human being, operated by the sound of his voice, she stopped in her tracks.

“Is that so,” she said, turning. “Everything like what?”

“I found something.”

“Really. What did you find?”

“I found you.”

She closed her eyes. His voice, oh, his voice. It made its way inside her even when every possible access was stoppered and latched.

“Patrick, I don’t—”

“You don’t believe me. I know that. But it’s true. I came here looking for revenge, but I found Enchantment, and I found you.”

He ran his hand through his hair and looked away, as if he couldn’t arrange his thoughts logically if he could still see her in front of him.

“I don’t understand it myself. It didn’t happen right away. I can’t tell you the hour, or the day, when things began to change. But gradually, without my even fully realizing it, I began to feel as if I belonged. In this strange, dry landscape, on these twisting pine roads. In this quiet little town.”

He looked back at her. “And most of all…in your arms.”

She made a low sound, a rejecting sound. She shook her head, over and over, as if it were not safe to stop denying it.

“It’s true, though,” he said. “You’ve taught me so much, Celia. I’ve watched you with mixed-up patients, jealous old boyfriends, sick old women and timid friends, and I’ve learned something about kindness. I’ve seen the joy you take in pink skies and white flowers and red rock towers, and I’ve learned something about happiness.”

She put her hand over her mouth. She didn’t want to cry. She wished she could put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t want to believe him.

“And in your arms, I think I may have learned the first thing I’ve ever really known about love.”

No. No, no, no. She would not be beguiled again.

“What pretty sentiments,” she said, her voice acidic and strange to her own ears. “And yet, they’re not very persuasive, not compared to the hideous truths I just saw in those files. And in your own words, written right next to my name.”

He reached toward her again, but she shifted, and his hand missed her arm.

“I was going to get rid of them,” he said, and she heard the urgency in his voice that said he knew he was losing her. “I had decided no one should ever look at those documents again, not even me. That’s why they were out on the desk. I had decided to destroy them.”

She let her disbelief show in her face, and in her voice.

“Then all I can say is, it’s a great shame you didn’t.”

TRISH WAITED UNTIL THE SLOW period, the three o’clock hour when the lunch crowd had died down, and the dinner crowd hadn’t yet arrived. And then she walked into The Silver Eagle and asked the triplet at the cash register where she could find Mitch.

“He’s in the kitchen,” the girl said without looking up. She was studying the Want Ads in the Enchantment Weekly. Trish wondered if Mitch had given her notice, or whether she was always thinking one job ahead.

Trish waited. After a second, the girl yawned broadly, folded the paper and finally gave her an appraising glance. “Oh, I know you. You’re his girlfriend. He’s fighting with Julio over fish sauce. Go on back if you want.”

“Maybe you could call and ask him to come out.”

The girl yawned again. “I could, but Julio will have a fit.”

Trish just looked at her, and finally the girl shrugged and picked up the phone.

“Mr. Dixon,” she said, “there’s a woman out here wants to see you.” She paused. “I don’t know. Brown hair. Your age.”

“Trish Linden,” Trish supplied helpfully.

“She says she’s Trish Linden.” The girl listened a minute, grunted and then hung up the phone. She beamed at Trish. “He’s coming.”

Trish moved away a foot or two, where she could surreptitiously check her reflection in the front glass. She still wasn’t used to this haircut, and yet she thought she might look all right. She stood a little straighter, for one thing. And the hollows below her eyes weren’t quite so deep.

Strange how, once she’d recovered from the shock of finding Patrick’s papers, she awakened this morning actually feeling a good bit stronger.

It all had to come out in the open now, not just with Celia, but with everyone. When Trish had looked at those X-rays and reports, she’d realized a terrible truth. She’d been trying to forget what had happened thirty years ago. She’d been trying at all costs to change reality, to erase the pitiful Fatty Patty who had abandoned her helpless baby in that bathroom.

But while she’d been escaping by working long hours, rejecting frivolous pleasures and completely denying her sexuality, the truth of her youthful sins had still been out there.

Patrick had been living it.

So denial was no longer an option. It was time she paid the real consequences of what she’d done so long ago.

She still wasn’t sure why the idea was so freeing. Maybe it was like hitting the infamous rocky bottom of a long, terrible fall. Nowhere to go from there but up, and no one to start the climb but herself.

And this is where she’d decided to begin. Here at the Silver Eagle, with Mitch Dixon, who had been waiting far too long. With Mitch, who with any kind of luck, hadn’t decided to give up on her for good.

Suddenly there he was, coming out of the kitchen with a sauce spoon in his hand. He looked so sweet she had to smile, in spite of everything.

“Hi,” he said. He paused. “Wow. You look great.”

She touched her hair self-consciously. “Thanks.” She kept her distance. “So do you.”

He looked down at his faded jeans and tugged at his polo shirt, which once had been blue but now was the color of a muddy chrome fender.

“It’s the smell from the pineapple stains,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “It drives the women mad.”

The triplet at the cash register snorted, but her face was buried in the Want Ads again, so it was hard to be sure she was reacting to them.

Still, it was enough to remind them they had an audience.

He tilted his head toward the back. “Want to go into my office?”

Trish shook her head. This was her moment to show things were truly going to be different. That she was going to be different. Braver. More open and honest.

She wasn’t going to let one silly airhead triplet frighten her off now.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I have something to tell you, and I don’t really care who hears it.”

Mitch widened his eyes.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “If you don’t mind, I don’t.”

The newspaper was suspiciously still. Trish knew the triplet was listening intently, but she was pleased to discover she truly didn’t care.

She took a bracing breath.

“I just wanted to tell you—” She started over. “About selling the restaurant. I hope you won’t. I want you to stay.”

Mitch’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t react any other way. “You want me to stay?” He repeated the words as if they weren’t in a language he completely understood.

“Yes. I want you to stay. I would miss you terribly if you left. I care about you very much.”

He chewed his lower lip and continued to watch her. “As a friend?”

“Yes,” she said. “And as a man.”

The newspaper rustled, and from behind it they heard a snuffling, smothered laughter.

“Jeannie,” Mitch said in a commanding voice. He didn’t look away from Trish.

The triplet lowered her paper slowly. “Yeah?”

“Go tell Julio he can make whatever sauce he wants tonight.”

The paper fell to the counter. The triplet put her hands on her hips. “No way,” she said. “For real?”

He still didn’t look at her. He held out the sauce spoon. “For real. Right now. Take this.”

The girl didn’t do anything very fast, so it took her a while to grab the spoon and leave the room. But, when they were finally alone, Mitch came over to Trish and put his hands on her upper arms.

“That really did just happen, didn’t it? You really said that?” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “I didn’t just imagine it?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry I’ve been acting like such a martyr, Mitch. I do care about you. I’ve cared about you for a long, long time.”

He moved in closer. “Then how about if I kiss you?”

She took another deep breath. “Not yet. I have something I have to tell you first. If, after you hear it, you still want to kiss me, you won’t get an argument.”

He put his lips on her throat. “How about if we have the kiss first, and you tell me later?”

She shut her eyes and gathered courage. “No. This is important. It’s quite possible you won’t want to kiss me after you hear it. I would rather know that now.”

He lifted his head and gazed at her, as if he’d heard the sadness in her voice.

“There’s nothing you could tell me that would make me stop wanting to kiss you, Trish. Nothing.”

“I hope that’s true. But you don’t know how bad it is. You can’t really even imagine—”

“Sure I can. I’ll have you know I am blessed with an excellent imagination.” He looked at her speculatively. “Let me guess. Sometimes the story goes that you killed your sister and Tee Ellis in a PMS-induced fit of jealousy. Is that what you’re going to tell me?”

Trish’s whole body turned to ice. People really said things like that? And all this time she thought she’d been such an inconspicuous little mouse.

“Are you crazy, Mitch? Of course not.”

“Good, because I’d still want to kiss you, but we’d have to cut it short so we could go find you a good lawyer.”

“Mitch, please. Be serious.”

“I am being serious. That’s the part you don’t get, Trish. I love you. I don’t give a damn what you’ve done, or what you feel the need to confess. Tell me if it will make you feel better to get it off your chest, but don’t tell me because you think it will scare me away. I don’t scare easy.”

“All right. Then just let me get on with it before I lose my courage.”

She was glad his hands were on her arms. They felt like crutches, helping her to stand up straight.

“For the past thirty years, I’ve been living a lie,” she said. “I’m the girl who left her baby on the bathroom floor at the Homecoming Dance that night. Not Angelina. Me.” She took a shaky breath. “Patrick Torrance is my son.”

He smiled at her.

“Yeah, I guess I figured that out about a week ago. So what’s wrong? Did you kill him to shut him up about it?”

She frowned. “Mitch, don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t a joke—”

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, did you kill anybody?”

“Of course not.”

He grinned happily and pulled her hard against his chest.

“Then shut up, Trish Linden, and kiss me.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CELIA WASN’T QUITE SURE HOW she got through the next few days.

Work helped. She could immerse herself in her patients’ problems and temporarily forget her own.

Some of them were struggling with issues so much bigger—it made her too ashamed to waste time feeling sorry for herself.

Rose Gallen, for instance. In a possessive, testosterone-driven fit, Tad had decided to fight for custody of their unborn child. Celia was probably going to have to testify about how he’d threatened her. At least a dozen other people had been called to talk about his drinking.

Rose would probably win. But still, the battle was terrifying, and her pregnancy began to develop small complications that frightened her still more.

Compared to things like that, Celia’s problems were trivial.

The worst of Celia’s fears, that Trish would go into an emotional decline, had proved unfounded. In fact, after the initial horror of finding out about Patrick’s abusive childhood, Trish had seemed to grow strangely calmer.

Just two days after she discovered Patrick’s papers, Trish told Celia the time had come to announce the truth publicly. Shortly after that, she’d gathered everyone at The Birth Place together to tell them as a group.

It had been an amazing moment. She didn’t go into details, but she shared the basic facts with an enormous amount of dignity. As she talked, Celia watched, and marveled that, though Trish still seemed to possess a deep, sad core, she had acquired a new poise and maturity that were very becoming.

And yet, at the same time, she seemed ten years younger, as if the weight of secrecy and uncertainty had been crushing her into the ground. As if even knowing the worst was better than not knowing at all.

Or maybe the joy of simply being able to lay eyes on the son she thought she’d lost forever had restored her life to her.

After the meeting, everyone in town knew. In Enchantment, good gossip spread fast. Some people had been shocked—but others had contended that they’d suspected all along.

Almost everyone, from the janitor up at the high school, who had found the Homecoming Baby first, to the mothers-to-be at The Birth Place, who knew just how hard pregnancy could be at the best of time, had been completely supportive.

But Patrick himself had disappeared.

“Celia, have you seen Katherine Collins?” Devon Grant stuck her head into Celia’s Birth Place office. “I need to ask her about the Moreno case.”

Katherine was one of the midwives, and judging from the tight look on Devon’s face, Katherine must have done something unorthodox. Devon had arrived in Enchantment the day after Lydia’s heart attack. She’d spent the first two days at Lydia’s bedside, but after that she’d pitched right in at the clinic, filling in for her grandmother.

The only problem was that Devon and Lydia didn’t quite see the role of the midwife exactly the same way. While Lydia was highly intuitive and inclined to take the “earth mother” approach to midwifery, Devon was cutting-edge, high-tech, all business.

“No, I haven’t seen her,” Celia said. She smiled. “Not many of the midwives make it up here to the second floor.”

Devon pushed a stray hair out of her face and returned the smile. Her gray eyes were so like Lydia’s that Celia was amazed every time she looked into them.

“I guess not,” she said. She gestured toward Celia’s empty patient chair. “So… Are you busy right now?”

Celia shook her head. “I’m done for the day. Have a seat.”

Devon sat with a small groan. She worked very hard, long hours. The only person Celia had ever seen who worked harder was Lydia herself.

“I’ve been hearing a lot of gossip about you and Patrick Torrance,” Devon said without preamble. She wasn’t the type to beat around the bush—again like her grandmother. “Apparently it was pretty hot and heavy there for a while. Are you doing okay now that he’s gone?”

Celia shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “I knew all along he wouldn’t be staying. He’s some big investment analyst in San Francisco. Enchantment doesn’t hold much appeal for that kind of man.”

Devon began to play with the art-glass wind chime that hung on a wall bracket just beside Celia’s desk. Celia knew what that meant. Nine out of ten of her patients would begin to play with the wind chime when they reached an intense moment in therapy.

“I’ve also been hearing some other things,” Devon said with an elaborately casual air. “Things about Patrick Torrance’s adoption. I gather Lydia set it up. People are saying he went to parents who turned out to be terribly abusive.”

Celia paused. How on earth had that piece of information slipped out? She didn’t realize anyone knew it except for Trish, Mitch, Lydia and Celia herself. And none of them would have been likely to toss it around cavalierly.

“I think there were some problems,” Celia equivocated. She didn’t feel comfortable sharing too much. It wasn’t her story to tell. “If you need to know more, maybe you should ask Trish, or even your grandmother.”

Devon made a skeptical sound and ran her fingers roughly through the chimes.

“No point asking Lydia,” she said. “She’d just think I was trying to criticize her for arranging another adoption that turned out badly.”

Celia waited a second while the sound of the notes died away. “Well? Is that what you’d be doing, Devon?”

Devon frowned, as if she might decide the question was insulting. Then she tugged on her ponytail and leaned back in the chair.

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe that is what I’m thinking. But I can’t help it. I profoundly disapprove of this clinic getting involved in adoptions at all. The ones we’ve handled certainly haven’t seemed to go very smoothly, have they?”

Celia chose her answer carefully. She didn’t know all the details about the adoptions Devon was referring to. Some of the information she did have was not much more than common gossip, and she refused to set much store by that.

“I believe that some situations are so stressful that there really isn’t a perfect answer,” she said finally. “I believe that Lydia always does the very best she can at any given moment. Can any of us say more than that?”

Devon started to speak, but suddenly her posture changed. Her gray eyes went cloudy and thoughtful. She plucked pensively at her slacks.

After a moment she sighed and looked over at Celia.

“No,” she said, flushing subtly. “In fact, most of us can’t even swear to that much.”

“Amen,” Celia said with feeling. The two of them shared a rueful smile.

After another minute, Devon said goodbye, but Celia wasn’t really listening.

She didn’t know what foolish memory had come to Devon’s mind, but she knew exactly what had come to her own.

Patrick’s blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight, that first day at the ghost town. Patrick’s dark eyes shining in the shadows, that night in the courtyard archway. Patrick’s fevered eyes glowing in the moonlight, that night on Red Rock Bridge.

So could she honestly say she always did the best she could? Hardly. From the minute she’d met Patrick Torrance, she had been weak, naive, gullible and insanely self-indulgent.

And the worst thing of all was…she loved him still.

She didn’t even have the sense to be glad he was gone.

THE NEXT NIGHT, The Silver Eagle was in crisis. The triplets had quit. They’d found new jobs modeling underwear for a catalog company, and they’d turned in their name tags without offering Mitch more than about fifteen minutes notice.

So once again Trish and Celia had been pressed into service. Trish had been running the cash register all night, and Celia had been waiting tables.

Celia didn’t mind, though by eleven o’clock she was worn out. But better to fall into bed numb and exhausted than to lie there for hours thinking about Patrick’s eyes.

Except for a couple of tourists, a honeymoon couple who were playing footsie over a final coffee, Gina Vaughn and her husband were the last customers. After going through some tough times, Gina and Zach were working on their marriage—and judging from the cuddling in booth six, Celia deduced things were going well in that department.

Trish and Mitch were equally mushy, when they had time to be. They’d been exchanging lingering looks and stealing little nipping kisses for hours.

Celia tried to be happy—she had waited so long to see Trish find this kind of joy. She tried not to be jealous. She tried not to feel like the only woman in Enchantment who wasn’t happily in love tonight.

Finally the tourists managed to tear themselves apart long enough to walk over and pay their bill. Even Gina and Zach seemed to be waking up to the real world again. Celia breathed a sigh of relief. Her feet were hurting, her heart was hurting, and she wanted to go home.

When the bell over the front door rang again, she cursed softly. Why hadn’t she remembered to throw the dead bolt? They were closed, darn it.

She turned, an apology on her lips. “I’m sorry, but we’re—”

The words died when she saw him. It wasn’t just another hungry tourist who couldn’t read the hours posted on the sign.

It was Patrick.

“Hello, Celia,” he said.

He looked like one of her dreams, all black and blue and beautiful. She hardly knew what to say. Where was all her bracing indignation? Where were the words that would toss him out on his ear, where he belonged?

Somehow, over the past three days without him, her fury seemed to have shriveled to a weak, shadowy imitation of anger. But how was that possible? She was still angry, darn it. She was still hurt. She still hated what he’d done…

So why couldn’t she summon up a single one of those emotions now that he was standing before her?

“What are you doing here?” That was the best she could do. And to her horror her voice was shaking. It didn’t sound righteous and scathing. It sounded sad.

She toughened it. “It’s late. You shouldn’t have come.”

To her surprise, Trish was at her elbow. She was looking at Patrick, a warmth in her blue eyes that even Celia recognized as love.

“Hello,” Trish said. “I was hoping you’d come back.”

He nodded. “I came as soon as I could. I had to wrap up a few things in San Francisco first.”

To Celia’s surprise, he looked both humble and nervous. “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you alone for a minute.”

She followed his gaze. He wasn’t asking Celia. He was asking Trish.

Celia was about to intervene, to say no, he most certainly could not take Trish off alone, where he might say things to hurt her. Trish had friends here, and they would protect her.

But Trish spoke first.

“Of course,” she said to Patrick. She put her hand on Celia’s arm. “Don’t look so worried,” she said with a small smile. “I’ll be all right.”

And so Trish and Patrick sat down together at the last booth, by the front window, so far away that Celia couldn’t hear a single word they were saying. She turned and went instead to booth six, where Gina and Zach were still whispering and giggling like newlyweds.

They looked up when Celia arrived, and glanced around the restaurant, obviously conscience-stricken.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. We’re the very last ones, aren’t we?”

But then Gina’s gaze lit on the booth where Patrick and Trish were sitting. Her mouth widened in surprise, and she wrinkled her freckled nose. “Oh, my gosh. Celia! Isn’t that…?”

Celia nodded. “Yes, it is,” she said as blandly as she could. “So do you guys need anything else?”

Gina shook her head, still transfixed by the sight of Patrick. Celia understood then just exactly how much gossip had been going around about the whole thing. Gina turned to Celia. “Is he? I mean, are you two—?”

Zach, who at six foot three towered over his wife, looked uncomfortable. “You’re embarrassing her, Gina. Leave it alone.”

But Gina still hadn’t taken her eyes off Patrick. “You know, I don’t think I ever realized quite how fantastic this guy is,” she said. “I mean, I’d seen him from a distance, but… Wow! He is to die for!”

Celia didn’t see how she was going to disagree without looking either like a liar or a blind woman, but luckily Zach came to the rescue.

“Hey,” he said, putting his big, strong arm possessively around his tiny wife. “You’d better remember you’re spoken for, lady.”

That was all it took. Though Zach was hardly “to die for,” apparently he was still the man of Gina’s dreams. She turned her back on Patrick Torrance, and settled into her husband’s arms.

“You big silly,” she said. “You know I wouldn’t trade you for anybody in the world. Take me home and make me a happy woman.”

After they left, Mitch and Celia found themselves alone. They stood together for a moment, looking at Patrick and Trish, who were still deep in conversation.

Finally, with an irritable grunt, Mitch grabbed a couple of towels, tossed one to Celia and turned toward the kitchen.

“We might as well get things cleaned up. Those two look as if they could talk all night.”

They worked hard, and silently. Neither one of them seemed in the mood to share the truth of their thoughts. But an hour later, right in the middle of wiping down the oven, Mitch simply ground to a halt.

“To heck with this,” he said. “By God, I have a right to know what’s going on out there.”

He looked at Celia. “You coming?”

She hesitated. What Mitch said was true. He did have a right to know. He and Trish were a couple, a partnership in every way. Celia, on the other hand, really had no official status here, not with Trish—and certainly not with Patrick.

“Oh, come on,” Mitch said. “It won’t do anybody any good if you stay back in here breaking your heart over the whole thing.”

She frowned. “I’m not break—”

“You can’t kid a kidder, kiddo,” he said, shaking his head. “Come on. Let’s go tell those two we refuse to be kept on the back burner anymore.” He glanced at the oven and grinned. “No pun intended.”

And so, with her heart pounding a little too hard in her chest, Celia found herself following Mitch out to the restaurant.

Trish and Patrick saw them coming, and Trish waved them over with a smile.

“Join us,” she said. “We’re just about finished.”

It was so awkward, Celia thought as she slid into the booth beside Patrick. Something hugely emotional had clearly taken place. Trish’s eyes were puffy and red, but glowing with happiness. She had several bunched-up tissues on the table in front of her, as if she’d been doing a lot of crying.

“We’ve talked about everything,” she said. She took Mitch’s hand, as if to reassure him she was fine. “Patrick and I both had so many questions.”

“Well, I’ve got a question of my own,” Mitch said. He looked at Patrick. “I hear you came to Enchantment looking for some ugly kind of payback for wrongs that got done to you.”

Patrick nodded. “That’s true. I did come here with that agenda.”

“Mitch,” Trish said. “Patrick has already explained all this to me. He came here to ask my forgiveness.” She smiled at her son. “Which I have given him, with all my heart.”

“Still. I need to speak my peace. You see, I don’t believe in vengeance, Patrick. Especially where Trish is concerned. So my question is, are you ready to put all that behind you? I’d like to see the both of us put our minds to making this woman happy.”

Patrick smiled at the older man. “I’d be honored to be your partner in that endeavor,” he said. He put out his hand.

Mitch, whose smile was broad and pleased, reached out, as well, and the two men shook on it.

Celia found herself having to swallow hard. She didn’t look at Patrick for fear she might find herself crying, which would hardly be appropriate at such a moment. She truly was so happy for Trish.

Patrick pulled two long white packets from his pocket. “I bought two airline tickets,” he said, holding them out toward Trish. “Two tickets to Venice. I thought maybe you’d finally like to see it.”

“Oh, Patrick.” Trish looked at the tickets as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “How amazingly generous!”

“We could go together. I thought it might give us a chance to spend time together. To catch up.” He paused. “And if there were anything over there you wanted to try to find…”

To Celia’s surprise, Trish began to cry all over again. She moved her hand instinctively, ready to comfort, but Trish shook her head.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not unhappy. It’s just that—”

She wiped her eyes with yet another tissue. Then she turned to Patrick with a wet, tender smile. “That may be the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. But it’s not necessary. I promise you, it was just a dream. I don’t really need to go to Venice.”

“But, Trish,” he said. “What about Angelina?”

“She’s not there anymore.”

Celia, who had been struggling to follow the conversation, turned from Trish to Patrick, then back to Trish again.

“What are you talking about?” She leaned forward. “What does Venice have to do with Angelina?”

But Trish didn’t seem to hear her. She was looking at Patrick with so much love and wonder it almost took Celia’s breath away.

“You’re the only one who ever figured that out,” Trish said. “How did you know that was why I kept the little snow globe?”

“I’m not sure,” Patrick said. “It started out as simply a hunch. When I saw it, and I saw how you reacted to my looking at it… It just felt as if it must mean something.”

“It did,” she said. She turned to Celia, and then to Mitch. “I hadn’t ever meant to tell this to anyone, but I think I owe it to you. And I know I can trust all of you.” She seemed to be steadying herself. “You see, right after they found Tee’s body in the mine, I received a postcard from Angelina.”

Celia knew that she and Mitch both had the same openmouthed shock. “What?” she said, at the same time Mitch said, “You must be kidding.”

“It’s true. It was a beautiful card of the Bridge of Sighs. Gondolas on the canals in the moonlight. It was postmarked Venice, Italy.”

Mitch pulled himself together first. “What did she say?”

“It was pure Angelina,” Trish said with a misty smile. “Short, and to the point, never pulling any punches. She said she had found out what happened between Tee and me, and she hoped I didn’t blame myself, because it had been all Tee’s fault.”

“Oh, my God.” Celia held her breath. “And was that all? She didn’t say anything else?”

“Yes, there was more.” Trish toyed with a tissue, not meeting their eyes. “The last part I know by heart. She said, ‘What a bastard he was! But even so I didn’t really push him. It was an accident, and if they ever try to blame it on you, show them this card.’

“But—” Mitch looked stunned. “Why didn’t you ever mention it to anyone?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was afraid my father would hunt her down. Or maybe I was afraid that she really had pushed Tee, and that if the police knew—” She shook her head, as if she were trying to shake off that horrible thought. “Besides, I liked picturing her there, in Venice, being wild and wonderful and living happily ever after.”

Patrick was obviously thinking more clearly than the rest of them. He was the one who remembered how the story had begun.

“But you told us she’s not there anymore,” he said. “How do you know that?”

Trish looked up, then, and her eyes were full of tears. “Last year I hired a private detective to find her. He brought bad news. Apparently Angelina died in Italy about ten years ago, in an automobile accident.”

Mitch put his arm around her. Patrick reached out and took her hand across the table.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “That must have been difficult to hear.”

“It was.” Trish took a ragged breath. “I felt very alone right then. But now—” She encompassed them all in a watery smile. “Now, because of the three of you, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE COURTYARD WAS SILENT in the after-midnight air. Celia sat on the dry rim of the fountain, wishing it were filled and running. Then at least she’d have the water’s gurgling chatter to distract her from her own thoughts.

She’d been waiting out here for more than an hour. When the four of them had come home from the restaurant, she and Mitch had said good-night right away. But Patrick had walked Trish to her apartment. Mother and son must have had a million things to talk about, because their good-night seemed to be stretching on forever.

The night was very cool and dry. Celia shivered, wishing she had a jacket, but not daring to run into her apartment to get one, for fear she’d miss the moment he emerged.

Trish’s window remained lit, the one warm, yellow square in the black-and-silver darkness. Celia was exhausted, but she wouldn’t have dreamed of interrupting this time Trish and Patrick were spending together. She wrapped her arms across her chest, leaned her head against the fountain’s upper bowl, and tried to relax.

She must have dozed off, because sometime later she opened her eyes, startled by the sound of an opening door. She looked at her watch. It was about one-thirty in the morning.

She heard Trish’s soft laugh, and Patrick’s deep answering murmur. The lock of Trish’s door clicked, and the window went dark.

And then, finally, there he was.

“Patrick,” Celia said, standing.

He paused and looked toward the sound of her voice, obviously surprised to discover he wasn’t alone. He seemed to hesitate a moment, but then, to her relief, he moved in her direction.

“Hello,” he said. “It’s very late. What are you doing here?”

The echo of her comment, made when he’d first arrived at the restaurant earlier tonight, felt like a mild rebuke. She flushed and was glad the moon was too dim to reveal it.

“I was waiting for you,” she said.

“Why?”

The silence was almost painful while she tried to think of an answer. She wanted to speak, but her voice wasn’t working right. All the vicious things she had said at their last private meeting seemed to hang in the air between them, an impenetrable wall of injustice.

“I guess I just wanted to say that I’m—”

She touched the rough, pocked concrete of the fountain. She shouldn’t have let herself doze off. It had scrambled the mental script she’d so carefully prepared.

“I’m so happy that you and Trish—”

He kept looking at her, without speaking. She took a deep breath and started over. “I mean, I want you to know I’m sorry about all the things I said the other night and—”

“Celia, stop.” He moved a little, and his body was outlined, tall and dark, against the silvery sky. “You know you don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“Yes, I do. I said awful things. I was so—frightened. And hurt.”

“No. You were right about everything. Especially about me.”

“Clearly I wasn’t,” she said. “I was furious because I thought you were going to bring misery to Trish, but look how happy she is. I’ve never seen her so peaceful and strong.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Trish and I are coming to understand one another pretty well. We’ve both made mistakes, terrible mistakes, but forgiving each other was surprisingly easy. It’s much harder to find a way to forgive ourselves, but we’re working on that together.”

His eyes were in the shadows, so no matter how she tried to read them, it was impossible. The uncertainty made her heart knock with light, frantic thumps against her rib cage. She couldn’t tell if there was any hope at all.

If only she knew what he really thought about her. About them. Had she simply said such unforgivable things that they could never find their way back to each other? Or was the problem worse than that? Was it that he didn’t care at all? That, as she’d feared that first night, his attentions to her had never been more than a calculated exploitation?

“Actually,” he said, “Trish and I were talking about you just now.”

“You were?”

“Yes. About how you were the only truly innocent person in this whole terrible situation. You’re the only one who didn’t in any way deserve to be hurt. I took advantage of you, Celia. I tried not to, but I did.”

Why should that make her want to cry? She looked down, trying to stop the stinging behind her eyes.

“I wanted what happened that night as much as you did,” she said. “More, as I recall. And I will never regret it. Even if it meant nothing to you, even if you really were just using me. I’ll never, ever regret it.”

He didn’t answer at first. He wasn’t even looking at her anymore.

He was so stiff, so straight. Why wouldn’t he bend? Why wouldn’t he thaw? Did he regret it so very much, then?

“Why won’t you look at me?” She reached out in sudden desperation. “Why won’t you tell me what you’re feeling? If you feel nothing at all, just tell me, please. I need to know if there’s any hope—”

He turned suddenly. He grabbed her hand and pulled it to his heart.

“I love you, damn it,” he said. “Surely you know that.”

She shook her head. His heart was pounding hard against her palm.

“I didn’t even recognize it at first,” he said. “If I’ve ever loved anyone before, it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t real love, this kind of love that takes everything you think you know about the world, about yourself, and tears it into a million pieces. Not this kind that makes you long to be better than you are.”

Something in her throat was blocking words. Only the warm slide of tears seemed able to make it through.

“I know you may not be willing to believe me,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you for that, after everything I’ve done. But I want you to know that I’m not ever going to give up. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. Somehow I’ll show you. I’ll make you trust me, Celia. Somehow I’ll make you love me.”

She shook her head again, helplessly. Maybe, she thought from a distance, these tears were just the overflow of her melting heart, like a spring flowing down from the frozen tops of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

“But don’t you see?” She looked up at him. “You don’t need to do anything. I already love you so much I can hardly hold it all in one heart.”

Her lips were trembling, and she tasted the warm, salty tears that pooled in the corners of her mouth.

“I’ve loved you since that first day,” she said. “At Silverton, when I thought you were a ghost.”

He made a low sound, half disbelief, half triumph. He began to pull her toward him.

“You were so damn beautiful,” he said. “Your bare feet in the water, your arms full of flowers, your hair drenched with sunlight. I thought you were a mirage.”

She took a deep breath. “I even loved you when I thought I hated you, when I thought you had come here just for the pleasure of breaking our hearts.”

He wrapped his arms around her, until she was safe and close, the warm planes of his chest meeting her like a wall of strength.

“You were so powerful that night,” he said with a low undercurrent of laughter…and another, too, of admiration. “So flooded with righteous fury.”

“And I even loved you when you tried to boss me around, that night at my office.”

“Even then? Even when I made it clear I couldn’t qualify as the newest member of your Safe and Dull club?”

“That’s Scratch and Dent club,” she corrected him sternly.

His eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “Whatever.”

She smiled up at him, though her lips still felt wet and shaky.

“And, of course…I loved you on Red Rock Bridge.”

He closed his eyes and touched his lips to her forehead. They were hot and hard.

“Yes.” He had no teasing rejoinder to that one. “Yes.”

“And, no matter what happens from this day forward,” she said, though her throat was so tight she could hardly speak, “I’ll go on loving you forever.”

His answering laugh had a hitch in it, as if it were tangled up with what might have been a sob if he had let it.

“Now that,” he said as he lowered his head to kiss her, “is the promise I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DAWN POURED INTO ENCHANTMENT like an overturned chalice of champagne.

In his mind’s eye, Patrick could see it reaching across the ranchlands in the east, gilding the sleeping cattle. He could see it running through the quiet streets, down the dewy branches of the towering pines. He imagined it finally reaching the mountains, their golden peaks thrusting up like matches to light the sky.

He couldn’t really see all that, of course. But, turning from Celia’s window, he saw the soft light wash her cheek and, in that one exquisite, golden curve he knew everything there was to know about dawn.

He knew that dawn was beauty, and innocence, and love.

And it was rebirth.

He thought of The Birth Place, where Celia and Trish both worked. That quiet little haven under the guardian pines.

The Birth Place of a happy family. The Birth Place of love.

He had not come into the world there. His birthplace had been harder, filled not with smiles and music and soothing scents, but with terror and tears and pain.

He’d lived with that beginning a long, long time. But then the fates had sent him Celia.

And a chance to be born again.

Here, in this room, in her arms, he had found The Birth Place of his new and happy life.

He looked at her. She was still sleeping, her sweet curves turning a simple white sheet into a work of art. His throat closed up with a sudden painful heat.

Without taking his gaze from her, he made a vow. The Patrick who had been born here today would be a good man. He would learn from her. She would teach him about kindness and patience and love. He would put his hand in hers, and she would show him the way.

As the sun grew brighter on her face, she stirred. She made a low, fretful murmur and seemed to reach for him.

He returned to the bed quickly. He didn’t want her to be afraid.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here.”

Without opening her eyes, she smiled.

“Hi,” she said. She ran her fingers sleepily up and down his naked chest. Immediately he felt his body tense. Though they had made love for hours last night, until in exhaustion she had tucked herself into his arms and drifted into a heavy sleep, suddenly he wanted her all over again.

“I dreamed it was a dream,” she said, with an endearing sleepy confusion. She seemed to hear how silly that sounded, because she burrowed her head into the hollow of his shoulder and laughed. Her eyes still weren’t open. She was like a newborn kitten nestling against him.

“I mean I dreamed you were gone,” she said. “I dreamed you had gone home.”

He smiled down at her warm, relaxed body. Her hair lay everywhere, across the pillow, across her shoulder, across his stroking fingers.

“I dreamed that, too,” he said.

She opened her eyes. Their blue depths were still unfocused, but a frowning question had begun to form between her brows.

“You did?”

“Yes.” He pulled down the sheet and, leaning over, kissed her shoulder. She purred once and stretched out, offering his lips easier access to the rest of her downy skin. He caught his breath. How could he be such a lucky man? Every curve and swell, every pink, secret place was his.

“I dreamed I went home,” he said again. He took her breast in his hand. She moved against him, sensual and sleepy and so ready.

He smiled down at her, at the promise she offered him in her eyes, in her body, in her heart.

“And then,” he said, “when I woke up, I saw you. And I knew my dream had come true.”

ISBN: 978-1-4268-8353-8

THE HOMECOMING BABY

Copyright © 2004 by Kathleen O’Brien.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

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