Touchstone

S H A R O N

S A L A

writing as

DINAH McCALL TOUCHSTONE

Life is precious. We live it taking many things for granted, and only after something is lost do we fully realize its value. As a person born with sight, I can only imagine the loss I would suffer if it was taken away. To never again see a sunset, or a curtain of rain. To grow older and yet have no sense of my age. To be forever locked in the world as I last saw it. To never look upon the faces of my children . . . or my love. So it is with great respect and admiration that I dedicate this book to those who have learned to “see” with their hearts instead of their eyes.

Contents one THERE WERE GHOSTS IN THE HOUSE. RACHEL AUSTIN could feel…

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two HOUSTON SLEPT WITH ONE ARM OUTFLUNG, THE OTHER wrapped around…

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three MAURY FELDMAN WAS A YOUNGER VERSION OF ESTHER. Just shy…

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four HOUSTON’S HANDS WERE SHAKING AS HE PICKED UP THE phone…

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five “SO WHERE’S WONDER WOMAN?” ANDREW SNAPPED.

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six HOUSTON HAD GONE TO WORK EARLY IN ORDER TO DELIVER…

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seven KENNY MONDAY BRAKED HIS CAR TO A SLIDING HALT at…

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eight RACHEL’S LUNCH WITH MARIS WAS LONG AND, FOR THE most…

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nine THE SHADOWS WERE LENGTHENING AS BEATTY MADE HIS way through…

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ten SOMEONE WAS SCREAMING. IN THE BACK OF RACHEL’S mind she…

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eleven “PASSENGERS, PLEASE PREPARE FOR LANDING. RETURN your seat backs to…

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twelve RACHEL HAD BEEN IN THE HOSPITAL OVER TWO WEEKS, and…

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thirteen AS USUAL, THE MEDIA HAD GOTTEN WIND OF RACHEL’S release…

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fourteen RACHEL WAITED QUIETLY IN A CHAIR INSIDE THE TERMINAL, the…

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fifteen AFTER THREE DAYS AT THE RANCH, HOUSTON HAD solved the…

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sixteen KENNY GOT OUT GRINNING, BUT THE SMILE ON HIS FACE…

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seventeen “I DON’T SMELL ANYTHING,” CHARLIE SAID AS HE STOOD outside…

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eighteen RACHEL FELL ASLEEP IN HOUSTON’S ARMS, WHILE Houston fell in…

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nineteen HOUSTON HAD BEEN UP FOR HOURS, AND BY THE TIME…

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twenty BY THE TIME DETECTIVE SULLIVAN’S MESSAGE REACHED the proper authorities…

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About the Author Other Books by Sharon Sala Cover Copyright About the Publisher

� one �

There were ghosts in the house. Rachel Austin could feel them. She walked through the upstairs, going from dark, empty room to dark, empty room. Remembering. Once this house had been filled with laughter. But that was before, when Daddy was still alive. Before that last rodeo . . . and that last bull. When he died, the laughter died with him. Afterward her mother, Christine, had died, too. It just took her seven years longer to quit breathing. Rachel needed to cry, but there were no tears left in her to shed. Tomorrow was the auction. Tomorrow this house and the eighty acres that Pete and Christine Austin had owned would be overrun with people. By sunset tomorrow it would all be gone. Rachel’s footsteps echoed as she moved from the doorway of what had been her parents’ bedroom to the bedroom down the hall. A faint moan drifted through the house. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. It was only the wind blowing through a partially open window. She pushed the door open, then walked into her

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room. She’d never noticed how small it really was. She walked to the single window overlooking the back pasture and stared into the darkness, imagining she could see the lights of Houston Bookout’s home. Houston. Just his name made her ache. It seemed that she’d loved him forever. If she closed her eyes and thought real hard, she could still remember the sound of his voice and the feel of his fingers around her wrist when he’d first asked her to dance. Seventeen. She’d been seventeen to his twenty-six years. Before the night was over, she’d been wild, crazy in love. Nothing had changed. But that was three years ago. All the while she’d been planning to leave, he’d been waiting for her to grow up. Her legs began to tremble as she turned her back on the night. She couldn’t think about Houston right now, or about the fact that he assumed they would marry. There was tomorrow to get through. Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood. For years their neighbors had predicted Pete Austin would go broke. That he couldn’t manage a dollar, let alone a small ranch. Basically, they had been right. Every penny he had made he’d put back into rodeo entry fees and travel expenses. Now and then he would put by just enough to keep the bank off their backs. The next bull ride was always going to put him in the money. The next bull ride was always going to be his last. Then one day it was. It took Christine Austin seven more years of struggling to pay debts before the bank finally called it quits. But cancer beat the bank to Christine. She died before the foreclosure notice came. Rachel got it, and the bill for her mother’s fu-

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neral, on the same day. It had been a long time coming, but tomorrow it would be over. Tomorrow she would also be homeless. Suddenly panic struck. She bolted from the room and down the hall, feeling her way in the dark. Then she was at the stairwell and running down the stairs, stumbling once, then again, in an effort to get out of the house. But maneuvering on the lower floor was not as easy as it had been upstairs. In preparation for the auction, furniture was all out of place. Tables were piled high with dishes and linens and pictures that had once hung on the walls. Even the painting of the great Native American Sequoyah, her Cherokee mother’s ancestor, was lumped in with everything else to sell. The ghosts were closer here, hovering over the tangible artifacts of a life they no longer needed, yet unable to move on because of the daughter they’d left behind. Rachel pushed her way past a chair, then two lamps, then the old, battered desk where her mother had sat to pay bills. Shaking, she pushed the screen door open and then moved out to the porch, gasping for air. The need to move beyond the miasma of failure in which she’d been raised was overwhelming. When her feet hit the dry Texas earth, she started to run. Past the split-rail fence separating yard from pasture, toward the barn, then past the broken-down gate hanging on the corral, toward the moon hanging low in the sky. Pain was everywhere now. In her legs, in her belly, in her heart, in her mind. Finally she stopped and

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looked back toward the ranch, to the barn and the house and the ghosts. Tonight was the end of it all. She started to scream. Houston Bookout had been driving back and forth from Emery Feed and Seed in Mirage to his ranch for more than twelve years now. He’d started working for Dale Emery at the age of seventeen, putting in a few hours after school and on weekends. Loading fifty-pound sacks of feed for Dale Emery’s customers had put muscles on his body that no fancy gym workout could match. At the age of twenty-one he’d gotten a commercial driver’s license and gone from loading sacks to hauling them. For the last eight years his job had consisted of driving an eighteenwheeler for Emery Feed and Seed. Although his work was steady, there was no chance of advancement. Except for owning the store, which on a tendollar-an-hour paycheck wasn’t going to happen, Houston had reached the apex of his employment opportunity. It was enough money to get by on, but not enough on which to grow. By sheer guts and determination he held on to the 160 acres of hardscrabble land on which he’d been raised. In a good year he could run about twenty head of cattle, not counting calves on the tit. In a bad year, like this one, he bought feed to supplement the sparse growth of pasture grass. Even with the discount Dale Emery gave him, it was all he could do to make ends meet. But Houston was young and he was strong. And he was so much in love with Rachel Austin that noth-

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ing else much mattered. The five-room clapboard house in which he’d been raised was so familiar that he rarely noticed its run-down condition. He fixed what broke, and when it came to luxuries, he did without. It wasn’t by choice. It was just the way it was. As he came up on the intersection that led to the Austin place, he had to stop himself from turning right. He knew Rachel would be at the house, getting ready for the auction tomorrow. That she had to lose her home in this way was tough, but it wasn’t as though she had no place to go. She had him, and— thank the good Lord—he had her, too. They’d talked about marriage for a year or so now, and if her mother hadn’t contracted cancer, they might have already married. Once Rachel learned of her mother’s condition, she’d devoted nearly every waking hour to her beloved mother’s care. It had taken a toll. Houston knew it. During the last three months Rachel had changed. The light in her eyes was gone, and so was the ready smile on her face. On the rare times when they’d been together, their lovemaking had seemed desperate. Except for just loving her as hard as he could, Houston didn’t know how to help her find her way back. The knowledge that he still needed to do chores kept him from taking the turn. He sped on past the intersection, telling himself that he would call her. It wasn’t until he was almost home that he remembered the phone at the Austin house had already been cut off. He frowned, then told himself that he’d check on her after his work was all done. A short while later he pulled into the yard, coming

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to a stop in a cloud of yellow dust. The blue-heeler lying under the shade tree at the edge of the yard didn’t even look up, let alone bark. Houston grinned at the dog as he got out of his truck. “Hey, Taco, don’t bother to get up. I’ll let myself in.” At the sound of his name, the dog’s tail thumped once. Houston’s grin widened. “I’ll wager you thump a different tune when I rattle your pan.” Then he unlocked the door and went in. The house smelled dusty and stale, which it was. Between his job and the ranch, cleaning was the last priority on Houston’s list. About once a month he took a mop and a dust rag to the place, whether it needed it or not. Things had been different when his mother was alive. She’d taken pride in making the old hardwood floors gleam, and the house had always smelled of her baking. Houston sniffed. The odor of stale grease was strong. Maybe it was time to throw out what was in the skillet and start over. And then he reminded himself that Rachel would be here soon. He sighed. He didn’t want her coming home to this. It looked as if a little housecleaning was in order. The last thing he would have her do was clean up after him. Once they were married, that would be different. This would be her home then. His heart skipped a beat as he edited the thought. Their home. It would be their home. He tossed his hat on a hook and headed for the bedroom to change into old clothes, turning on the window air conditioner as he went. *

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*

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Night had come while Houston wasn’t looking. One minute he’d been down on his knees scrubbing at some stains on the kitchen floor, and the next thing he knew, it was dark. He thought of Rachel again, as he had off and on ever since he’d been home, but this time he panicked. She was out there, alone in the dark, in a house that was no longer her own. He tossed his cleaning supplies into the back room, grabbed his hat and pickup keys, and headed out the door. It was five miles from his house to hers. He made it in just under four minutes. Even as he was taking the turn off the highway into the driveway, he knew something was wrong. Her car was still there, but the silhouette of the two-story house was dark. Guilt hit him. To hell with cleaning his house. He should have been here with her. He slammed on the brakes and killed the engine, then jumped out on the run, leaving the headlights burning. “Rachel!” He heard fear in his own voice and took a deep breath, making himself calm. But when she didn’t answer, the fear kicked itself up another notch. “Rachel! Where are you?” He started toward the house, then something—call it instinct—made him turn. She came toward him out of the darkness, a slender shadow moving through the perimeter of light from his headlamps, then centering itself in the beam. She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on this morning, when he’d seen her last: worn-out Levi’s and an old denim shirt. She came toward him without speaking. Fear slid from him, leaving him weak and shaken.

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“Damn it, Cherokee, you scared me to death. Why didn’t you answer me? Better yet, what the hell are you still doing here in the dark?” Then he saw her face and knew she was incapable of answering. “Jesus.” He opened his arms. She walked into them without saying a word and buried her face in the middle of his chest. He rocked her where they stood, wrapping his fingers in the thickness of her hair and feeling her body tremble against his. “It’s going to be all right,” he said softly. “I promise you, girl, it’s going to be all right.” She shook her head. “No, Houston. It will never be all right again. It’s gone. Everything is gone. First my father. Then my mother. Now they’re taking my home.” He ached for her. “I know, love, I know. But I’m still here. I’ll never leave you.” But it was as if he’d never spoken. “The land . . . they always take the land,” she muttered, and dropped to her knees. Silhouetted by the headlights of Houston’s truck, she thrust her hands in the dirt and started to shake. Houston knelt beside her. “Rachel . . .” She didn’t blink, staring instead at the way the dust began to trickle through her fingers. “How can I give this up? It’s where I was born. It’s where my parents are buried.” He didn’t have words to ease her pain. She rocked back on her heels and stood abruptly. Fury colored her movements and her words. “Everything is over! Over! And all because of money.”

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Houston reached for her, but she spun away. A knot formed in Houston’s gut. He grabbed for her again, and this time when she tried to shake herself free, he tightened his hold. “Stop it!” he said sharply, and gripped her by both shoulders. “Look at me, Rachel.” She wouldn’t. He shook harder. “Damn it! I said look at me!” Finally, reluctantly, she met his gaze. She saw concern and anger; to her despair, she saw fear and knew it was because of her. She went limp. “Houston.” He groaned and pulled her to him. “Damn it, Cherokee, don’t turn away from me, too.” She shuddered. Cherokee. She couldn’t deny her heritage any more than she could deny her love for Houston. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Nothing matters but you.” He took her by the hand. “Wait . . . my car,” Rachel muttered. “Leave it,” he said. “You’re coming home with me.” “But the sale. I need to be here by seven.” Houston frowned. “I’ll have you here by sunup if it’ll make you happy. But you’re still coming home with me.” They made the drive back to his ranch in total silence. Rachel felt numb from the inside out until she walked in the front door of Houston’s home. The odors of cleaning solutions and pine-scented furni-

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ture polish were startling. She inhaled sharply, and as she did, tears blurred her vision. He’d been cleaning for her. Her anger dimmed as shame swept over her. She turned. “Oh, Houston.” “Come here, girl. Don’t fight your last friend.” She shuddered as his arms went around her. Last friend? If he only knew. He was her best and last friend, and in a couple of days he was going to hate her guts. A sob worked its way up her throat, but she wouldn’t give in. No time to cry. Not when she wanted to remember. She tilted her head to look up at him. “Make love to me, Houston. Make me forget.” He groaned. “I’ll make love to you, Cherokee— willingly, and as often as you like. But not to forget. You need to remember who loves you and that you’re not alone.” She reached for the snaps on his shirt. He grabbed her hands to stop her, then swung her off her feet and into his arms, carrying her down the hall to his bedroom. He shouldered his way through the door and then laid her on his bed. Her long black hair spilled out across the old blue quilt like smoke across the sky. Then he pulled off his boots as she kicked off her shoes. Shirts came undone then the jeans were discarded, leaving them naked to each other’s gaze. Houston paused for just a moment to look his fill. Even after all this time, her beauty stunned him. Almost six feet tall, she had slender limbs and delicate curves that were enough to make a man mad with want. Her face was exquisite. She’d gotten the best

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from both of her parents. Smooth brown skin and high cheekbones from her mother, and a refinement to her features from her daddy. But it was her mouth and her eyes that set her apart. Her lips were wide and full, parted slightly, as he crawled onto the bed and straddled her legs. Her green eyes narrowed, giving their natural slant an even more exotic appearance. Houston palmed her breasts, rubbing the nipples between his forefingers and thumbs until they were hard and she was moaning. She closed her eyes and arched into his touch. “Don’t close your eyes,” he said sharply. Lost in a sensual fog, it was all she could do to obey. “You look at me, Cherokee. You haven’t lost everything. You still have me. You will always have me. No one can take my love away from you. Do you understand me?” She heard herself whimper. Oh God, was she making a mistake by leaving? Houston’s grip tightened. “Answer me, damn it.” Rachel sighed. “I hear you. I understand. Now make love to me before I go mad.” She saw his mouth coming toward hers. The promise of passion was there in his eyes, dark and dangerous, pushed to the limits of his own endurance. She moved beneath his touch like a dancer to music. His hands. God, his hands. His mouth left a wet trail from one breast to the other, and then he began to move lower, past her rib cage, lingering on the indentation of her navel until she was moaning aloud. One minute flowed into another and then another, until she thought she might die. She felt his mouth on

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her legs, then the insides of her thighs. Her blood was on fire. Heat spiraled downward, centering itself at Houston’s touch. And then his hands were beneath her hips and he was lifting her up. His tongue was warm and wet. She arched to meet it, screaming his name. Just before daybreak Houston woke up alone. Within seconds of opening his eyes and finding Rachel gone, he was out of bed and reaching for his jeans. He found her, wearing one of his T-shirts and sitting on the front porch step with her chin in her hands, watching the horizon changing from dark to dusty gray. He stood in silence, looking at her through the screen door while his heartbeat slowed to normal. Her legs were bare, and her hair lay in tangles across her back. His gut pulled. Last night she’d straddled his body with her hands braced upon his chest and her head bowed, concentrating on the rhythm of the ride. When he came, his hands were fisted in her hair and she was laughing. He shuddered. For a woman whose outward countenance was always composed, he could only marvel at the passion she harbored within. But he could tell by the set of her shoulders that she wasn’t waiting to watch the sunrise. He thought of the day she had yet to face. The auction. In a way, it was the final funeral of what was left of her past. If he could, he would have willingly suffered her pain. He pushed the door open and stepped outside. “Rachel, are you all right?” “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.

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She hadn’t answered his question, but he let it slide. “You didn’t. I have to deliver a load this morning.” She nodded. “It won’t take long. I should be at the sale before noon.” “You don’t have to come.” Her voice was too neutral. Anger surged. “I know that, goddamn it,” he said shortly. She stood and faced him, her gaze locked into his. “I’m sorry.” Houston’s hands curled into fists. He didn’t know what he wanted worse: to shake her or to kiss that damned solemn expression off her face. “Yeah, so am I,” he said. Rachel’s gaze dropped first. “I guess I’d better get dressed. You can drop me off at the house on your way into town.” She started past him, telling herself she could do this, when Houston stopped her with a touch. “I love you, Rachel.” Something painful twisted inside her chest. “I love you, too, Houston Bookout. Always have . . .” He smiled then as he chimed in, finishing their special phrase. “Always will.” Rachel made herself smile back. At least that wasn’t a lie. She would love this man forever. But love just wasn’t enough. “Five, gimme five, five, five, I got five. Who’ll gimme ten, ten, ten, I got ten.” The auctioneer paused in the middle of his cry to point to the large stack of linens on the table before

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him. “Lookee here, people. These here are gen-u-ine antiques. Hand-embroidered, too. Who’ll give me twenty?” Rachel gritted her teeth and stared at a hole in the collar of the auctioneer’s shirt, rather than focusing on what he was saying. It wasn’t just a stack of old linens to her. It was what was left of her world. Only it wasn’t hers anymore. The auctioneer picked up his cry, whooping with delight as the bid was upped. Rachel looked away. A hot gust of wind stirred the dust. She squinted against the stinging blast of grit. Her eyes were filled with tears, but there was no way in hell she’d let them see her cry. Not now. Not ever. “Sold to Dave Henry for fifteen dollars!” the auctioneer cried. She looked up. Two generations of women had used those linens, and now a man with no wife had just bought them all for fifteen dollars. Her stomach knotted as she saw him sweep them off the table and under his arms. He was coming her way now, a look of triumph on his face. “Make good rags,” Henry said as he passed by. The words were like a kick in the gut, but her expression never changed. It occurred to her then why her father had never liked Dave Henry. She met the man’s gaze without flinching. He was the first to look away. Bea Dailey began bidding on a pair of quilts. When the auctioneer unfolded one to exhibit the pattern, a wave of pain nearly sent her to her knees. The last time that quilt had been used was when she’d laid out her mother’s body. Rachel swayed where she stood.

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Oh God, I need help. I can’t do this alone. She lifted her chin, bracing herself for a new wave of pain, and felt a hand on her shoulder, then on the back of her neck. Then she felt the hard, unyielding bulk of a man against her back. She should have known he would come. She turned. “Houston.” He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He could see the pain on her face as clearly as if she’d been bleeding. Far too much of Rachel Austin’s life had been devoted to people in the throes of death. Today what was left of her world was dying, and he could tell by the way she was measuring each breath that she was trying hard not to die along with it. He put a hand to the side of her face. For a moment she allowed herself the luxury of his sympathy and leaned against the callused palm as if it were the softest of pillows. “I love you,” he said softly. She sighed, then turned back to the sale. It was her obligation to witness the passing, an act of respect— just as she had done when she’d stayed up all night with her mother’s body. When she turned away without answering, Houston frowned. Then he threaded his fingers through hers and gave them a squeeze. For a moment he thought she would pull away from even that. But she hesitated and the moment was lost. They stood together in the shade of the old clapboard house, watching strangers counting the worth of her world in dollars and cents. As the auctioneer held up a hurricane lamp, Rachel tuned out the shouts and yells of the bidders and

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gave herself permission to think about Houston instead. Except for the fact that he was almost as penniless as her daddy had been before he died, he was everything she’d ever wanted in a man. And therein lay the root of her pain. She loved Houston Bookout to the depths of her soul, but tomorrow she was leaving Mirage and never coming back. The thought of staying in this dry, dusty town and dying by bits and pieces, as her mother had done, was too frightening to consider. The auctioneer shouted, “Sold.” She didn’t bother to look. It was better if she didn’t know who was taking her things. That way she would not look upon them as the thieves her heart felt them to be. Houston pulled her close against him. She shuddered. He was her bulwark and she was giving him up. Panic came and went. She was taking his comfort and love like a greedy child. He didn’t know there was nothing left in her to give back. The irony of his arrival was not lost on her. Even if he was God’s answer to her prayer, it wasn’t enough to change her mind. She had a bus ticket in her purse and the few clothes she could carry were already packed. Come sunup tomorrow, this place, these people, and even this man were going to be nothing but memories. Then the auctioneer stepped up on a concrete block. He was holding something in his hands. She could see him smiling, then laughing, as he tried to start the bidding. Suddenly she stiffened. It was her mother’s music box. Houston felt Rachel tense. He looked down, frowning at the tears in her eyes. There was a jut to

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her jaw that he recognized all too well. Something had startled her. But what? He followed the direction of her gaze to the object in the auctioneer’s hand, then he sighed. No wonder. It was her mother’s music box. He thought of his note due at the bank next month, and the money he owed Red Collins for fuel. He looked back at Rachel just as a single tear spilled down her cheek. “What am I bid?” the auctioneer yelled. “Come on, folks. It’s a nice little trinket. And see . . . it still plays.” He wound it up, and the faint strains of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” drifted through the air. “Who’ll start the bidding at ten dollars?” Houston’s nod was subtle, but the auctioneer picked up on it fast. “Ten!” he shouted. “I got ten! Who’ll give me twenty? Twenty. Who’ll give me twenty?” Someone on the other side of the crowd let out a yell. The auctioneer grinned. “I got twenty. Who’ll give twenty-five?” Houston tilted his head just a bit to the side. It was all the auctioneer needed to see. “I’ve got twenty-five. Who’ll give me thirty? Thirty? Who’ll give me thirty?” Someone yelled, “Yes.” Houston sighed. This was getting serious. But he’d hate himself forever if he let this one go. He nodded again. And then again. And then again. And finally the last bid was at forty-five dollars. Houston gave another slow nod. The auctioneer took it.

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“I’ve got fifty!” he shouted. “Fifty dollars for this fine little piece. Do we have sixty?” Houston held his breath as the auctioneer lifted it high over his head. “Going once! Going twice! Sold to the man in the black cowboy hat.” Rachel spun around in shock. Houston brushed his finger against her cheek. “Be right back,” he said softly, and started weaving his way through the crowd. Her legs went weak as she watched him walk away. Dear God. How can I take this when I’m going to break his heart? Houston took the small wooden box from the auctioneer’s hand and then started back through the crowd toward Rachel. It didn’t take long for the people to realize what he’d done. Guilt struck them as they began to realize what this woman was losing. That she had to buy back a keepsake from her own home seemed shameful. Some of them looked away, while others watched with interest as he stopped at Rachel’s side. Rachel’s expression was set. Except for the fact that her lips were trembling, it would have been impossible to guess her feelings. She looked at him long and hard, memorizing the curve of his lower lip and the pride in his eyes. “Oh, Houston.” It was all she could say. When he laid it in her hands, at that moment he knew he would have given twice the amount for that look in her eyes. Then he put his arms around her.

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“Come on, baby. You’ve seen enough.” She resisted. “But Houston, it’s not over.” He looked back at the crowd, some curious as to what he and Rachel were doing, others already caught up in the bidding on the next item. Then he looked at the house, weathered and worn, like the land it was on. “Yes, it is, Rachel. It’s been over for years.”

� two �

Houston slept with one arm outflung, the other wrapped around Rachel’s shoulders. Her head was pillowed upon his chest, and sometime during the night she’d wrapped a leg around the lower half of his body. Nude, their entwined bodies were sculpted in moonlight and shimmering with a light sheen of perspiration. The night was hot. Their lovemaking had been hotter. The small window air conditioner in Houston’s bedroom was humming away, and still the air was close. A frown creased Rachel’s forehead as she fought her way through a dream. Houston shifted in his sleep and tightened his hold, as if sensing her distress. A clock ticked on the bureau across the room. Outside, Taco was coming in from the hills after a little flirtation with a female coyote in heat. In the far distance a line of storm clouds was building. But it was moving to the north and would bypass Mirage and the surrounding area by a good fifty miles. Taco settled down on the porch with a thump and a sigh just as Houston woke up from a deep, dream-

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less sleep. The transition from rest to panic was as startling as the unexplained need to cry. He looked down at Rachel. She was asleep in his arms. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and wondered what the hell had gotten into him. He wasn’t the crying type. But the feeling of despair stayed with him. He glanced around the room, listening carefully and trying to find something out of place in his world. On the surface, all seemed well. He made himself close his eyes, but the feeling was still there, so strong that it hurt to draw breath. Was this a premonition of things to come, or just the remnants of a dream he couldn’t remember? Finally his heartbeat settled and the feeling began to fade. Sometime later he slept. When morning came, the urgency of getting up and getting to work took precedence over his unsettled rest. It wasn’t until he was ready to walk out the door that he remembered the premonition. Although he’d already told Rachel goodbye, something prompted him to say it again. He looked at her there, standing in his kitchen wearing nothing but her panties and one of his shirts, and his heart swelled against his chest. She wasn’t only his woman. She was his life. “Rachel.” Rachel turned, the dishrag in her hands dripping water and soap into the sink. She tried to stay calm, but this morning had been hell. Everything about Houston seemed magnified a thousand times: the way he spread shaving cream on his face, the hungry glitter for her in his eyes, his ready laughter, his unswerving strength. Pain ballooned within her. If only he would leave before she came the rest of the way apart.

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“What?” “Don’t worry about anything today.” She nodded. “Rest. Sleep. We’ll talk it all out tonight.” She tried to smile, and had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. Houston glanced at his watch. He was already going to be late. He glanced at her again. Something was wrong. He could feel it. “I love you,” he said softly. Rachel took a deep breath. “Ah, God, Houston . . . I love you, too,” she whispered, and then closed her eyes, unable to watch him walking away. “Rachel . . . don’t.” Startled, she looked up. Don’t what? Does he know? Then she shook off the thought. There was no way he could. “Damn it, Cherokee, don’t look back.” She went limp with relief. He thought she was just grieving. “Trust me to take care of you,” he begged. Her heart broke. Seconds later she was in his arms. Water dripped down the back of his neck as she clung to him with her wet, soapy hands. The heat from her body was startling. In the back of his mind he wondered if she was coming down sick. And then her lips centered on his mouth, stealing his breath and his sanity. Within moments her underwear was off and he had her pinned against the wall. Without words, without foreplay, he took her there, driving himself into the wet, hot depths of her. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck. Her head was thrown back, revealing the slender col-

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umn of her throat as their bodies hammered against each other. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she bucked against him. It was coming. She could feel it. A building of heat and pressure that wouldn’t let her go. One thrust, then another, and suddenly it was over. Her fingernails sank into his back as she rode out the descending flow. Houston groaned. Ripple after ripple of her climax pulled at him, taunting him to follow. One second he was still in control; the next he was lost. A minute later they were lying together on the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms and shivering with the aftershocks of their explosive lovemaking. He nuzzled his face against her neck, then rolled so that she rested atop his body. He felt her trembling and heard her struggling for breath. “Are you all right?” he asked. Rachel sighed. “I may never be all right again.” He grinned. “Thank you . . . I think.” She laughed before she thought and then felt like a traitor. Again the idea came to her that leaving him would be a mistake. “You’re going to be late,” she said softly. “I already am,” he said. “But you’re right. As badly as I hate to do it, I’ve got to move.” Getting up from the floor wasn’t as easy as getting down there had been. But they managed. And a few minutes later Rachel found herself standing on the porch and waving to Houston as he drove away. She watched until even the dust had settled, then she walked out into the yard a few steps and turned back to the house. If she stayed, this would be home.

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Nothing could change it. Not even their love. Weathered gray wood and a roof that had needed fixing for years. It looked like she felt. Used up. She turned around, gazing across the flat, empty land that was his ranch. Now and then a stand of mesquite could be seen. His cattle were scattered across the prairie, trying to find grazing on the brown, arid land. There was never enough to eat. She shuddered. She’d been hungry half her life. The tin-roofed barn was old, older than the house, and a portion of the corral was missing a top board. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. Dirt poor. She hated the thought of it. She looked down the road where Houston had gone. This evening he would be coming back down that driveway, as he had for the last twelve years. No change in his life or routine. Like the ranch, just getting by. Wind lifted the hair from the sides of her face as she squinted into the early morning sun. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. Never again. Never again. Houston was tired to his toes but glad to be heading home. Just the knowledge that Rachel was waiting for him at the other end of the journey was enough to make it worthwhile. He took off his Emery Feed and Seed cap and tossed it on the seat beside him. Hot wind blasted through the open windows as he flew along the highway. One of these days he was going to have to fix the air conditioner in his truck, but this evening he

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didn’t care. He glanced at the bouquet of flowers on the seat beside him. They were suffering some from the wind. On second thought, he tossed them on the floor of the truck to protect them from the heat and dust. He patted his pocket again, as he had for the tenth time since leaving Mirage. He could just picture the surprise on Rachel’s face when he showed her the ring. He’d been paying on it for almost a year. Nervously he glanced at the time. Almost seven. Damn. He’d planned to be home by six. Then he made himself relax. She knew what his work was like. This wasn’t the first time that Emery had scheduled a late load to go out. A slow grin spread across his face as he thought back to this morning. It had been a while since he’d made love to Rachel and wound up on the floor. But when it came to his lady, he didn’t have it in him to tell her no. When he topped the last rise in the road before home, he began to relax. They would still have plenty of time for him to clean up. Tonight they were going to celebrate. He was going to take her into Midland to go dancing. Somewhere between then and the bed, he was going to put the ring on her finger and thank God for her presence in his life. It wasn’t until he parked that he noticed her old car was gone. He frowned. Damn. He should have called. Then he shrugged. No matter. They didn’t have to go out to go dancing. They could dance on his porch by the light of the moon. Taco lifted his head as Houston stepped onto the porch. Houston grinned.

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“Hard day?” he drawled. Taco snorted, then sighed before flopping his muzzle on his furry front paws. Houston headed for the kitchen to put her flowers in water. He still had some of his mother’s vases somewhere on one of the top shelves of the cabinets. All he had to do was look. Success came on the second set of doors that he opened. Within seconds he had filled the vase and stuck the flowers inside. They shifted slightly to the left as he turned them loose. He frowned, trying to center them, then gave it up as a lost cause. He set them in the middle of the kitchen table and then stepped back and grinned. It’s the thought that counts. Right? On his way to the bedroom to change, he patted his pocket again. The bulge of the ring box calmed a spurt of anxiety. She would be here soon. He needed to decide where to hide it until he found the right time. The shade on his window was pulled. The room was surprisingly dark. He flipped on the light switch as he stepped inside. For some reason the room felt vacant, although everything was still in its place: his bed, the dresser, his good boots by the door. He frowned as he walked to the closet to get out his old clothes. With some luck he would have the chores finished before she returned. The shirt was in his hand when it hit him. He reeled backward as if he’d been struck. Most of her clothes were gone. Suddenly the feeling that had awakened him last night was upon him again. He couldn’t think of a reason why, but maybe she had moved her things to his parents’ room, across the hall. He dropped the shirt and stalked out.

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But when he opened the door, the musty air warned him he was wrong. She hadn’t been here. No one had been in here for days. Even as he was walking to the closet to see for himself, he knew he was right. He opened the door and then groaned. A handful of his own winter clothes were right where he’d hung them this spring. Nothing of Rachel or her clothes was anywhere in sight. “God, no,” he muttered, and bolted. He moved through the house, calling her name as he ran. There was no answer. Not even an echo of the woman had been left behind. Staggered by what he was seeing, he stumbled into the kitchen. The flowers he’d put on the table only minutes before seemed to mock him. He doubled his fists and spun around, and it was then he saw the music box, sitting by the cookie jar, and wondered how he’d missed it before. Had it been only yesterday that he’d put it in her hands? His vision blurred as he stared at the envelope beside it. For the longest time he couldn’t move—wouldn’t make that last effort that would confirm what he already knew to be true. The phone began to ring in the hall. He spun toward it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. Desperation was thick in his voice as he answered. “Hello.” “Mr. Bookout?” Houston’s legs went weak. It wasn’t her. Oh God, it wasn’t her. He stared at the phone, trying to remember what it was he was supposed to say. “Mr. Bookout, are you there?” He shuddered, then swallowed. “Um . . . yes.”

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“You don’t know it, but this is your lucky day. You’ve been chosen to receive, at no charge to—” He hung up the phone. Lucky day? My God, then what would a bad day be like? His feet were dragging as he walked back to the kitchen. The letter was still there. He lifted his chin. Running from the truth wasn’t a part of his life. His mouth was nothing but a hard, thin line as he sat down at the kitchen table and lifted the flap. Houston, It’s not that I don’t want you or my mother’s music box, because I do. But something has died in me that not even you can give back. I love you. I love you. I love you. But sometimes love is not enough. Forgive me, Rachel He read it until the words blurred and his hands were shaking so hard he could no longer hold the paper. Then he laid his head down on the table and cried for the woman he’d lost—and for the woman who’d lost herself. Rachel drove to Odessa to catch a bus. She sold her car to a used-car dealer for $855, bringing the sum total of the money between her and starvation to a little less than $2,000. Her mind was numb to the heat and the noontime traffic as she walked toward the bus station. Every step that she took was taking her farther and farther away from Houston. But she

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couldn’t make herself stop. Something was driving her that she couldn’t explain, and it had started with the foreclosure notice. The need to prove something, both to herself and to the world, was stronger than she could control. As she stopped at a street corner to wait for a light, a blast of hot Texas air lifted her hair from her neck and plastered her clothes to the shape of her body. The driver of a passing car suddenly laid on the horn and shouted something to her about being in love. On another day she might have smiled. She knew that in the eyes of the world she was pretty, maybe even beautiful. In a way, it was the only thing her parents had given her that couldn’t be taken away. And yet, growing up, her looks had still not been enough to grant her acceptance in Mirage. She’d been one of the poor kids. Not one of the pretty ones. In her teenage years the boys had noticed her plenty, but never in a serious way. With an itinerant cowboy for a father and her mother’s Native American ancestry, she was no mother’s idea of a suitable bride for a son. No matter how many times she saw her own reflection, she could never see the beauty for the stigma of being poor or ethnically unacceptable. All her life she had felt like an outsider. Until Houston Bookout. After that, what the world thought of her faded in importance. Rarely did she think of her years growing up, or of the snide comments from other kids about her clothes or parents. Even when her mother contracted cancer and Rachel slowly came to the realization that her only parent was dying, she knew she had Houston.

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The light changed and she started across the street, her suitcase bumping against her leg as she went. A short while later she found herself at the bus station with an hour to go before her bus would board. With time to kill, she headed for the bathroom to freshen up. As she was leaning over the sink and sluicing the heat and dust from her face, she looked up, trying to see herself as a stranger would have. But she couldn’t see past the fear in her eyes. She reached for a paper towel and turned away. It didn’t matter. Her decision had been made. If the only thing she had going for her was her looks, she was going to find a way to make them pay. “Now boarding outside the terminal for Atlanta, Philadelphia, and New York City.” She tossed the paper towel in the trash and picked up her suitcase. By the time she was on board and snug in her seat, the fear in her eyes had spread to her face. Her hands were trembling and there was a knot in her belly that wouldn’t go away. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to relax, but all she could remember was the look on Houston’s face as he’d pinned her against the wall and slid inside her body. She moaned and covered her face with her hands. “Miss, are you all right?” Rachel started, then looked up. The driver was leaning over her with a look of concern upon his face. “No.” Then she added shakily, “But I will be.” His smile was sympathetic. “If there’s anything you need, feel free to ask. We’ll be stopping periodically along the way, so if you feel ill, let me know.” She nodded. While she wasn’t sick in the true sense of the word, she felt she might die from this grief. Half an hour later the pain was no better. But she bit

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her lip and hardened her heart. Her mother’s people had been driven from their homes over a century ago down what became known as the infamous Trail of Tears. She took courage from the knowledge that their blood ran in her veins. They had endured more and suffered greater losses than she, and yet most of them had survived. She owed it to herself and to their memory to do no less. And she owed it to Houston. She’d traded his love for something she didn’t understand. The least she could do was keep looking for answers. It was morning of the next day when the old woman boarded in Memphis. Juggling the coffee and roll she’d just bought, Rachel watched the old woman take a seat. As she waited her turn to move down the aisle, she took a quick sip from her cup. The coffee was too strong, but it was hot and fresh, and she welcomed the kick of caffeine in her system. Sleep had been impossible for her. Every time she’d closed her eyes she’d envisioned the pain on Houston’s face when he discovered her note. Finally it was her turn to move. As she started down the aisle toward her seat, she noticed the old woman was crying. Huge, silent tears streamed down her cheeks, and her lower lip was trembling. It was beyond her to ignore this much pain. She paused in the aisle and then leaned toward her, whispering softly, “Ma’am, are you all right?” The old woman shrugged. “As right as a woman can be who’s lost the only man she ever loved.” Rachel’s concern deepened. She knew all too well what loss felt like. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, and abandoned the

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seat she’d been sitting in for the empty one beside the old woman. “Is there anything I can do?” The old woman smiled through her tears as she dug through her purse for a handkerchief. “No, dear, but it’s sweet of you to ask.” Rachel considered returning to her seat and then offered her the sweet roll instead. “Hungry?” The old woman’s eyes widened. “Maybe a little.” Rachel smiled. “I’ll share.” “Sharing is good,” the old woman said, and broke off a piece of the roll, then popped it in her mouth. A few moments later the bus driver took his seat and closed the door. As they began to move through the city, the old woman patted Rachel’s arm. “My name is Esther Goodman,” she said. “I’m Rachel Austin.” Esther nodded. “Where are you from, Rachel girl?” “Texas.” “Ah, Texas. I have never been that far west. I live in Philadelphia now, but I was born and raised in Brooklyn.” Rachel’s interest was piqued. “Isn’t that part of New York City?” “We like to think that the city is a part of us.” Esther laughed. “So, Rachel from Texas, where are you going?” Rachel smiled. “Your hometown, New York City.” “A family visit?” The smile died on Rachel’s face. “No.” The old woman paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. Curiosity, you know. It’s a failing of getting old.”

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Rachel sighed. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that everything is so fresh.” The food she’d eaten suddenly rolled in her belly. “My family is . . . my mother just . . .” She took a deep breath. “They’re all dead.” Esther’s dark brown eyes suddenly squinted in sympathy. “I’m sorry, my dear. Life does that to all of us, you know. My Frederick has been dead nearly twenty years now, but it seems like only yesterday.” She spread her hands across her lap, adjusting her posture and her dress at the same time. “I make a pilgrimage each year to his grave. That’s why I was in Memphis. And I always take the bus home to Philadelphia in memory of Frederick. Frederick always traveled by bus. He said it was the only way to see the country.” A little stunned that the woman’s grief was so strong after all these years, Rachel managed a nod of agreement. It should have seemed awkward, talking to a total stranger about things so close to her heart. But somehow, because the old woman was a stranger, that made it easier instead. Esther took Rachel’s fingers and began rubbing them between the palms of her hands. “Grief will pass, little girl. It will pass. So. You don’t go to New York for a visit. Why do you go to such a big place?” Rachel turned in her seat until she and Esther Goodman were face-to-face. “Can I ask you a question?” Esther smiled. “So ask.” “Am I pretty?”

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The question took Esther aback, but the expression on the young woman’s face was so serious, she had to answer in kind. She looked at Rachel for quite a long time, studying everything about her, from the dark wings of her eyebrows to the fullness of her lips. Finally she leaned back in her seat. “No.” Rachel didn’t know what she’d expected, but that wasn’t it. Her heart dropped. But Esther’s initial answer proved deceiving as she continued. “Pretty is too common a word for you, girl. You have beauty—great beauty. Excuse me for asking, but are you Latin, or maybe Italian?” Rachel was still reeling from “great beauty” and had to focus to respond. “Uh, no. I’m half Cherokee.” Esther clapped her hands again, as if delighted by the answer. “Eighty-two years old and I meet my first American Indian on a bus.” Rachel grinned. “Maybe you should have left Brooklyn sooner.” As Esther laughed, the wrinkles on her face seemed to disappear. Just for a moment Rachel imagined Esther as she’d been in her youth: a small, feisty girl with a slim face and a wide, laughing mouth. “So funny,” Esther said, still chuckling. “So now that I’ve answered your question, you must answer one for me.” Rachel stiffened. But fair was fair. She nodded. “Why does it matter, your looks ?” Rachel braced herself for rejection. “They’re all that I have,” she said. “I thought if I was pretty enough, I could become a model.”

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Esther frowned. “You’re certainly tall enough. And while there are plenty of beautiful women in the world, you have a look that is unique. I’m told that is a good thing, so it’s possible, I suppose.” Rachel almost relaxed. “Do you have a portfolio?” Esther asked. The look on Rachel’s face said it all. Esther sighed. “My dear, you must have pictures of yourself. Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?” Rachel shook her head. “Do you have a place to stay?” “I thought I would try the YWCA first.” A horrified expression crossed Esther’s face, and she threw up her hands. “A lamb to slaughter. That’s what you’ll be—a lamb to slaughter.” Rachel frowned. “I can take care of myself.” “Maybe in your world, but not in mine,” Esther said, then added, “You will need a job.” Rachel sighed. Esther grabbed both of Rachel’s hands and impulsively hugged them to her. Her face was alight with joy. “Let me help you.” “But I—” Esther interrupted. “No, I insist. You were kind to a stranger. Let me return the favor.” Rachel didn’t have it in her to argue. “Good,” Esther said. “It is settled, then. My cousin Maury manages a restaurant in downtown Manhattan. Can you wait tables?” Rachel nodded. “Good! Good! I will call him as soon as I get home,” Esther said. “By the time you get into New York, he will be waiting for you.”

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Rachel’s eyes widened. Such impulsive generosity— and from a stranger—was beyond her experience. “How can I thank you?” Rachel said. “By staying true to yourself,” Esther said. Then she pursed her lips, staring intently at Rachel’s face. “Something tells me you’re going to be all right, you know.” Rachel sighed. “I wish I could believe you.” The old woman chuckled. “So believe me, already. By the time you get to be my age, there are things you just know.” The Port Authority bus station in New York City was like nothing Rachel had ever seen before. It was the noise that got to her first. She knew she was gawking, but she just couldn’t help it. Never in her life had she seen such a mélange of faces and colors. And there were people everywhere—here in the main terminal and spilling out into the streets and beyond. In shock, she stared until she could no longer distinguish one face from another. It was almost as if they had become a singular mass of humanity in a constant state of motion. Suddenly a longing for the vast, open plains of west Texas and the meager populace of Mirage made her want to turn and run. And then she remembered what she’d given up just to get here, and silently cursed herself for being a coward. No matter what else she might or might not become, she wasn’t a quitter. Tightening her grip on her suitcase, she headed for a bank of pay phones on a nearby wall. Esther had given her strict instructions about what to do upon

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arrival, and after witnessing the chaos of mass confusion, she didn’t have the guts to do otherwise. She had to call Esther’s cousin Maury. Esther had assured her he would help. Her fingers were shaking as she dialed. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and she hoped the restaurant would be open. When the call began to ring through, she took a deep breath and made herself relax. A few moments later a woman’s voice came on the line. “Crystal Room.” Rachel tightened her grip on the phone. “I’d like to speak to Maury Feldman, please.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Feldman is busy. May I take a message?” Rachel frowned. This wasn’t part of her plan. How could she leave a message when she had no place of residence for the man to call back? Her belly knotted. She had to make this thing work. “Please, I know this sounds strange, but Mr. Feldman’s cousin Esther told me to call and—” The tone in the woman’s voice suddenly changed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were family. One moment, please—I’ll put you through.” Rachel bit her lip and waited, unwilling to correct the woman’s misapprehension. If it got her through to cousin Maury, then so much the better. And then a voice came on the line and Rachel’s attention refocused. “Feldman here.” Rachel jerked. “Mr. Feldman, my name is Rachel Austin. Your cousin Esther told me to—” “Ah, the girl from the bus. So you’re here after all.” He sighed. “Damn. Now I owe her a fiver.” “Excuse me?” Rachel said.

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He chuckled. “Oh, nothing. Just a little bet between Estie and me as to whether you would call.” Rachel started to relax. Maybe it was going to be all right after all. “So, where are you now?” he asked. “The Port Authority. I just got off the bus.” “What do you think of our city so far?” Rachel glanced back toward the streets and shuddered. “Words can’t describe it,” she muttered. He laughed. “Just catch a cab, Rachel Austin. Do you have my address?” “No, just your number.” “Get a pen.” Quickly she took down the information, unimpressed with the exclusive address or the fact that the man to whom she was talking was a very well-known restaurateur. “You got that?” Maury asked. Rachel read it back to him. “That’s it. Now listen to me. Hang up the phone. Go out the main entrance and hail yourself a cab.” “Yes, sir,” Rachel said. “Fine. When you get here, tell Sophie at the desk out front to give me a buzz.” “Yes, sir. And Mr. Feldman . . .” “Yes?” “Thank you very much.” He laughed. “Don’t thank me. Thank Estie. She owns this place, you know.” Speechless, Rachel listened as the line went dead. “Hey, lady! You done with that?” She jumped and turned. A short, beefy man with fiery red hair was pointing at the phone in her hand.

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“Oh . . . yes,” she mumbled. He took the phone out of her hand and was already dialing when she bent to retrieve her suitcase. A few minutes later she was outside. The heat was intense, but it was nothing compared to the rapid beat of her heart. She’d accomplished something today. She’d arrived at her destination and was about to meet her new employer. All of that and she’d just gotten off the bus. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to shift some of the terrible heartache that she’d brought with her from Mirage.

� three �

Maury Feldman was a younger version of Esther. Just shy of five foot four, he exuded a power that belied his size. His dark eyes were glittering with interest as he came forward to shake Rachel’s hand. And when he smiled, Rachel felt bathed in the warmth. “The famous Miss Austin has arrived,” Maury said, enveloping Rachel’s long, slim fingers with his hands. “Welcome to my city.” Rachel looked down at the little man, at the expensive cut of his suit and the shine on his shoes. A flash of gold shone momentarily from beneath the cuff on his long-sleeved white shirt, and then it was gone. She didn’t need to see it clearly to know it was probably a very expensive watch. Everything about the man and his restaurant spelled class. She’d never felt so out of place in her life. “I am overwhelmed,” she said softly. “Both by your city and by your generosity.” Maury’s dark eyes glittered with interest. Esther hadn’t been wrong about the young woman’s looks. In spite of her boots, the faded blue jeans, and a plain

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denim shirt, she was stunning. But there were many beautiful women in the world, and right now this one just needed a job and a place to stay. “Estie says you’ve waited tables?” Rachel smiled. “Oh, yes, sir, back in Mirage. Besides stripping at Fender’s on the outskirts of town, it’s about the only other job available for women.” Maury’s grin widened. The girl was a jewel. And so damned naive he couldn’t believe it. “When can you start?” he asked. She blinked, startled that it had been that easy. “Just like that? No interview? No trial run? No request for a résumé that, may I add, I don’t have?” He nodded. “Just like that.” Rachel hugged herself. “Today, tomorrow, it’s your call, sir.” Then she looked down at her suitcase and added, “If you could recommend a hotel, I would appreciate it. I need to find a place to stay.” Maury shook his head. “Get your bag,” he said shortly, and took her by the arm. “Already taken care of.” Rachel’s mouth dropped. “Excuse me?” “When I told you Estie owned the place, I meant the entire building. That includes an apartment on the top floor.” She thought of her limited resources. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “It might be more than I can afford.” Maury smiled. “Estie and her late husband used to live there. She keeps it as is for sentimental reasons, and once in a while she stays in it when she comes to the city. But she hasn’t been here in over a year, and she said to put you there.”

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Rachel followed the little man in disbelief. No one had ever been this kind to her in her entire life, and especially not a stranger. It was almost too good to be true. Even as she followed along behind, she had a frightening notion that when she wasn’t looking, the other shoe would drop. They walked from the dining area into the kitchen and then down a hallway to an alcove where an elevator was situated. The wire-cage elevator looked ancient, but when they got inside, it took them up nicely, with only a small jerk as it stopped. “Here we are!” Maury said, and stepped aside for Rachel to exit first. She walked out of the elevator and straight into the living room. Immediately her heart dropped. It didn’t take more than a look for her to know that the rent would be far out of her price range. She stopped. Maury frowned. “Something wrong?” “Yes. I’m afraid the answer is no,” she said quietly. His eyebrows rose. “No? As in you don’t want it?” She sighed. “As in can’t afford it.” The smile came back in full force. “No, no, you misunderstand,” he cried. “You stay in Estie’s home as if you were family. No pay. No rent. You work for me. I pay you the same as every other waitress. But no rent.” Rachel was stunned. The generosity of a stranger left her humbled. “My God,” she whispered, and set her suitcase down with a thump. Maury grinned again. “Come with me. I’ll show you around. You unpack, get settled in. If something doesn’t work, let me know. You’ll work the lunch

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shift tomorrow. After you’ve learned the ropes, I’ll put you on nights. That way you can pursue your modeling career during the day.” She nodded, and then she did something very out of character for her. She threw her arms around the older man’s neck and hugged him. It was quick but fervent. When she stepped back, her face was flushed and her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. She drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you isn’t enough for what you and Esther have done for me. I’ve been afraid for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be safe.” Maury’s smile slipped. Besides the fact that Rachel Austin had befriended Estie during what was always, for her, a traumatic journey, it was suddenly clear to him why Estie had identified with her so readily. Esther Goodman knew firsthand what fear felt like. Of the five members of her immediate family, Estie was the only one who had survived the Holocaust. It seemed to Maury that Esther had recognized a familiar soul in Rachel Austin. “I know this city can be frightening,” Maury said gently. “But there are good people. Just be cautious and you will be fine.” A few minutes later he was gone, and Rachel picked up her suitcase and went to unpack. It wasn’t until her clothes were hanging in the closet that it hit her. She’d done it. She was in New York City. She had a job and a home. She walked to the windows on the south side of the building and stared out at the horizon. Houston was there—somewhere—but so far away. The longing to see him, to hear his voice and feel his touch,

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was a physical pain. She braced her hands against the windows and started to shake. “Oh God,” she moaned, and suddenly turned away from the window and covered her face. “What have I done?” Finally, she cried. For her mother. For her home. And for the loss of a man who’d seen into her soul. Houston was a walking dead man. He went through the motions of life, but he didn’t feel it. To make matters worse, it hadn’t taken long for word to get around in Mirage that Rachel Austin was gone. Houston had suffered everything from well-meaning comments to careless jeers about being dumped. None of it mattered. His days and nights became a mindless routine of getting up, going to work, coming home, doing chores, going to bed, then doing it all over again. But he couldn’t sleep. Often he would witness the birth of a new day from the south end of his pasture, or from the corral, fixing fence. He worked day and night, praying for exhaustion to claim him. And on the rare occasions when it did and he slept, there were still the dreams to get through. Rachel crying. Rachel screaming his name. And the ultimate nightmare, the one that never failed to wake him up. Rachel gone. It was that reality that nearly broke him. And yet somehow he persevered. The only good side to the tragedy was that during the months after Rachel’s disappearance, much-needed repairs had been done.

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Six months passed. One holiday after another came and went without Rachel. Houston’s body was strong, but his spirit was broken. He came to hate the hour when his work at the feed store was over and he had to go home. He was dreading it today, even though it was Christmas Eve and there was a thawing fifteenpound turkey from Dale Emery on the seat beside him. He felt no different. It was almost a joke. What the hell was he going to do with a turkey? He hadn’t done anything more involved in the kitchen than opening and heating a can of soup or stew since the day Rachel left. Most of his meals were eaten in town or on the road. If it hadn’t been for the daily need to come home to feed his livestock and Taco, he wouldn’t have come home at all. But they were his responsibilities, and misery or not, Houston Bookout was a man of honor. It would be simple to let everything he had go to hell. In his heart he was more than halfway there. But he kept thinking of his father and the other generations of Bookouts who’d made their home on this vast, lonely plain. They’d had their share of disappointments and heartaches and they hadn’t quit. For that reason alone, he kept going. A blast of cold wind rocked his truck as he sped along. He frowned and glanced through the windshield into the darkness beyond. He hated winter. It was always dark by the time he got home. A scattering of snow flurries blew across the highway ahead of his headlights. He glanced away long enough to find the knob that would turn up the heater. When he looked back up, there was a man

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standing in the middle of the road, trying to flag him down. “Son of a—” He swerved, barely missing the man, and came to a skidding halt on the shoulder of the road. He started to reach behind the seat for his rifle, just in case, when he remembered he’d taken it out yesterday to clean it and hadn’t put it back. He frowned. It could be nothing, and then again, by stopping, he could be setting himself up to be robbed. He glanced down at the turkey on the seat beside him and shrugged. If worse came to worst, he guessed he could use it as a weapon. Fifteen pounds of halffrozen anything could do a lot of damage if put in the right place. He turned to look for the man, wondering if he was even real. Then he saw him running across the highway toward him. Houston sighed. The man looked to be in his early thirties, tall and skinny and in desperate need of a heavier coat than the one he was wearing. Houston’s sympathy increased. He rolled down the window just enough to be heard. “What’s the trouble?” he asked. “My car . . . blowout . . . spare’s flat . . . phone’s dead. Damned near froze to death.” Houston’s decision was made before the man was through talking. No matter what had happened, he couldn’t leave him out here. He would freeze before morning. “Get in,” he yelled, and then pulled the turkey into the middle of the seat as the man ran around the bed of the truck to get in.

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A cold blast of air came in with him, and then there was a long moment of silence as the stranger leaned forward and held his hands to the floor, nearer the heat. “Oh man,” he mumbled. “I thought I was going to die out here.” Houston nodded. “It can happen.” The man couldn’t stop shivering. Houston hit the control knob, turning the heater up to full blast. The man leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and sighed. “I have never been so happy to feel heat in my life.” Then he looked at Houston. “I’m Kenny Monday. Land man for Juco Petroleum. I was trying to get to the Midland-Odessa airport to catch my flight when my tire blew out.” Houston glanced at his watch. It was already after seven. “It’s a good hour’s drive from here to Midland. What time was your flight?” Kenny shivered. “A couple of hours ago. And it was the last one out this evening.” “Sorry,” Houston said. “But you’re lucky I worked late. Not many people take this road.” Kenny managed a grin. “Figured that out about an hour ago. Truth is, I got lost. When my tire blew, I was damned lucky not to roll. Still, I thought I had it covered until I discovered my cell phone was dead.” Houston put his truck into gear. “Where are you taking me?” Kenny asked. “Home with me.” Surprise crossed Kenny’s face. “I can’t impose,” he said quickly. “If you’d just drop me off at the nearest motel, I’d be happy to pay you for your trouble.”

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“The closest motel would be in Midland, and that’s too far to chance in this weather,” Houston said. Kenny groaned. “Don’t worry about it,” Houston said. “I have an extra bed. You can use my phone to call a tow truck tomorrow. Okay?” Between the blistering cold and the blowing snow, it didn’t take Kenny long to agree. “Okay.” Then he glanced down at the seat beside him and grinned. “Christmas turkey?” he asked. “Dog food,” Houston muttered. When Houston woke the next morning, he was stunned to realize that he’d slept the whole night through. It was the first time he’d gotten a good night’s rest since Rachel left him. He rolled over and sat on the side of the bed, staring at his dirty clothes on the floor. And then he remembered—the man from the highway. What was his name . . . Monday? Keith, no, Kenny. Yeah. Kenny Monday. Still amazed that he’d slept so soundly, he quickly washed up and then began to dress. The house was cold. He couldn’t remember if he’d turned up the heat before they’d gone to bed. Shivering slightly and thinking of coffee, he headed for the living room to check the thermostat. Sure enough, it was down. He shook his head in disgust as he turned it back up. The only thing he could figure was that he’d pushed it the wrong way when he’d turned out the lights. The hiss of the pilot light igniting the furnace seemed loud in the surrounding silence. Houston glanced at the clock. It was after eight. Good thing it was Christmas Day or he would have been late for work.

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He walked into the kitchen to make coffee and then frowned when he got to the sink. That damned turkey. He’d forgotten to put it in the freezer. He poked it with the tip of his finger and then sighed. It was pretty well thawed. A door banged in the back of the house, a sign his visitor was up. Giving the turkey a last, disgusted look, he reached for the coffeepot. The way things looked, he’d better make twice as much. Another door banged again, followed by a thump. Unaccustomed to the sound of anyone in this house except him, he frowned and added extra coffee to the pot. Better make it twice as strong, too. When the coffee was perking, his mind moved to the next step in his day. As host, it was up to him to furnish food as well as lodging. But when he opened the refrigerator, he snorted beneath his breath. They weren’t going to get far on three eggs and a couple of strips of moldy bacon. He glanced back at the sink and the plasticwrapped turkey, then shrugged. Cooking the damned thing didn’t necessarily mean he was celebrating anything. They had to eat something, and if he didn’t cook it now, it would spoil. Waste not, want not, his mother used to say. He dug out a roaster from beneath the cabinet and gave it a quick rinse. A few minutes later, the salted and peppered bird was in the oven. Kenny Monday staggered into the kitchen. “Whatever I have to do for a cup of that coffee, just tell me now.” Houston reached in the cabinet and handed him a cup. “Help yourself,” he said shortly.

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Kenny took a sip of the coffee, relishing the kick of caffeine. “Lord, what a night. But I slept like a baby after we got here,” he added. Houston nodded. “Strangely enough, so did I.” Kenny grinned. “You said that like it surprised you.” Houston slapped a skillet on top of the stove and took the three eggs out of the refrigerator. “It did.” Kenny refilled his cup. “Insomnia?” Houston paused, debating with himself about honesty as opposed to anonymity. For some reason honesty won out. “No. My girl dumped me about six months ago. I’ve been wallowing in it ever since.” Kenny laughed, and the moment he did, Houston caught himself grinning. Damn, he thought. That felt good. He shoved the skillet over an unlit burner and headed for the pantry. Surely there was something in there that he could add to three eggs to make them stretch to feed two hungry men. The moment he thought it, his spirits lifted a bit more. Hunger. That was something else he’d been doing without. He shook his head as he dug through the cans. Having company seemed to agree with him. Then he spied a couple of small cans in the corner and picked them up. “Hey, Monday, how do you feel about a Vienna sausage omelet?” Kenny grinned. “Do you have any salsa?” Houston thought. “Maybe in the refrigerator.” “Then I’m your man,” Kenny said. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday noon.”

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Houston frowned. “Sorry,” he said shortly. “I didn’t think. I should have offered you something last night.” Kenny shook his head. “The only thing I wanted last night was a hot bath and a warm bed. You gave me both, for which I will be forever grateful.” Houston shrugged. “I just happened along.” “You were a godsend,” Kenny said quietly. Houston frowned but didn’t answer. A short while later he dished up their food, adding a plate of toast and a jar of honey that was turning to sugar. “And the salsa,” he said, setting it on the table near Kenny’s plate. Kenny gave his eggs a liberal dose of the chunky red sauce and then took a big bite. “Mmm,” he groaned appreciatively. “Manna, Texas style.” Houston grinned. “Man, you must be hungry to appreciate my cooking. Now, if it had been Rachel’s—” He stopped as if he’d just been punched in the gut. “Damn,” he muttered, and took a drink of coffee instead of finishing what he’d started to say. Kenny paused in the act of taking a bite, staring thoughtfully at the man across the table. “She really did a number on you, didn’t she?” he asked. Houston stared at his plate. It still hurt to think of her, but something was different. The pain wasn’t as sharp. And it didn’t last nearly as long. He picked up his fork. Hell. He would never get over her, but maybe—just maybe—he was getting past the loss. “It wasn’t her fault,” Houston said, and as soon as

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he said it aloud he knew he truly believed it. “She was having a real tough time. Everything fell in on her, and I didn’t know how to save her from herself.” Kenny frowned. “I don’t understand.” And then he held up his hand. “Sorry. None of my business.” A slight grin tilted the corner of his mouth. “Besides, there are plenty of other women out there, my man. Just think what a time you’ll have looking for them.” Houston’s stare never wavered. “I don’t want another woman.” Kenny grinned. “You say that now, but just wait a while. You’ll change your mind.” “If you had known her, you wouldn’t be saying that,” Houston said. Kenny was pushing, but he sensed Houston’s need to talk. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he teased. “Do you have a picture of this fly-by-night Wonder Woman?” Houston leaned forward. “Are you a betting man?” Surprise etched itself across Kenny’s face. “I play the horses now and then. Other than that, no.” Houston got up from the table. “Well, I’ll bet you five dollars that I can wipe that smile off your face without touching you.” “How so?” “Wait here,” Houston said. Kenny shrugged, spooned some more salsa on his eggs, and took another big bite. His plate was empty and he was eyeing the food on Houston’s plate when Houston came back. Kenny looked up. “Good thing you got back when you did. Your eggs were starting to look pretty good.” Houston handed Kenny a handful of snapshots and then stood back, waiting for his first reaction.

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The first image of her had been snapped outdoors beside a corral. She was wearing old, faded Levi’s that accentuated the length of her legs, and the shirt she had on was open enough to reveal the swell of her breasts. She stood with her feet slightly apart and her hands on her hips, and there was a half smile on her face that made Kenny ache. “Sweet Jesus,” Kenny muttered. He shuffled through the other pictures as well, and when he was finished he started all over again, unable to tear himself away. It didn’t make sense for a one-dimensional image to be so alive, but just looking at those pictures, he felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. “What’s her name?” “Rachel Austin.” Kenny’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her face. Then he reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “I was wrong. Keep the change.” In a strange way, Houston felt vindicated. The scent of roasting turkey was beginning to waft through the kitchen as he stuffed the twenty in his pocket and finished his eggs. Houston stood at the kitchen window, nursing a cup of coffee and watching the snow. Although the fall wasn’t heavy, it had yet to let up. The carcass of a half-eaten turkey still sat on the countertop behind him. For all intents and purposes, Christmas had come and gone, but Kenny Monday was still here. A sudden roar came from the living room, along with Kenny’s loud groan. Houston smiled to himself. The football game was still going strong, but from the sound of it, Kenny’s team was not winning.

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A few moments later Kenny wandered into the kitchen. Houston heard him coming and turned. “Still snowing,” he said as Kenny headed for the turkey. Kenny nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced at Houston. “Sorry about barging in on you like this.” Houston shrugged. “It’s not your fault Herman Ackers blew a head gasket in his tow truck.” He smiled as Kenny took a knife to what was left of the turkey. “Besides, if you hadn’t stayed, I would have eaten by myself.” He didn’t bother to add that it would have been peanut butter and jelly, not turkey, that would have graced his Christmas table. “Do you mind if I use your phone again?” Kenny asked. Houston shook his head. “Help yourself. I’m damn sure not expecting any calls.” And the moment he said it, he knew he was lying. Rachel loved Christmas. And Rachel used to love him. This day had always been special for them. Even though she was gone, somewhere in the back of his mind he’d been expecting her to call. Kenny stuffed a last piece of turkey in his mouth and reached for the phone. Houston walked out of the kitchen, leaving Kenny some privacy to make his calls. Kenny was on the phone to his boss at Juco Petroleum, assuring him that he’d be on his way as soon as possible, when call waiting beeped in. “Look,” Kenny said, “there’s another call on this line. I’m sure it’s for my host, so I’d better get off the line.” His boss said goodbye, and Kenny depressed the receiver button to answer the call. “Hello?”

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On the other end of the line there was a quick catch of breath and then silence. “Hello? Is anyone there?” Rachel took a deep breath. The unfamiliar voice startled her, and she went into a panic. Even though she’d been the one to leave, there had been a part of her that had taken comfort in knowing where he was. But the stranger’s voice sent her thoughts into a new set of worries. What if Houston was gone? What if he’d sold his land? What if he’d left as suddenly and secretively as she had? She would never be able to find him again. And with that thought came something she’d never realized until now. She hadn’t planned on staying away forever. But what if it was too late? “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I must have dialed the wrong number.” “No, wait!” Kenny cried. “I’m sorry. I’m just a visitor here. I should have identified this as the Bookout residence. Do you want to speak to Houston?” She went weak with relief and sank down on the bed. “If he’ll talk to me,” she said softly. Suddenly Kenny knew who this was. The husky drawl somehow fit the woman in the picture. “Is this Rachel?” he asked. She was silent. “Don’t hang up,” Kenny begged. “I’m going to get him now.” Still not a word. “Rachel, are you there?” Kenny asked. Finally she answered. “Yes.” For Kenny it was enough. “Do you promise not to hang up?” he asked.

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“Yes.” Again the slow drawl stripped his mind of rational thought. He laid down the phone and bolted for the living room, yelling as he ran. “Telephone! Houston, there’s a phone call for you.” Kenny burst into the living room, slightly out of breath. “Hurry! It’s Rachel.” Houston was out of the room within seconds. Kenny sank down onto the couch and picked up the remote, aiming it at the television and turning up the volume. It was the only way he knew how to give Houston Bookout the privacy he was going to need.

� four �

Houston’s hands were shaking as he picked up the phone, but the need to hear her voice overwhelmed any hesitancy he might have had. “Rachel?” “Houston, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Houston went weak. Without care for where he was sitting, he shoved the platter of turkey aside and leaned against the counter. Tears came without warning, and it was all he could do to talk. “I guess I knew that,” he said. “I never meant to hurt you. I was just . . . I couldn’t . . .” “Are you all right?” he asked. “Yes. Are you?” Rachel countered. “It’s getting better.” “I’m glad,” she said. This mindless banter was driving Houston nuts. He wanted to touch her. To see her face. He could hear the tears in her voice, and he needed to know for certain that she was really all right. But he couldn’t

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do that. Anger came swiftly. How could she be so calm when he was dying inside? “So you’re glad?” he snapped. “Well, I guess I can understand that. This way you won’t have to feel guilty that I didn’t hang myself in the barn, right?” He heard her quiet gasp. Hadn’t she expected him to be angry? She’d walked away from the only thing he had to offer her—himself. “Damn.” Houston said, and made himself take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said shortly. “That came out of nowhere.” “No. It came from the truth,” Rachel said. “And it’s no more than I deserve. Anyway, I didn’t call to hurt you any more than I already have. I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas.” Her voice caught on a sob. “On the face of things, it was a pretty selfish thing to do. But what else is new?” Houston could feel her slipping away. He gripped the phone a little tighter, wishing he could turn back time and change what he’d said. “Rachel.” “What?” “Where are you, baby?” “I’m fine. I have a job and an apartment and the people here are good to me.” His head was spinning and his heart was starting to pound. “Please, Rachel. I won’t bother you. I just need to know where you are.” “I wish you a happier new year than the one you just had,” she said. Houston was almost shouting. “Damn it, Chero-

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kee, quit playing games. Either tell me where the hell you are, or hang up the phone.” The line went dead in his ear. He stared at the receiver for over a minute, unable to believe what she’d done—what he’d done. Then he slammed it down and headed for the door, grabbing his coat and hat on the way out. New Year’s Eve at the Crystal Room was nothing short of chaos. Bartalow and Sons had reserved the entire restaurant for the evening. Maury had hired extra staff just for the night so the prestigious ad agency and its invited guests could ring in the new year without any hitches. Rachel thought it was a whole lot of hoopla just to ring in a new year. The uniforms that the waiters and waitresses usually wore were set aside for the night, and they were now in the process of being outfitted by a uniform rental company with what amounted to costumes. Rachel stared in disbelief as someone handed her a tiny black dress with a knife-pleated skirt. The accompanying apron and hair band were stark white and starched to perfection. She thrust the uniform back under the rental agent’s nose. “I think you gave me the wrong size,” she said. He flipped a dangling tag and squinted. “Size six?” “Yes, but—” He gave her a noncommittal stare as he showed her the tag. “Size six. Move along, lady. I don’t have all day.” “Good Lord,” she muttered, and held it up to her front.

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The décolletage was too low. The hem was too high. There was no way in hell she was going to wear this in public. She began looking around the room for Joe Clouse, the assistant manager. Finally she saw him talking to a man who was dispensing matching shoes. “Joe, may I speak with you?” Joe turned and then looked up. A short chunk of a man, he relished his position of power. When he saw who it was, he frowned. His tastes didn’t run to women, and he especially didn’t like them tall. “What size shoe do you wear?” he snapped. “An eight,” Rachel said. “But that’s not—” “Here,” he said, handing Rachel a pair of black high heels. “Try these on.” She did as she was told, still trying to explain about the uniform mix-up. “They fit,” she said, then tried to show him the uniform. “They gave me the wrong size. Look at it. It’s too short.” Joe glared. It still galled him that she had virtually walked in off the street and been given a job without benefit of any sort of résumé. That she was living in the boss’s quarters upstairs was the icing on his cake of discontent. “They’re supposed to look like that,” he snapped. “Now get dressed. I have too much to do to quibble with you about hemlines.” Rachel turned away in dismay, but not before she heard him mumbling something about provincial peasants with no social graces. She should have let it go, but her nerves were still raw from her phone call to Houston a few days ago. She spun around, her eyes flashing angrily.

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“I may not know everything there is to know about city living,” she snapped. “But where I come from, rudeness is not an accepted form of communication.” She pivoted sharply and headed for the employee lounge to put on her uniform, but it was overflowing with other women who had the same idea. She frowned and turned away. They had at least an hour before the restaurant would open for the party. Although she never flaunted the fact that she lived on the premises, this time she thought it prudent to use the apartment to change. She just had time to go up there, get into the uniform, and fix her hair. A couple of the women who worked the same shift as she did were coming into the lounge as she started out. Their hands were full of uniforms and shoes, their faces still red from the cold outside. “Why, Abby, I thought you were off tonight,” Rachel said. Abby DeCaprio’s eyes were shimmering with angry tears as she glanced around to see who might be listening. “Yeah, so did I. My boyfriend is so angry with me for coming in to work that he went to the party without me. But you know how it is. You refuse a request, and the next time you break a dish you’re fired.” Rachel’s sympathy went out to her. The other woman with her, Nedra Murphy, was just as upset, but taking it in another direction. “Wow, what a madhouse.” She held up her outfit. “Do you believe this? Then she pointed to the dipping neckline. “Wait until old Clousie gets a look at me in this. He’ll send me home for sure.” Rachel grinned. Nedra was more than buxom—

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and she was right. It didn’t seem possible that her overample bosom was going to stay put in that skimpy little dress. “Guess we better hustle,” Rachel said, and started out the door. “Where are you going?” Nedra asked. Rachel paused, then turned, eyeing the two women. “To get ready.” Still upset about the fight she’d had with her boyfriend, Abby missed the implication of where Rachel was going. She waved toward the crowd in the lounge as a tear slid down her cheek. “Where? Just look at this mess. Even if we manage to find the privacy to dress, we’ll never get to the bathroom to fix our hair.” “I know a place. Come with me,” Rachel said. Both women followed. Thinking Rachel was taking them to some obscure storage room where they could dress undisturbed, they were startled when she stopped at the old elevator off the kitchen. They began to fidget nervously. While they wanted to get dressed in private, neither one of them wanted to lose her job over it. “Where are you going?” Nedra whispered. “To my apartment,” Rachel said. “You live in this building?” She nodded. Their chatter ceased as they got inside. When they exited into the spacious apartment three floors above the Crystal Room, they gasped in disbelief. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t know this was here,” Abby cried. “Neither did I,” Nedra echoed.

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Rachel bit her lip, hoping this wasn’t going to cause a rift between her and these women. They had become her only friends, however casual. “The spare bedroom is through there,” Rachel said, pointing to the left. “And the bathroom is down the hall.” But neither woman moved. They kept staring at the elegant but old-fashioned furniture, and then back at Rachel. “You live here?” Nedra finally muttered. Rachel nodded. Both women frowned. They knew what Rachel made in wages and tips because their paychecks were similar. And since there was no way they could ever have afforded such luxury, their curiosity about her circumstances increased. “Are you rich or something?” Abby asked. Rachel laughed. It was a throw-back-your-head kind of laugh, and it made both women grin with embarrassment. They didn’t get the joke yet, but somehow they knew it was on them. “Not in this lifetime,” Rachel said. “I grew up dirt poor in a little town in west Texas. My daddy was a rodeo bum, my mother waited tables in the town’s only café.” Abby kept staring at the rooms and the space. Rarely did New York City apartments have space like this, and never for the working-class pocket. Rachel sighed. The truth hurt, but sometimes it was best. “My parents are dead. My mother died about six months ago. The bank took our ranch.” She thought of Houston. “Even then, leaving Texas was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” She tossed her uni-

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form on the back of the sofa and started unbuttoning her shirt. “Laugh if you want, but I came to New York to try to be a model. I’ve already been turned away at the doors of the best, so I guess you can say I’m still trying.” Their stares became judgmental as Rachel stepped out of her jeans. In their opinion, her slender, welltoned figure coupled with her height and pretty face pushed up the possibility of her success. “So you’re waiting tables until you become famous,” Nedra drawled, eyeing Rachel with new consideration. “In the meantime, are you sleeping with Maury?” “Nedra!” Abby gasped. “How rude!” Rachel sighed. This was nothing more than she’d expected. “No. He’s been kind, but I didn’t know him until I hired on. The owner is a friend of mine. That’s how I came to be here.” “You know Mrs. Goodman?” Nedra gasped. Rachel nodded. “Yes.” “Wow! That’s fantastic,” Abby said. “Look, we’d better get dressed before we get into trouble,” Rachel said. “The last thing I need is to get fired.” They dressed, chattering among themselves as they fixed each other’s hair and zipped each other up. They stepped onto the elevator together, but the moment they got off, Nedra and Abby each gave Rachel a nervous smile and left, murmuring to each other as they walked away. Rachel could tell that the tenuous bond between her and the two other women had stretched a little thinner. She’d taken a chance on the truth and lost.

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Rachel sighed. Her feelings were a little hurt, but it was nothing she hadn’t experienced before. All her life she’d been outside the realm of what society called normal. Too tall. Too pretty. Too different. So New York City was just like Mirage in that respect. She lifted her chin and gritted her teeth. It didn’t matter. Nothing could matter but success. “And let that be a lesson to me,” she muttered, heading off to her station. Maris Binder’s studied elegance was part of her persona. As an ad executive with Bartalow and Sons, she had been given the dubious honor of playing hostess at the Crystal Room tonight. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and until Linda Bartalow, the boss’s wife, quit having babies, it wouldn’t be the last. Maris eyed herself in the mirror as she put the finishing touches on her makeup. Her face was long and slender, her eyes large and dark. Her lips were too thin for her taste, but she worked well with what she had. Her shoulder-length dark hair was discreetly colored to hide the gray hairs she’d accumulated in her forty-seven years. She gave her eyelashes a last swipe of mascara and then stepped back to admire her work. A slow smile spread across her face. Those daily workouts were definitely paying off. Her hair was good, her makeup better. But it was the Versace dress that was her crowning glory. She’d spent her entire bonus from the Duboy account on this dress. In her opinion, it was well worth the price. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table and reached for her bag and wrap. She just had time to

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hurry to the Crystal Room and get in place before the guests began to arrive. Her hand was on the doorknob when the phone rang. She paused at the door, listening as her answering machine came on. But when the caller identified himself as Jules Farrier, she raced for the phone. “Jules, hello!” Maris said, aware that her breathless voice would be good proof that she hadn’t been screening her calls. The prestigious clients always seemed to resent the idea. “You just caught me. I was on my way out for the evening.” “Do you have any news for me?” he asked. Maris gritted her teeth. The man was like a bulldog. But there was a smile in her voice as she answered. “Not yet, but things are looking good.” It’s just a small, harmless lie . . . and it’s good for business. “That’s not what I wanted to hear,” Farrier said. Maris bit her lip. The Farrier account was her baby, and keeping Jules Farrier happy was part of the job. “Be fair, Jules. You gave us a month. We still have a couple of weeks to go. And you know how hectic the holidays are, what with people gone and—” “I’m not paying for anyone’s holidays,” he snapped. “I’m paying for results.” Then he sighed. “Look, Maris, your work is fabulous. That’s why I went with Bartalow and Sons. But I’m leaving for France in a couple of hours. I’ll be gone for about a week. I wanted some assurance that things were moving along before I left, that’s all.” Maris began to relax. Like the typical male, he’d barked, he’d snapped, and now he was reluctantly wagging his tail.

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“Without jumping the gun, let me just assure you that our concept is going to blow you away.” He sighed. “I’ve been in the business too long to be fooled. I can live with the fact no one’s had an epiphany yet. But by the time I get back, I want nothing short of magic. Do we understand each other?” “Of course, Jules. Of course.” “Just find the face,” he muttered. “After that, everything else will fall into place.” “Happy New Year, Jules, and safe traveling,” Maris said. “Same to you,” he said. “If you need me, my office will know how to reach me.” Maris glanced at her watch and rolled her eyes. “Right!” she said lightly. A few seconds later the line went dead in her ear. “Finally,” she muttered, and headed for the door. A few early guests were already mingling when she made her entrance. Her gaze was nervous as she sought out her boss’s presence. It was time to make her apologies for not being punctual. She checked her wrap and bag and then headed across the room toward the bar. “Andrew, sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. Andrew Bartalow turned. Whatever he’d been about to say left his mind. He raised an eyebrow and then toasted her appearance by raising his glass. “My dear, if a few extra minutes is what it took to come looking like that, then you’re forgiven.” She smiled. “Well said.” Then she gave a quick look around, making sure that they wouldn’t be overheard. “Farrier called just as I was walking out the door. He’s antsy. Wanted to know how things

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were progressing.” Then she sighed. “He didn’t believe a word of what I told him.” Andrew frowned. “Damn it, Maris, don’t lose this account. We need it.” Maris took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, lifted it to her lips, and sipped. “Nice!” she said, a bit surprised by the quality, considering the size of the expected crowd. Andrew smiled. “You know my motto. Only the best.” Maris nodded. “And that’s what we’ll give Farrier. The best.” Then she frowned. “But he didn’t make it easy. Timeless is a wonderful perfume. There are any number of top models who would have made fabulous representatives for the product. But Jules wants an unknown.” A wry grin tilted the corners of her mouth. “How did he put it? Oh yes . . . ‘a face as new and memorable as the scent.’ ” Andrew’s smile never reached his eyes. “You’ll make it happen,” he said. “You have no other choice.” Then he softened the warning with a pat to her arm. “Thanks again for standing in for Linda. I’ll let you get on to your duties.” Maris nodded. She’d just been dismissed. Rachel moved through the crowd with a tray of appetizers. Even without the two-and-a-half-inch black heels she was wearing, she was a head taller than many of the women, and eye to eye with most of the men. She felt naked before the world in the small black dress. It swayed as she walked, like a dainty bell. Now and then a glimpse of the narrow white hair band was visible beneath the loops of hair she’d

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piled high on her head. Except for a slash of cranberry lip color, her face was devoid of makeup. But her mind was not on her job. She kept thinking of last New Year’s Eve with Houston. They’d gone to the local bar and laughed and danced for more than four hours. But when the countdown toward midnight began, Houston had pulled her into a corner away from the rowdy crowd and buried his face against the curve of her neck. She remembered how she’d felt then, with the noise getting louder and louder and her heart beating slower and slower. His breath had been warm and soft against her skin. His hands, so strong—yet gentle. Suddenly a roar had erupted around them. Houston had looked at her then and she’d seen the truth of what he felt for her, there in the depths of his gaze. It was a powerful thing to be loved. “Miss? Miss?” Rachel jerked as if she’d been slapped. She’d been so lost in the memory that she’d forgotten what she was supposed to be doing. “Yes?” “What are these?” Rachel looked at the tray, at the particular appetizers in question. “I believe they’re toast points with beluga caviar.” “Ooh, I’ll have that,” the woman squealed. “Yes, ma’am,” Rachel said, and offered a napkin. The woman greedily took two appetizers, and Rachel moved on, making sure that her mind stayed on the job at hand. After all, there was no need to dwell on the past. It was over. *

*

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Maris’s dress was a success. If she didn’t wind up on the society pages tomorrow, she’d be surprised. And it wouldn’t hurt Andrew Bartalow’s feelings at all to have one of his employees in the limelight. For him, everything was business, even when he played. But all through the evening she kept finding herself distracted from the festivities. It wasn’t until an hour or so before midnight that she realized what she’d been doing. Every time she’d been introduced to a new woman, she’d been studying her face. It was driving her mad. To date she’d sent Farrier more than a hundred and twenty-five photos of models, and he’d rejected every one. At this point she was beginning to question her ability to recognize beauty. She sighed. Maybe if she looked at the women from a man’s point of view, she would see something different. And then she snorted lightly beneath her breath and lifted another glass of champagne from a tray. If she knew what constituted a man’s point of view, she’d own the damn company instead of getting her annual headache from bumping against that glass ceiling. “Maris! Wonderful party!” She turned, the smile fixed on her face as she searched out the identity of the voice. A man raised his glass to her from a few feet away. It was Pullman . . . no, Perleman, from accounting. Then her gaze slid from his face to the woman passing through the crowd behind him. All she got was a swift glimpse of profile, but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat. Who is she? The question came swiftly, followed by another more urgent. Where did she go?

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She set down her glass and started moving through the crowd, looking for a woman with a crown of black hair and a long, slender neck with an exquisite curve. Minutes passed and she began to get frantic. For the first time in her life she cursed her lack of height. And then someone suddenly grabbed her arm. “Maris, is something wrong?” Anger pushed at her nerves as she spun. “Oh, Andrew, it’s you.” He frowned. “Yes, it’s me. I just wanted to know if you’re all right. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” “No, nothing is wrong,” she muttered, and looked back through the crowd, groaning with dismay. “Damn, where did she go?” Andrew lowered his voice. “I insist. Either tell me what’s going on, or sit down for a moment and calm yourself.” Maris grabbed him by both of his arms. “Did you see a very tall, very elegant woman walk by here just now?” He smirked. “Maris, I fear you’ve had too much champagne. Almost every women here is elegantly turned out.” Barely restraining the urge to slap him, Maris lowered her voice. “I’m talking stunning here, Andrew . . . as in just right for the Farrier account. Do you follow my drift?” His eyes widened as he lifted his head like a stag sniffing the air for a doe in heat. “What did she look like?” Maris groaned. “That’s just it. I didn’t get a good look at her face.”

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Andrew sighed in disgust. “Good Lord, woman. I thought you were on to something. If you didn’t see her face, then what is the purpose of this conversation?” “Damn it, Andrew, you’re not listening to me. What I’m trying to say is that in the brief glimpse I had of this woman’s profile, I felt as if I’d been blindsided. I can’t explain it, but there was something so elegant and yet so innocent about her profile that it made my heart hurt.” Andrew stared. He had never heard Maris wax poetic about anything or anyone. “You’re serious?” Her jaw clenched. “As serious as I’ve ever been in my life.” “Then find her, and when you do, bring her to me. Anyone who can elicit such a response from you is worth checking out.” Maris pivoted, and if the skirt on her dress hadn’t been so tight, she might have hiked it up and started running. More than once she heard her name being called as she moved through the crowd, but she couldn’t spare her friends and colleagues more than a glance. Once she thought she saw her quarry in the opposite corner of the room, but then the woman turned and Maris stopped in midstride. It wasn’t her. She turned away, hoping that her disappointment wasn’t evident. And then a thought occurred. What if the woman had been in the act of leaving? Oh God, what if she was already gone? She didn’t know her name. She hadn’t even gotten a good look at her face. Panic began to set in. She moved toward the front

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door, thinking she might stop her there, and then reason took over. It wasn’t yet midnight. Surely no one would leave until the grand finale to the evening was over. Unaware that she was being observed, she pressed her fists against her belly to keep them from shaking. While she was still scanning the room, Maury Feldman walked up beside her. “Miss Binder, may I be of some assistance?” Startled, Maris spun around, then recognized the manager. “Mr. Feldman, isn’t it?” Maury nodded. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem disturbed. Is there a problem?” Maris sighed. “I didn’t know it showed,” she said. When he frowned, she quickly spoke. “Nothing is wrong. The Crystal Room looks fabulous, and the food and service are marvelous.” “Why do I feel there is a but in that bit of glowing praise?” She shrugged. “It’s purely personal,” she said. And then she thought to enlist his aid. “A bit earlier I saw a striking young woman, but from a distance. I wanted to speak with her, but I lost her in the crowd. I wonder if you might know her. She was very tall and had the most amazing profile. Her hair was very black and piled high on her head. I couldn’t see what she was wearing, but she moved with such grace.” Maury frowned thoughtfully. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But that description doesn’t bring any particular woman to mind. Could you tell if she was with someone or if she was alone?” Maris groaned. “I don’t know.” Then she managed

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a halfhearted smile. “I know this sounds crazy, but I am going to go nuts if I don’t find out who she is.” Maury didn’t respond. It wasn’t his place to ask questions of paying customers, although he did wonder what was so pressing about finding this particular woman. In Maris Binder’s business, beautiful people were easy to come by. “I’m sorry,” Maury said. “If I see someone who fits that description, I’ll be happy to let you know.” Maris sighed. “Thank you. Now I suppose I’d best get back to my duties. It’s almost midnight. Time to begin the countdown.” Rachel winced as she relinquished her empty tray for a fresh one. Her feet hurt, and her natural inclination was to withdraw from crowds such as this one. She was tired of smiling at strangers, even though it was part of her job. “It’s almost over,” Abby said, and leaned over to rub her ankle. “And it’s none too soon for me. These shoes are killing me.” Rachel nodded. “Mine were, but my feet are so numb now that it doesn’t really matter.” Abby giggled, and then shifted a little closer to Rachel. “Say, Rachel, about earlier . . .” Rachel waited. Abby blushed. “Well, I just want to say thanks again for letting us change at your place and all. It was real generous of you.” “You’re welcome again,” Rachel said. Abby smiled. “You know, for someone so pretty, you’re really nice.”

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Rachel couldn’t help but grin. “I think that’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever been given.” An embarrassed grin spread across Abby’s face. “Well, you know what I mean,” she said. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” “Could have fooled me,” Rachel said, and then caught Joe eyeing them. “We’d better get back to work before we give Clousie a reason to can us both.” A few moments later they were back to work, just in time for the countdown ceremony to begin. A television over the bar had become everyone’s focus. The ball in Times Square was beginning to drop as Dick Clark counted down the seconds. The crowd began to call out in unison with the numbers rolling down on the screen. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .” Hit by the incongruity of standing in the midst of strangers as she began a new year, Rachel felt like crying. Never had she felt more alone. “Seven . . . six . . . five . . .” She lifted her chin, bracing herself for the moment when the room would erupt. Suddenly she knew she couldn’t be here, standing in the middle of such revelry with this pain in her heart. She set her tray on a nearby table and started toward the kitchen, fighting her way through the crowd. “Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . midnight!” The room became an explosion of sound. Streamers and confetti suddenly showered down upon the heads of the guests, and the merrymaking started anew. The familiar strains of “Auld Lang Syne” soon filled the room as the people began to sing. Rachel made it to the kitchen just as Joe Clouse was coming out.

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“Where is your tray?” he snapped. “If you’ve dropped it, I’ll—” “I didn’t drop anything,” Rachel said, and hated the fact that her voice was shaking. “I’m sorry, Joe, but I’m not feeling well.” Joe frowned, but even he could see that she was telling the truth. Her face was drawn, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Well, then, I suppose you can call it a night.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll mark you down as going off duty at midnight.” For a moment their gazes met and held, and for once, the animosity he usually held toward her seemed absent. Rachel sighed. “Thank you, Joe. Thank you very much.” He looked embarrassed. “You’re welcome,” he muttered. “Now run along. Oh, I’m sorry, but I’ll need the uniform and shoes tonight.” She nodded. “I’ll go change and bring them right back.” “Just put them in my office,” he said. “I will.” “Good night, then,” he said, and then surprised both himself and her by adding, “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a good night’s rest.” Grateful for the reprieve, she left. The moment she got into her apartment, she wanted to run to the phone and call Houston, just to hear the sound of his voice. But as she reached for the phone she remembered the last conversation they’d had, then closed her eyes, thinking of the pain in his voice and then the anger with which their conversation had ended.

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Her shoulders slumped as she turned away. She couldn’t call Houston—ever again. She began to undress. The last thing she did was to take down her hair. When the pins came out and the heavy length of it fell across her shoulders, she sighed with relief. As badly as she hated to get dressed again, she still had to return the uniform. The old clothes she’d had on earlier would suffice. She reached for her jeans. A short while later she was on her way back downstairs. The kitchen was almost empty. Everyone, including the staff, seemed to be caught up in the revelry going on outside the big swinging doors. It was easy to slip into Joe’s office and just as simple to slip out. Her mind was on a hot, soaking bath and the fact that tomorrow was her day off, when an elegantly dressed woman suddenly burst through the doors into the kitchen. Her hair was awry and she was holding her shoes in one hand and a handful of her skirt in the other. A little embarrassed at being caught in her old, faded clothes, Rachel smiled self-consciously, then turned to walk away when the woman suddenly called out. “Wait! Don’t go!” Rachel stopped. “Yes, ma’am. Is there something I can do for you?” Maris Binder was staring and she knew it, but so help her God, she just couldn’t stop. The change in hairstyle had almost fooled her, but when the young woman had started to walk away, she’d known it was her. Those long, long legs, that elegant, slender body . . . it was all she could do not to scream for joy. Jules Farrier was going to kiss the ground that she walked on, or she’d know the reason why.

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“What’s your name?” Maris asked. Rachel saw no reason not to answer, although she thought the woman’s behavior quite odd. “Rachel Austin.” “Who represents you?” Rachel frowned. “I’m sorry?” Maris couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to get closer, to see for herself if that skin was as smooth as it looked and if those large, slanted eyes were really that green. “Your agent. Who’s your agent?” Rachel grinned. “I’m sorry, but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” Maris paused. “Who do you work for?” “Oh,” Rachel said, suddenly understanding the question. “I work for Mr. Feldman.” Maris frowned. “Feldman . . . Feldman . . . who’s he with?” Rachel was beginning to think the woman had had too much to drink. She wasn’t making a lot of sense. “He manages this restaurant. You know—the one you’re in now. The Crystal Room.” Maris’s eyes rounded. “You work for Maury Feldman? Doing what?” “Waiting tables, ma’am.” And then she added, “Would you like me to call you a cab?” Maris laughed. “You think I’m drunk!” She dropped her shoes and grabbed Rachel by the arms. “Lord, maybe I am!” She began bouncing up and down like a child with a new toy. “Has anyone ever told you how stunning you are?” “Yes.” It was the lack of artifice in Rachel’s voice that sold

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Maris completely. “Of course they have,” Maris chattered. “And you’d have to be blind not to see it yourself. Have you ever modeled?” Rachel began to tense. “No, ma’am. I haven’t had much luck in that department. It takes a lot of money for pictures and portfolios, and I’m still working toward that.” Maris barely heard what Rachel was saying. She was already planning her presentation to Jules Farrier. “Everything is closed tomorrow,” Maris said. “But I want you in my office first thing the day after. We’ll set up a photo shoot. I want to see if the camera loves you as much as I do.” Rachel took a couple of steps backward. “Look, lady, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but in spite of my drawl, I’m not stupid.” Maris sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m doing this all wrong. My name is Maris Binder. I’m an ad executive with Bartalow and Sons. We’re hosting the party tonight. Please. Please, you have to let my photographer shoot you. If you’re interested in modeling, this could be your break.” Then she laughed. “And if you’re not interested in modeling, I don’t want to hear about it, because I am going to make your face as famous as that crazy clown and those goddamned golden arches.”

� five �

“So where’s Wonder Woman?” Andrew snapped. Maris glanced nervously at her watch. It was five minutes after nine. “She’ll be here.” Andrew got up from his chair and walked to the windows overlooking downtown Manhattan. It had taken his father years to build Bartalow and Sons into the prestigious agency it was today. But his father’s problems had been nothing compared to what Andrew coped with on a daily basis. Fads and fashions changed as rapidly as the newspaper headlines. The race to one-up the competition was ongoing, and landing the Farrier account had been a major coup for them. However, both he and Maris knew how much was riding on keeping it. All he could do was hope that Maris was on target about this new find of hers. Then his secretary buzzed him. He walked to his desk and picked up the phone. “Yes?” His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Maris. “Send her in.” Maris’s shoulders sagged visibly. It was obvious

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that she, too, had been sweating the woman’s arrival. Andrew grinned at her, then turned his full attention to the door. He’d been in this business long enough to know that first impressions were usually the best. But when the door opened, even Andrew was not prepared for the woman who walked through. His practiced eye saw the scene as a series of swift images seen through the eye of a photographer’s camera in the process of a shoot. Black hair, bone straight. Flash. A long length of leg encased in denim so old it was almost white. Flash. A white shirt with the tail out and the three top buttons undone. Flash. And then he focused on her face and forgot to breathe. For a man accustomed to pretty women, it was hard to describe what he was thinking. Beautiful was not a strong enough word. She was pagan and puritan all at the same time, and he had the most compelling urge to see her naked, just to know if that smooth brown skin was the same all over. “My God.” He didn’t know that he’d spoken aloud until he heard Maris say, “I told you so.” He grunted, then took a deep breath, trying to remember the social graces. “Miss Austin, I’m Andrew Bartalow. Please have a seat.” Unconsciously Rachel tilted her chin. Last night had been hell. Torn between loneliness for Houston

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and the excitement of a possible modeling job, she moved toward the chair in a daze. She’d traded shifts with one of the other waitresses just to get this time off and hadn’t told a soul why. All the way here she’d been halfway expecting to be turned away at the front desk. She was too accustomed to disappointments to count on anything, especially a stranger’s word. So she sat without speaking, waiting for one of them to make the first move. Maris was all but dancing with excitement. “What did I tell you?” she crowed. “Was I right, or was I right?” A tight smile broke the seriousness of Andrew Bartalow’s face. “Maris, sit down before you selfdestruct.” His gruff manner startled Rachel, and she gave him a nervous glance. Was he angry, or was that just his way? Andrew circled his desk and then came to sit on the edge, directly in front of Rachel’s chair. He folded his arms, studying her face as one might a great piece of art. When he finally spoke, it was as if Rachel were an inanimate object. “Her bone structure is amazing,” he said to Maris. “And that fabulous slant to those clear green eyes. What’s her ethnicity? Latin? Italian?” Rachel stared in disbelief. All her life she’d been ignored or looked down upon, and by God, she hadn’t given up the last thing she held dear just to have that same experience repeated. She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs, giving both of them a cool look of disdain. “I know this might seem a bit outrageous to you

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people,” Rachel drawled. “But if you want a real quick answer to those questions, why don’t you try asking me?” Andrew looked taken aback. Maris grinned. “So she does have a tongue.” Rachel’s expression never changed. “Manners, too, although they may be a bit out of place here.” She suddenly stood, and Andrew Bartalow found himself looking up to meet her gaze. He stood as well and found himself still an inch or two lacking in height. “I’m sorry if we offended you, Miss Austin. It’s just that we’re so used to discussing projects in this manner that I didn’t take into consideration the fact that we were looking at the real thing, rather than a photo.” “I’m not a thing, Mr. Bartalow, I’m a person. One, I might add, who came here at your request. Pardon my Texas drawl, but if y’all are willing to start over, so am I.” Maris giggled. “ ‘Y’all’? Isn’t that great, Andrew? ‘Y’all.’ ” Rachel gritted her teeth and started to turn. Instinctively Andrew reached for her arm. To his surprise, it was like gripping a piece of satin-covered steel. So she was strong in body as well as spirit. He liked that. In fact, he liked everything about her. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, and it was obvious to Rachel that apologizing was not part of his nature. “Now please, Miss Austin, have a seat.” Rachel sat. “As for answering your question, as they say in my part of the world, I’m a half-breed. My father was white. My mother was Cherokee.”

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Maris clapped her hands. “Ooh, Native American. That’s very in fashion.” And what happens, I wonder, when I go out of style? But Rachel didn’t voice her question. She’d come to this crazy rodeo. Now, as her daddy used to say, it was time to ride. But Andrew was already through with conversation. “Miss Austin—Rachel—we’d like to take some pictures of you.” Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. Just like that. As green as she was about this business, she knew she’d just been offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. “Fine with me. When?” “Now.” He waved to Maris. “Miss Binder will be with you all the way.” Then he glanced at Maris. “I want those pictures on my desk before the day is out.” “Yes, of course,” Maris said. Then she motioned for Rachel to follow. “Come with me, Rachel.” Her smile was wide as they started out the door. “When you were little, did you like to play dress-up?” Rachel didn’t bother to answer. She’d already figured out that neither one of these people was interested in anything she had to say, only in how she looked. And then she sighed, reminding herself that this was why she’d come. Three days later, and halfway across the world, Jules Farrier opened the FedEx package from Bartalow and Sons with trepidation. The package had come the day before, as he’d been leaving, and he had forgotten about it until he’d seen it just now. When the stack of eight-by-ten glossies fell out on his desk, he

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began to shuffle through them, his eyes widening in disbelief. “By damn, they’ve done it,” he muttered, then started to grin. Well aware that it was almost midnight in New York City, he dialed Maris Binder’s home number. She answered on the second ring, and he could hear music and laughter going on in the background. “Don’t you people ever sleep?” he growled. Maris recognized the voice. She’d been waiting for this call. “You got the pictures, I take it?” Jules glanced back at the one on top. The woman was wearing a long, low-cut knit dress that molded to every curve of her body. The sides were slit all the way to her thighs, and the lack of sleeves and collar revealed even more bare skin. Her hair was billowing off her shoulders and away from her face and she was looking straight into the camera with a proud, defiant stare. Even in black and white, she was absolutely magnificent. “What’s her name?” “Rachel Austin. Isn’t she fabulous? She’s half Cherokee Indian.” He ran a finger down the front of the picture, as if he could feel the tautness of her body beneath the dress. “Sign her.” “It’s already done. In fact, she’s here at my apartment, along with some of the crew from the office.” “Let me talk to her.” Maris hesitated, then relented. “Sure, why not? But don’t overwhelm her, Jules. She’s not like the women you’re used to.”

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His eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with her? What do you mean?” Maris chuckled. “All I’m saying is, she put Andrew in his place within two minutes of their meeting. And even though I think she wanted this job pretty badly, she would have walked rather than take his cavalier treatment.” Jules stared down at the picture. So she’s as passionate as she is beautiful. Good. “I will be on my best behavior,” he said. “Now be a dear and put her on.” Maris turned to her guests. “Harold, turn loose of Rachel’s arm. Mr. Farrier wants to speak with her.” Rachel had been ambivalent about attending Maris Binder ’s party but hadn’t been able to come up with a good enough reason to say no. Still uncomfortable with the abruptness of the people in this city, she found herself constantly struggling to fit in. And while she was heartily glad to be rid of Harold Chun’s attentions, she didn’t know what to say to the man who would be in charge of her future. Maris spoke of him in hushed tones, as if he were some god. “Come on, dear,” Maris urged, holding out the receiver. “Mr. Farrier just wants to say hello.” The distance from Harold to the phone seemed endless as Rachel walked across the room. She took the receiver out of Maris’s hand. “This is Rachel Austin.” Jules shuddered. Her voice was hot whiskey laced with wild honey; low and slow, with a recognizable Texas drawl.

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“Jules Farrier here,” he said briskly, trying to regain control of himself and the conversation. “I’m quite pleased with your pictures, Miss Austin.” “Please call me Rachel.” Her words raked across his mind like pure silk against bare skin. Jules closed his eyes and swallowed a groan, then reached behind himself for a chair and slowly sank into its depths. When he opened his eyes, his hands were shaking. “Rachel it is. I’ll be back in the city within a few days. We’ll have dinner.” The fact that he didn’t ask, but simply stated, was not lost on Rachel. Then she reminded herself that she would be working for this man. “Yes, sir,” she said. Jules splayed his hand across the flat of the picture, then leaned back in his chair. “Call me Jules. Now put Maris back on the phone.” Rachel handed Maris the phone. “He wants to talk to you.” “Yes?” Maris said. “I’ll be there in three days . . . no, make that two. This is January. I want her face on a billboard in Times Square by the first of March. I’m launching the new perfume during the Easter holidays.” Maris gasped. “That’s impossible. There’s not enough time between now and then to work up the strategies, let alone book the space!” Jules kept staring at the face in the picture and knew that he would take this woman to bed or die trying. “Jules, are you there?”

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Maris’s voice yanked him out of his musings. “Yes, I’m here. Just do as I say. I’ll see you in two days. Good night.” The line went dead in Maris’s ear. She hung up the phone, then picked up her glass of wine and lifted it to the group. “It’s a go!” A loud cheer erupted. They all knew the pressure Maris had been under. “Now all we have to do is perform a small miracle.” She looked at Rachel and grinned. “But since we already have Farrier’s Virgin Mary, another miracle shouldn’t be all that hard to come up with.” Spring came slow to west Texas. Even though it was the first of April, the wind held a bite and the nights were still bitter. Winter had been hard for Houston, both personally and financially. But in a way, losing Rachel had softened the hardship of no money. After her, there was nothing left to hurt him. Sundays, his only full day off, were always hardest. And even though so much time had passed, he still caught himself reaching for the phone to call her. Sometimes it made him angry, but of late he’d laughed at himself for the gesture. He supposed he was moving on. He wanted to hate her, but the emotion was as foreign as taking his own life. On this particular Sunday he felt edgy. If he’d been ten years younger, he would have solved the problem by getting drunk and starting a fight. But he wasn’t in the mood to spend money he didn’t have getting drunk, and then more money to bail himself out of jail for the fight that was bound to ensue. So

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he’d settled for an extra pot of coffee and thawing out a steak for dinner that night. Just as he was finishing the breakfast dishes, Taco began to bark. He tossed the dish towel aside and strode to the window. When he saw the low-slung red car pulling up to the house, he started to grin. It was Kenny Monday. After spending last Christmas with each other out of necessity, their relationship had blossomed to that of real friends. Houston stepped out on the porch as Kenny got out of the car. “You lost?” Houston drawled. Kenny grinned. “Not this time.” “Come on in,” Houston said. Kenny followed Houston into the house. “I came to ask you a favor,” he said. “And that would be?” “Teach me to ride.” Houston threw back his head and laughed. But Kenny didn’t laugh with him. “You’re serious?” Kenny nodded. “I need to learn how to ride by next weekend.” Houston leaned against the kitchen counter and folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t wait to hear the reason why.” Kenny looked a little embarrassed. “I met this girl in Dallas last month. She invited me out to her daddy’s ranch.” Houston’s grin was spreading. “Let me guess. You opened your mouth when you should have kept it shut.” Kenny grinned sheepishly. “Something like that.

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She asked me if I could ride and I said yes. Hell, how was I supposed to know she was a champion barrel racer?” Houston gave Kenny a friendly slap on the shoulder. “When you said you could ride, how much did you lie?” Kenny sighed. “Are horses anything like Harleys?” Houston chuckled. Lord, this was just what he’d needed. “No, my friend, they are not. Let me get my hat and coat and we’ll head to the barn.” Kenny breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew I could count on you,” he said. Houston eyed what his friend was wearing. “You plan on riding in those pants?” Kenny looked startled. “Uh, I—” Houston shook his head. “I’ll loan you a pair of my jeans. But a word of warning. When you go to Dallas, don’t show up in those fancy-ass slacks and dress shoes and head for a horse. She’ll laugh you off the place.” “Oh yeah, right,” Kenny muttered. “I’ll get some new things tomorrow.” Houston frowned. “Make sure you wash them before you wear them. And when you buy your new boots, get plain brown or black. You need to look like you mean business.” Kenny kept nodding as he followed Houston. “Wash the jeans. Plain boots. What about shirts?” he added. Houston grinned. “Stay away from rhinestones or fringe and you should be all right.” Kenny grinned. “I appreciate this.” Houston returned the grin. “Just remember you owe me.”

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A short while later the two men were mounted and riding away from the Bookout homestead. Once Kenny turned around to look behind him. The house was nowhere in sight. “Damn,” he muttered. “Where did it go? I thought this land was flat.” Then he gave Houston a nervous glance. “You won’t get us lost, will you?” Houston reined up. “Not as long as we stay in Texas,” he drawled. “Now pay attention to what you’re doing. If you want to look behind you, it’s a good idea to stop the horse first.” Kenny chuckled. “Yeah, right.” He pulled back on the reins and then relaxed, gazing around at the landscape with a practiced eye. As a geologist, he’d gotten into the habit of assessing the geography of an area as carefully as he assessed a pretty girl’s smile. At first his look was perfunctory. But the longer he looked, the more interested he became. “Say, Houston, are we still on your land?” Houston’s grin was wry as he shoved his hat to the back of his head. “Yes. It runs all the way to the highway in that direction and then angles back north. One hundred and sixty acres of Texas dirt, a few mesquite trees, and the occasional blade of grass. Two more payments at the bank and it’s all mine again.” He added by way of explanation, “Had to mortgage it three years ago to get through a bad winter.” Kenny nodded. “Mineral rights, too?” “Yes, for all the good it does me.” “This isn’t all that far from the Permian Basin,” Kenny muttered, more to himself than to Houston.

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“What did you say?” Houston asked. Kenny jerked, suddenly aware that he’d spoken aloud. “Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself. Say, would you care if I came back and ran a few tests?” Houston frowned. “What kind of tests?” Kenny wouldn’t look at Houston. “Oh, geological sorts of tests to measure structural plates and stuff like that. It’s too technical to get into, but it’s basically just like taking an X ray of what’s down below.” “Whatever for?” Although his interest was more than piqued, Kenny chose to remain noncommittal. “Just to see what’s down there.” “If it doesn’t cost me anything, I guess it would be all right,” Houston said. “When?” Kenny looked at his watch, checking the date, then doing a mental run-through of his upcoming calendar. “How about day after tomorrow?” Houston frowned. “I won’t be here,” he said. Kenny shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a map in my car. You draw out your place on it so I don’t get on someone else’s property, and I’ll take it from there.” “Sure,” Houston said. Then he unwound his reins from the saddle horn. “Now, back to the lesson at hand. Are you ready to try a lope?” Kenny’s eyes widened. “You mean move faster?” Houston grinned. “Yes, city boy, I mean faster. You think your little barrel racer is going to let you walk your horse all day?” Kenny gulped. “I don’t know,” he began. “It’s simple,” Houston said. “Remember that Harley you were talking about?”

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Kenny nodded. “Good, because it’s nothing like that.” Kenny groaned. Houston grinned. “We’ll take it slow, I promise. Now, when the horse picks up the pace, you follow the motion with your body. It’s a little like rocking in a rocking chair. Okay?” “You’re the boss,” Kenny said. A few moments later they started toward the ranch at a trot. Houston quickly moved the horses into a canter. He shook his head as he watched Kenny ride. The only way Kenny Monday was going to pass himself off as a rider was if the little barrel racer was blind or in love. That night and long after Kenny was gone, Houston moved through the house with an ease he hadn’t felt in months. He wasn’t particularly happy, but that sideswiping pain that he’d been living with was gone. Later he set the alarm and then crawled beneath the covers. Shrouded by darkness, he felt safe within the room he’d slept in since he was a kid. Outside, Taco barked once, then again. Probably warning yips to a coyote who’d wandered too close to the ranch. Houston waited, listening. When no more barks sounded, he closed his eyes. Rachel was looking up at Houston, her eyes filled with love, her lips curved in laughter. “Houston Bookout, you’re dancing on my feet.” Houston dipped his head, stealing a kiss in spite of the fact that they were in the middle of the dance floor at Pete Henley’s bar. “Sorry, darlin’,” he said softly. “I can’t see for the stars in my eyes.”

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Then he held her close, savoring the sigh of satisfaction he felt against his cheek. “Love me?” he asked. She nodded without speaking, but he could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest and he knew that she was telling the truth. Whatever things their lives were lacking, love wasn’t among them. One song ended and she started to pull away, but another song quickly began. Houston recognized the singer. “Wait, baby, this is one of your favorites, isn’t it?” Her eyes suddenly teared as the familiar sound of Ty Herndon’s newest hit drifted across the noisy bar. She nodded. “Dance with me?” he asked, and held out his hands. She went back into his arms, as always, following her heart to Houston. The melody enveloped them as they danced to the song about a man holding on to a woman letting go. Houston woke up with a jerk. The alarm was buzzing madly on the dresser across the room. He threw back the covers and crawled out of bed, stopping the alarm with one slap. Then he stood in the quiet, staring through the window at the breaking dawn and remembering the dream he’d had. If only he’d known how prophetic that night and that song would be, it might have lessened the shock of losing Rachel. He stalked into the bathroom to shower and shave. He didn’t need any nightly reminders of the fact that he’d been the unwitting man holding on to a woman who wanted him to let her go. In fact, he didn’t need any reminders of her at all. But what a man needs

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and what he gets are quite often two entirely different things. There was, however, no way he could have prepared himself for the events of that day.

� six �

Houston had gone to work early in order to deliver a load of feed to a nearby rancher before noon. Now that the truck was empty and he was on his way back to Mirage, he felt as though he could relax a little. When he saw the familiar white star on the big red and blue sign at the gas station up ahead he began to slow down. He’d missed breakfast, and since it was pushing toward noon, he decided to get something to eat. He took the turn off the highway with his mind on some sausage biscuits and jelly and a bottle of pop from the deli inside. The brakes squealed as he began to slow down, and he made a mental note to remind Dale Emery to have the brake shoes checked. A hot blast of air hit him square in the face as he got out of the truck. He settled his hat a little more firmly onto his head and started for the door, nodding cordially to a woman and child who were just coming out. His mind was on food and cool air as he sauntered inside. After placing his order, he turned to the magazine rack, idly glancing at titles while he waited for

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them to call his name. Halfway down the rack, he thought he saw Rachel’s face looking back at him from the cover of a magazine. For a moment he was certain that he had finally gone mad. It wasn’t until he bent down and took a copy that he realized he wasn’t dreaming. It was her. All he could think was, My God! The air slid out of his lungs as if he’d been punched. He knew that smile. He remembered the sound of the laugh that came with it. Jealousy spiked as he took a deep breath, wondering who had put that smile on her face and knowing it damn sure hadn’t been him. He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at her flat, silent image and wanting to scream. It wasn’t until someone nudged his arm that he tore his gaze away from the magazine. All but blind with shock, he stared in mute confusion at the stranger beside him. The trucker nodded toward the deli counter. “I think they’ve been calling your name.” Houston looked toward the deli. The clerk behind the counter had a harried expression on her face. “Sorry,” Houston muttered, and laid the magazine on the counter, facedown. “Add this to my bill.” A few minutes later he found himself standing outside the truck stop with a sack of food in one hand and the magazine in his other. It hurt to breathe, and he kept blinking away tears. A horn suddenly blasted nearby, and he looked up in confusion, for a moment forgetting where he was. “Hey, buddy.” Houston turned. It was the same trucker from inside. “Yeah?” Houston said.

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“Are you all right?” Houston drew a deep, shuddering breath as a new wave of misery enveloped him. He looked at the trucker, his eyes narrowing with frustration and anger. “Yeah,” he muttered. Then he added, more to himself than to the trucker, “I have to be. I have no other choice.” The man nodded and walked away, leaving Houston to deal with his problems alone. Houston got in the truck and then leaned back in the seat, staring at her picture in disbelief. Up until now he’d let himself pretend that one day she’d be back. But this changed everything. He shook his head. Part of him rejoiced that she was making something of herself, but at the same time, a part of him died. She would never be home again. With the food forgotten on the seat beside him, he pulled out of the truck stop and back onto the highway. Sometime later he was vaguely surprised to see the outskirts of Mirage in the distance. As he pulled into the back of Emery’s Feed and Seed and parked, he saw his boss standing on the loading dock. “That was quick,” Emery said. Houston tossed his uneaten food in a nearby trash barrel and started for his pickup. “Hey, Bookout, where are you going?” “Home,” he said softly. “I’m going home.” “But I’ve got another load that needs to go out,” Emery said. “I can’t,” Houston said, and kept on walking. Emery frowned. “Are you sick?”

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Houston stumbled, then paused. “I don’t know,” he muttered, and dug his keys out of his pocket. Emery shoved his cap farther back on his head. The strangeness of Houston’s behavior as well as that oblique remark made him nervous. “Well, then,” he mumbled, “I hope you feel better tomorrow.” Houston’s hands were shaking as he crawled into the cab and rolled down the windows to let out the accumulation of heat. By the time he pulled into his yard and parked, he was in a bad way. He walked inside like a man in a daze, oblivious to the fact that the house was almost as hot inside as it was out. It was habit, not discomfort, that sent him to the air conditioner to turn it on. He tossed the magazine down on the coffee table as the first blast of cool air began to circulate through the room. Then he walked through the house, shedding his clothes—first his hat, then his shirt. By the time he got to his bedroom he was down to his boots and jeans. He turned on the air conditioner in there as well, but more for sound than for comfort. Anything would be preferable to the thoughts going around in his mind. So now he knew what she was doing, and with a little effort he could probably find her. But why? Obviously she was better off without him. Sick to his stomach, he sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots, then his jeans. His movements were jerky, his breathing shallow. Everything inside him was coming undone. He staggered to the bathroom and leaned over the sink, splashing his face with the tepid flow of water. It wasn’t nearly enough to take away the fire that was burning him from the inside out.

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In desperation he shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain shut behind him. Silence enveloped him. Sweat beaded upon his bare skin and began to run from his hair and onto his face. He shook his head and swallowed past the knot in his throat, but the pain wouldn’t go away. He reached down and turned on the water, barely aware of the chill as it blasted against his skin. Then he braced himself against the shower wall and leaned into the spray. Even with his eyes closed, he could still see her face laughing up at him from the magazine cover. He shuddered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made her laugh. Oh God. The pain tore at him then, ripping its way up his throat and coming out on the sound of choked sobs. He went down to his knees and covered his face with his hands. Kenny Monday was beside himself with glee. It had been all he could do to contain his elation as he drove away from the Bookout ranch, the seismograph readings on the seat beside him. Yes, it was too early to be certain. But even though this was just the first step, he knew he hadn’t wasted his time. He needed to talk to Houston. They needed to set up a rig. Take some core samples. He wanted to— He took a deep breath, making himself calm down. The worst thing for him to do was jump the gun. His years in the business had taught him that there were always exceptions. Just because these readings looked good didn’t mean there was oil under Houston Bookout’s land. But as he turned out onto the

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highway and headed toward the Midland-Odessa airport, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. At thirty-nine, Beatty Andrews was in a rut so deep he couldn’t see over it. Born and raised in Brooklyn and still living with his widowed mother, Margaret Andrews, in the two-bedroom apartment in which he’d been born, his life was less than remarkable. He was the kind of man who was invisible to women. Short and wiry, he had thinning hair and a receding hairline that made him look like a human version of Tweety. His eyes were large and a sickly green, flecked with bits of yellow. In the right light, his eyes almost glittered. His teeth were small and even, like baby teeth that had never been shed. In spite of his innocuous appearance, Beatty was a man with hidden passions. In another place and time, he would have willingly become a survivalist. He devoured soldier-of-fortune magazines and spent nearly every spare minute of his day on the Internet in chat rooms devoted to anarchy, both here and abroad. He lived vicariously through the stories and planned for the day when he would possess guns of his own. Guns were power, of which Beatty had none. He was a closet advocate of revolution and believed that one day the people of the United States would overthrow the existing government and create one of their own. Beatty wanted to be prepared. But the closest he’d come so far to being a gun-toting radical was subscribing to numerous magazines devoted to the cause. His mother, Margaret, had grown old without grace. At seventy-nine, she had become the bane of

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Beatty’s existence, a whining, demanding shrew who controlled her son by sheer will alone. But no matter how many magazines Beatty read, he couldn’t find the impetus to strike out on his own. Their lives were rooted in anger and colored with hate. He hated himself for not having the guts to leave home, while Margaret used her age, as well as guilt and illness, to make certain that their lives stayed the same. His job as doorman at one of Manhattan’s more exclusive apartment dwellings paid the rent and bought the food. His mother’s pension went for their small luxuries, and what was left over often went toward new computer software. He lived for the nights when he would retire to his room after supper and get lost in the glow of the screen. By day he was a uniformed doorman. By night he was a stick of dynamite with a very short fuse. He dreamed of power and fame. Nothing mattered but the dreams. Rachel got out of the cab and paused on the street to look up at the towering building as Jules Farrier paid the driver of their cab. Jules was a demanding, imposing man, but he was her boss. Yet when he took her by the elbow, Rachel hesitated. She didn’t quite know where her boundaries lay, and that alone made her nervous. “This way, my dear. You’re going to be much more comfortable living here.” Rachel frowned. “I liked the other apartment just fine.” His smile was pained, as if she’d just committed a faux pas. “But darling, it was over a restaurant.” Rachel bit her lip. Arguing with this man was fu-

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tile. He smiled and nodded and then did what he damned well pleased. She sighed. If he thought the apartment over the restaurant was unfit, he should have seen where she’d lived before that. A gold and black awning stretched over the sidewalk from the front of the apartment building to the curb. The double glass doors looked to be several inches thick, and the doorman in a matching gold and black uniform tipped his hat as he opened the door for them to pass through. Still unused to the deference that comes with money and fame, Rachel paused and caught herself staring, wondering what kind of a man would choose such a job. There was nothing in the man’s narrow face to indicate what might have led him to accept this as his lot in life. Then their gazes met, and impulsively Rachel smiled. She remembered all too well the thankless jobs she’d had for most of her life. “Thank you,” she said. The connection between them was, for Beatty, unexpected. And although it was nothing more than a smile of politeness for Rachel, he saw it as more— much more. Jules frowned as they moved toward the elevators. “That wasn’t necessary,” he said shortly. “What wasn’t necessary?” Rachel asked. “Acknowledging the doorman’s help. That’s what he gets paid to do.” Rachel sighed. As much as she dreaded confronting this man, his constant need for control had to stop. “Mr. Farrier, I appreciate—”

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Jules arched an eyebrow and then grinned. “Mr.? I suppose that means I’ve offended you again.” Rachel shook her head. “I’m not offended. But I’m also quite capable of choosing who I speak to. If I want to thank someone for something, I will.” Jules’s gritted his teeth to keep from arguing. Maris had warned him about Rachel from the start. He could push her, yes, but only so far. He traced the curve of her cheek with the tip of his finger, savoring the perfection of her skin. “Whom. Whom you speak to, not who. And I’m sorry, darling. I only want what’s best for you.” Rachel flinched. It wasn’t just his manner that was proprietary. He took far too many things for granted. She was going to have to talk to Maris about this as well. She moved backward. Not much, but enough to put herself out of his reach. Jules panicked. The last thing he wanted was to tick her off. Her face was crucial to the launch of his new line. He took a deep breath and looked away. As difficult as it was for him, he decided to back off. But not permanently. Just long enough for Rachel Austin to become firmly entrenched in the high life. He knew his women. After that, she would do anything to stay in his good graces so the money would keep rolling in. Rachel wrinkled her nose, a bit put off by the spicy scent of his cologne. It was a thick, rich scent, like the man who wore it. When he turned away, she couldn’t help but stare, comparing his classic good looks, expensive clothes, and cosmopolitan charm to Houston’s face and style. There might be several million dollars’ worth of difference in their bank accounts,

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but Jules Farrier was no match for her Houston when it came to looks and charm. And then she sighed, reminding herself that Houston wasn’t her anything anymore. “We’re here,” Jules announced, then stepped out of the elevator and turned, holding the door for her as she exited behind him. “As you can see, it’s quite convenient. Security cameras in the hallways. Coded entry.” Rachel watched as he punched in a series of numbers. When the lock clicked, she frowned. Something was odd. And then it hit her. “Jules.” He turned. “Yes, my dear?” “If this is going to be my apartment, why do you know the entry code?” It wasn’t often that Jules Farrier slipped up, but this was one of those times. Damn, he thought. But he hid his dismay behind a bland smile. “Oh! Didn’t Maris tell you?” She shook her head. “This apartment belongs to Farrier Cosmetics.” Rachel’s frown deepened. “I don’t like what I’m hearing,” she said. “I may not be as cosmopolitan in my tastes as you’d like, but we have whores, even in Texas. There is no way I’m staying in an apartment owned by my boss.” “But you already were,” he said shortly. “I fail to see the difference between me and Maury Feldman.” Rachel’s glare cut straight to his heart, and he knew instantly that it had been the wrong thing to say. “The difference is that Maury Feldman didn’t offer

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me that apartment. Esther Goodman did. She’s also responsible for getting me the job in the Crystal Room. And if you think for one minute that there was anything going on between me and Mr. Feldman, then you can take your money and your job and—” Jules blanched. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I had no idea you knew Estie Goodman. She’s a legend, you know.” Rachel refused to be swayed and headed for the door. Jules groaned beneath his breath. By God, Maris Binder had been right. This woman was going to walk out on her contract and the money, and all his careful planning was going to go to hell. He bolted, grabbing her arm just before she got to the door. “Wait! Please wait!” Rachel spun, yanking away from his grasp, her eyes blazing with fury. “Don’t touch me.” Jules turned her loose as if she’d suddenly caught fire. “I’m sorry. My God, Rachel, I’m sorry. Please, this is all just a terrible misunderstanding.” “This better be good,” she warned. Jules felt out of sync. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d ever been this scared and uncertain. Certainly not since he’d reached adulthood. Everything he wanted, both for himself and for his company, hinged on calming her. “Look, our arrangement is a bit unusual, but only because I wanted sole rights to your services.” He blanched when she backed up some more. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he muttered. “I mean sole rights to use you as the spokesmodel for my en-

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tire company, not just the Timeless campaign. I offered living accommodations as part of the package. Didn’t your agent tell you?” Rachel shook her head. “I doubt I would have missed that part.” Jules sighed. He would yank Tom Mikeowitz’s chain for this one for sure. Jules had been responsible for guiding Maris toward the Mikeowitz Agency. It wouldn’t do for Rachel to become disenchanted with her agent as well. If she picked someone else, Jules might not have as much control, and control was what he thrived on. “I certainly meant no disrespect to you,” he said. “Nor do I want you to think I am assuming there will be anything between us other than a congenial working relationship.” Rachel’s face was expressionless. “I don’t believe you.” He was starting to sweat. “Here,” he said, yanking his cell phone out of his pocket and dialing Maris Binder’s number. “Ask Maris. She’ll tell you the truth.” Rachel shoved away the phone. “I’m not talking to anyone connected to this Cinderella business. I’m calling Esther. She’ll tell me the truth.” Jules felt sick. He couldn’t believe this was happening. “Then use my phone,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait outside in the hall.” Rachel hesitated. “I don’t know her number. I was going to ask Maury.” “I’ll get him on the line for you,” Jules muttered. “Just please calm down, for God’s sake. Don’t let this

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ruin everything. You’re too important to me—and to the company. Please, Rachel?” She stared at him for the longest time, judging the panic on his face against the guilt in his eyes. She wasn’t a fool. Despite what he was saying, she suspected he’d been planning to assume a whole hell of a lot. “I know the number to the Crystal Room. I’ll call him myself,” she said, and then stepped aside, waiting for Jules to leave as he’d promised. He went into the hallway, wincing as the door slammed behind him, then dropped into a nearby chair and pressed his hands on his knees to keep them from shaking. A minute passed, then another, and another, until almost fifteen minutes had come and gone. Afraid to move, he kept staring at the door, willing it to open. Inside, Rachel dialed the phone with trembling hands. Her gaze raked the opulence of the apartment as she waited for her call to go through. She had the most sickening notion that she was being had. Her legs were shaking, but she would be damned before she sat down on anything connected to Jules Farrier. A couple of minutes later she was dialing Esther Goodman’s number and praying the old woman would be home. And then her voice came on the line, and Rachel went weak with relief. “Esther, it’s me, Rachel. Do you have a minute to talk to me?” Esther’s joy was evident. “Rachel, darling, it’s so good to hear your voice. And Maury tells me great things are happening for you. I saw your first cover. It’s fabulous. I had it framed, you know.”

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“Thanks,” Rachel said. Esther frowned. “Why do I hear a but in your voice?” Rachel sighed. “Things are happening so fast. Sometimes I don’t know who to trust.” Esther set aside the book she’d been reading and then leaned forward. “Tell me.” Rachel started to talk. Jules had never been kept waiting in a hallway in his entire life, and to think he was letting one of his employees get away with this stunt made him furious. And then the door opened and his anger died. Rachel was staring at him from the doorway. He stood, unable to take the news sitting down. She handed him the phone. “The entry code will have to be changed.” Weak with relief, Jules put his phone into his pocket and nodded in agreement. “Of course. I should have thought of it myself.” “I intend to meet all of my contractual obligations, but that does not put me under any personal obligation to you. Understood?” He nodded. Right now he would have done just about anything she asked. “Understood,” he said, and then added, “Of course, I hope this does not preclude an evening out now and then? For business reasons, of course.” “For business.” “Then it’s agreed?” She nodded. “I’ll send someone for your things. Can you be ready to move by tomorrow? I’d like for you to get

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settled before the gala this weekend announcing the release of Timeless. You have a fitting the day after tomorrow morning and a photo shoot in the afternoon for the next promotion. This one will be in Cosmo. Are you impressed?” “Tomorrow is fine.” Jules allowed himself a smile. Damn her for being so unimpressed with the strings that he’d pulled. If he didn’t know better, he might think that the only thing that kept her interested was the money. But that couldn’t be right. The beautiful women he knew would never be blasé about becoming famous. There was also another facet to Jules’s anger that he had yet to admit: it was tinged with an unsatisfied lust. When she turned around to shut the door, he had to resist the urge to take her in his arms. What he wanted was to push her back into that apartment, strip her naked, fuck her senseless, and regain the authority. It was a testament to his self-control that he offered her his elbow instead. “Shall we?” She hesitated, then slipped her hand in the crook of his arm. “I’ll drop you off at the Crystal Room on my way back to my office,” Jules said. “I’m sure you’ll be wanting to say your goodbyes.” They left the same way they’d come in, but Rachel was still so upset, she hardly noticed the odd little doorman. But Beatty Andrews noticed them. Ever since they’d gone up in the elevator, he had been watching, waiting for their return. He’d even forgone his midafternoon break for fear that he’d miss their exit.

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From his place outside the door, he saw them getting off the elevator. The surge of joy he felt was almost sexual. He gave the man she was with a perfunctory glance before turning his full attention to her. She wore something white and slightly sheer that moved against her body as she walked. The color was the perfect contrast for her black hair and dark skin. As he watched her lips moving in answer to some question the man had proposed, a shiver of longing came over him. Within seconds she would be close enough to touch. He stepped to the door and promptly opened it for them. As they walked by him he stared, absorbing everything about her as if it were happening in slow motion. The slight bounce to her unfettered breasts. The way her hair swung in opposite rhythm to her stride. Her scent, a mixture of soap and shampoo and some exotic perfume. He had no idea it was Farrier’s Timeless, the scent that was going to make her famous. He held his breath, wanting to hear that low, husky voice again, willing her to speak or at least to look his way. To his dismay, she did neither. He stood on the curb, satisfied that his second fleeting glimpse of her had been more memorable than the first, and watched as their cab pulled away. In all of his life he’d never seen a more beautiful woman. He thought of his mother then and wondered if she’d ever been pretty. He didn’t think so. He couldn’t imagine an attractive woman turning into the witch that she’d become. As he walked back to the door, the idea of immers-

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ing himself on the Internet wasn’t as enticing as usual. He kept thinking of her. Of the way she walked. Of the way she laughed. By the time a half hour had passed, he’d convinced himself that if he had asked her, she would have gone out with him, though he didn’t even know her name. But he couldn’t ask her, of course—not until he had a place of his own. He couldn’t let a woman like her know that he still lived with his mother. He frowned, trying to focus on his work as another cab pulled up to the curb. One of these days he was going to move out and get his own apartment. Then he could do whatever he wanted, when he wanted. Even take out a woman like her. Rachel stood before the mirror in her new apartment, staring at herself in disbelief. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered. “If only you were here to see this.” The dress she was wearing had been designed specifically for Farrier’s gala. Its style, like the perfume itself, was timeless. Backless, sleeveless, and with a décolletage that only a perfect body could carry, it radiated success. It was a pure, virgin white edged in gold, and it fit her body like a glove. The slit up the front revealed a length of long leg. Rachel moved first one way, then the other, frowning slightly. Almost too much leg. Then she shrugged. This wasn’t Mirage and she was no longer waiting tables for cash. She wanted to be a success, and if using the assets God gave her was going to make it happen, then so be it. The doorbell rang, startling her out of her musings.

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She glanced at the clock as she turned away from the mirror. Just after six-thirty—too early for Jules. But when she looked through the peephole, her eyes widened in surprise. It was him. When she opened the door, it was obvious that Jules Farrier was equally elegantly arrayed. His black tux was impeccable. The pin-tucked shirt beneath the jacket was pristine white. “Good evening, Jules. Please come in.” She smiled nervously. “You’re early. I wasn’t quite ready.” Jules felt blindsided. Even though he’d seen the dress during every stage of its creation, on her it took on a new dimension. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “My God, you’re magnificent!” Rachel blushed. “So everything’s okay? You told me to leave my hair down, but this gown is so elegant, it doesn’t seem right.” He just shook his head. “Okay is not the word.” Then he took a small velvet bag from his pocket. “And your hair is perfect for this.” Something glittered in his hand as he removed it from the bag. “Close your eyes,” he said. She did as he asked, feeling the pressure of a narrow band around her forehead as he turned her toward the mirror in the foyer. “Now you may look.” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Is that real?” she muttered. An eyebrow arched. It was his only sign of humor. “Of course.” She reached up, running her finger along the gold and turquoise circlet he’d placed on her head. No

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more than a half an inch wide, the oblong stones set within the band added an exotic look to her appearance. Lost in her own reflection, she missed seeing the hard glitter in Jules Farrier’s eyes. “Perfect!” he whispered, and cupped her shoulders, squeezing them gently. Rachel blinked, her focus shifting from her hair to the reflection of the man behind her. Again, the hint of possession in his voice and his touch made her uncomfortable. She moved—not much, just enough to put some distance between them. Jules recognized her nervousness and took a deep breath, making himself relax. He’d worked far too long and hard on this project to mess it up now just because he wanted in the woman’s pants. Granted she wasn’t ordinary, and there was the distinct possibility that she wasn’t even wearing those pants tonight, but he would do what he had to do. And, he reminded himself, there was always later. Denial wasn’t part of his normal routine. “I should have called,” he said. “We need to leave early; there’s a photographer waiting at the ballroom. I want some stills taken of you before the guests begin to arrive.” “Then I’d better finish dressing,” Rachel said. “Please have a seat. I won’t be long.” Beatty Andrews went off duty at six P.M., but he’d dawdled as he changed from his uniform into his own clothes. By the time he was ready to head for home, almost thirty minutes had passed. He was on his way out of the building when he saw the black limousine pulling up to the front. When he recog-

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nized the man who got out, he moved into a hallway to watch. He knew the man’s name now: Jules Farrier. And he knew whom he’d come for: Rachel Austin, penthouse suite. His pulse accelerated as he glanced down at his watch. If he was late getting home, there’d be hell to pay from his mother. But suddenly he didn’t care. He had to see Rachel once more before he went home for the day. She’d moved here on Tuesday. Today was Friday. It seemed as if he’d known her forever. Five minutes passed, then ten. He was starting to sweat. If he didn’t hurry, the fish market near his house would be closed and he wouldn’t be able to buy the fish his mother was planning to cook for dinner tonight. Suddenly the elevator doors opened. He saw the man first, and took a tentative step forward. Then she appeared in his line of vision and he froze in midstep. It was at that moment that the notion began. He didn’t know how, but some way, somehow, Rachel Austin would be his wife. All too quickly she was gone. He followed behind them at a safe distance, leaving the building only after the limousine had pulled into traffic. He headed toward the subway entrance, his mother and her fish forgotten. He would make Rachel see past his uniform to the man he was underneath. He knew he wasn’t handsome, but he could take care of her. All the soldiers he read about had beautiful women in their lives. Of course, they rarely kept them, but that didn’t matter. He was in charge of this dream. He could make it happen any way he chose.

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As he crossed the street he began to frown. He’d forgotten about Mother. She wouldn’t like having to share him with someone else. Then his chin jutted angrily. He didn’t like to make Mother angry, but for Rachel, he would dare anything.

� seven �

Kenny Monday braked his car to a sliding halt at the Bookout homestead and got out on the run, clearing the porch steps in one leap. His suit coat was flapping and his tie was askew. For the early part of May, it was as hot as blazes, but he couldn’t have cared less. “Houston, it’s me, Kenny,” he yelled, knocking abruptly on the front door. No one answered. He rapped even harder, raising his voice to a shout. “Hey, Houston!” Still no answer. He pivoted, searching the area for a sign of where Houston might be. It didn’t make sense that he couldn’t find him. Houston’s pickup was parked in the drive. The old tractor was in the shed. Then his gaze slid to the corral and he sighed. One of the horses was gone. “Well, damn. You picked a hell of a day to go for a ride.” Kenny knew he would be in for a wait. He tried the front door. It was locked. Sighing, he yanked off his

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coat and loosened his tie. What he had to say needed to be said face-to-face. There was no way he was going to leave this kind of news in a note or on Houston’s answering machine, so he sat down in a chair on the front porch. At least here he had some shade. A few minutes soon turned into fifteen, and then twenty. The longer Kenny waited, the hotter he got. Behind him, the hum of the window unit was even more irritating; only a few feet away the cool comfort of refrigerated air awaited. Frustrated, he strode off the porch and began circling the house, hoping to find an unlocked window. At this point he wasn’t averse to a little breaking and entering. To his surprise, the back door was unlocked. He cursed beneath his breath for not trying it sooner and walked into the coolness, sighing with relief. “Make yourself at home,” he told himself, and then headed for the refrigerator. A few seconds later he was popping the top on a beer. “Thanks,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do.” Satisfied that his wait would now be in comfort, he headed for the living room. A little television and a cold beer never hurt anyone. But when he sat down and reached for the remote, his hand froze in midair. “What the hell?” he muttered, staring at the mountain of magazines on Houston’s coffee table. They were in stacks, some on the table, some on the floor. It wasn’t that Houston had taken to reading women’s magazines that confused him—it was the fact that they were all the same magazine, same issue. And then his gaze focused on the face adorning the front cover. Recognition came swiftly. That was Rachel Austin!

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He whistled beneath his breath. There couldn’t be two women in this world with a face like that. He sank back in the sofa, contemplating the ramifications of why Houston would be buying every issue of the magazine he could find. As he sat, something began to make sense. This was why Houston hadn’t returned his latest phone calls and why he’d seemed distant, almost cold, when he’d talked to him last. Moisture dripped from the bottle in his hand to the knee of his good slacks, but Kenny didn’t even notice. All he could think was, My God, what has this done to him? About the only thing constant in west Texas was the wind, and today it was getting on Houston’s last nerve. He reined in his horse and pulled his hat a little lower across his forehead, watching absently as Taco began circling an empty tortoise shell he’d found. Houston grinned to himself and then looked back at the horizon, shading his eyes from the heat and the dust and trying to imagine where a cow could hide in a place like this. There were no ditches to fall into. No trees to hide behind. Hell, there wasn’t even a river to drown in. He looked to the sky, searching for a circling of buzzards. The sky was clear. He sighed. The old heifer wasn’t worth five cents on the dollar, but she was his and he wanted her found. A blast of hot wind seared his face, but he wouldn’t let himself think of air-conditioned rooms and cold beers. Instead he urged his horse forward, aiming toward a small stand of mesquite he could see in the distance. It wasn’t much more than a gathering of

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bushes, but it was the only place left to look. The moment the horse started moving, Taco abandoned the tortoise shell and retook the lead, running with his nose to the wind and his tongue out and flopping. When Houston was within a couple hundred yards of the bushes, Taco suddenly started to bark. At the sound, more than a dozen turkey buzzards suddenly lifted into the air. In flight, their massive wingspreads were reminiscent of Dracula’s cape. Houston cursed beneath his breath. He’d found his cow. He looked up, watching until the buzzards were little more than dark specks in the distant sky. Then he rode closer, taking quick, shallow breaths as the stench of decaying flesh became apparent. At least the search was over. There was no way to tell why she’d died, but his best guess would have been from old age. He gave the surrounding area a cursory glance, whistled for Taco to come, and then turned his horse toward home. It was a long, hot ride back to the house. Too much time in which to think about losses. It seemed as if everything that mattered in his life kept slipping away. He’d been alone in this world for the better part of twelve years, but he’d never felt lonely until now. The past months had been nothing short of pure hell, and the only thing that had kept him from just plain giving up was the knowledge that this, too, would pass. While he was trying to remain philosophical about his lot in life, the last thing he wanted was company. But when he topped the small rise behind the corral, he could see even that wasn’t going his way. Kenny

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Monday’s red sports car was parked in front of his house. As much as he liked the man, he was in no mood for any of his banter. He rode to the barn and unsaddled, then turned his horse into the corral. He started to the house with Taco at his heels. It wasn’t until they were halfway there that the dog realized a strange car was in the yard. His ears came up and he barked once. “Hush,” Houston said sharply, and when Taco ducked his head and his tail instantly went between his legs, Houston sighed. He leaned over and petted his dog, giving him an extra scratch between the ears. “Sorry, boy. I didn’t mean to take the day out on you.” True to his calling, man’s best friend forgave everything for the love that Houston gave him. When Houston looked back toward the house, Kenny was standing on the porch. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie was missing, and it looked as if he’d combed his hair with his fingers. As much as he wanted to stay disgruntled, Houston realized he was glad to see the man. “I waited,” Kenny said. “It got hot. I let myself in.” Houston nodded. “It is hot,” he said. Kenny followed him into the house, watching Houston’s every move, waiting for an expression that would tell him it was all right to be here. It didn’t come. But Kenny Monday hadn’t gotten where he was today by being shy. He tried again. “Hell of a day to go horseback riding, isn’t it?” “Lost a cow,” Houston said, and tossed his hat onto the hat rack before heading for the kitchen. “Did you find her?” Kenny asked as he followed behind.

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“What was left of her,” Houston said, and got himself a cold beer from the refrigerator. Ah, so that explains the long face, Kenny thought. “Sorry.” Houston shrugged. “It happens,” he said, and then took a long swig. “Thought about that beer all morning,” he said as he set the bottle on the counter and began to wash up. Kenny smiled. He wanted to tease, to do something, anything, that would alleviate the tension between them. But he kept thinking of those magazines on the living room floor. “So, other than the joy of seeing my smiling face, what brings you out this way?” Houston asked. Kenny relaxed. At least Houston was willing to make light of his morose attitude. “I have news,” he said. Houston glanced at the bottle of beer on the counter. “You know, my luck hasn’t been running too pure lately. Do I need something stronger to kill the pain?” Kenny grinned. “Well, all I’ll say is, let’s save the champagne for later, when there’s reason to be sure.” Houston paused in the act of drying his hands. “Sure of what?” Kenny took a deep breath. He wanted to be careful how he phrased this. “You remember those seismograph tests I ran on your place?” Houston nodded. “Yeah, you scared the hell out of my cows when you set those charges.” Kenny shrugged. “All for the good of science. Besides, they made some real pretty pictures.” Houston managed a grin, thinking of the squiggly

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lines that constituted seismograph readings. “So what are you telling me? That you’ve decided to become the new Picasso?” Unable to contain his elation any longer, Kenny grinned and then pointed to a sheaf of papers lying on the table. “No. But I have a question to ask you.” “Fire away,” Houston said. “Are you sure you own all the mineral rights to your land?” Houston looked puzzled. “Yes.” Kenny clapped his hands. “Hot damn,” he muttered, more to himself than to Houston. “What’s the big deal?” Houston asked. “I’ve talked to some friends of mine about you. We want to come in and take some core samples on your land.” Houston went still. There wasn’t a Texan alive who didn’t have some knowledge of the oil business, and taking core samples was the last step before drilling for oil. “Core samples?” Kenny nodded. “The preliminary tests I ran were very encouraging.” Then he took a deep breath. “There’s a possibility that there’s oil on your land.” The words were wrapping around Houston’s mind, but he couldn’t seem to assimilate them into the reality he knew. “Oil?” Kenny grinned. “That’s what I said.” Houston’s heart lurched and then quickly subsided. “There’s no way I could afford to invest any money in a wildcat hole.”

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Kenny’s grin widened. “That’s the beauty of your owning all of the mineral rights. My friends put up the money to drill and take a portion of the profits. Details would have to be worked out between them and your lawyer, but if the well came in, you’d be sitting pretty.” Houston was silent so long, Kenny began to fidget. “Well?” he asked. “Don’t you have anything to say?” “When can they start?” Kenny whooped with delight, grabbed another beer from the refrigerator, then lifted it toward Houston in a toast. “To dreams coming true,” he said. The distinct clink of bottle to bottle broke the silence between them as they both took a drink. Then Houston lifted his bottle, toasting Kenny in turn. “To hell with dreams. Here’s to money in the bank.” Kenny grinned, but he knew that even now, Houston’s thoughts weren’t on gushers, but on the woman he’d lost. Rain peppered the windows of Beatty Andrews’s bedroom, coloring the dismal beginning to the day in a wet, dripping shroud. He rolled over on his back and hit the alarm before it could go off, then stretched. As he did, his gaze went straight to the pictures he’d hung. They were the first things he saw upon awakening, and his mother had thrown a fit about the holes in her walls. But he’d ignored her whining, just as he ignored all of her complaints, and

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hung an even dozen of Rachel Austin’s covers opposite his bed. Now he drew a deep breath, aching from the impact of her smile. “Good morning, my darling,” he whispered. “Did you sleep well?” Her smile was silent but wide. For Beatty, it was enough. The erection he’d awakened with was hard and aching. He reached down and stroked himself while whispering her name. In the other room, he could hear the sounds of his mother’s morning rituals. The thick, hacking cough and the phlegm she always spit up were compliments of a sixty-year smoking habit. And then there was the constant blowing of her nose, long after there was nothing left to blow. He closed his mind to it all, concentrating instead on the dark, exotic beauty of Rachel Austin’s face and the friction of skin against skin. He hammered himself in perpetual motion, waiting for that blinding burst of pleasure and the spill of his seed. Rachel’s face smiled down at him. He arched himself toward her and smiled back, imagining those beautiful green eyes closing and the soft, almost nonexistent sound of her gasp as she shared his ecstasy. The door creaked in the hall. His mind slid from Rachel to his mother. That sound meant she was dressed. It also meant that within seconds she would be knocking on his door to make sure he was up. He bit his lip and then closed his eyes. The luxury of

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watching Rachel was no longer an issue as he focused instead on his imminent climax. The knock sounded on his door as the first wave hit. He groaned beneath his breath and grabbed at the covers, pulling them up over his body to help muffle the sound of flesh slapping flesh. “Beatty! It’s time to get up!” Blinded by the blood racing through his veins, a second wave of pleasure pulled him under. Then he opened his eyes, staring straight into Rachel Austin’s gaze as his body began to buck. “Beatty! Are you awake?” Beads of sweat dotted his brow. His mouth was slack, his eyes wide and fixed upon Rachel’s lips. The chant started in his mind. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. “Beatty! You get up right now! Do you hear me?” Warm semen suddenly spilled in his hand. For a moment Beatty thought he’d gone blind. “Beatty Andrews, if you don’t—” He groaned as his body went weak, then gritted his teeth. “Goddamn it, Mother, I am awake.” “All you had to do was say so,” she muttered, and shuffled off down the hall. Beatty lay in the bed, savoring the satiated feeling of sexual release and making a mental note to make up his bed before he left. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left semen stains on his sheets, but he wasn’t in the mood to listen to her bitch about how he was going to hell. He glanced at Rachel’s face on the opposite wall and then blew her a kiss. “You were wonderful,” he said softly, then crawled out of bed. It was time to start his day.

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* * * Rachel gave her hair one last swipe with the brush just as a blast of rain splattered against the window behind her. She was meeting Maris Binder for lunch. The distant wail of a siren sounded from somewhere on the streets below. Rachel walked to the window and looked down. From where she was standing, it looked as if a garden of mushrooms had sprouted on the sidewalk overnight. All she could see was the tops of bouncing umbrellas in varying colors and sizes. Now and then someone would dash from a building and into a cab. That was another thing she’d learned since coming to New York City: Cab drivers loved rainy days. She leaned her forehead against the window and closed her eyes, letting the sound of the raindrops against the glass lull the loneliness inside of her, remembering another time, and another rainy day, and the man who’d been the beginning and end of her world. He was waiting for her on her front porch. She saw him between the swipes of the windshield wipers of her car as she turned off the road and started down her driveway. Relief came quickly. She had spent all day at the hospital with her mother and had been dreading coming home to this empty house. Somehow he had known. She smiled to herself. She shouldn’t be surprised. Houston Bookout knew far too much about the way she ticked. She parked and then sat for just a moment, watching as he unfolded his length from the old cane-bottom chair and walked to the edge of the steps. Her heart skipped a beat. God, but she loved that man. Even the way he stood, with weight resting on one leg more than another, made her

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belly knot. She grabbed her purse and then opened the door. Moisture like this was precious and rare in west Texas, and she savored the scent of damp earth as she started toward the house. Houston raised his hand in a silent greeting and then started down the steps. Rachel paused in the downpour, all too aware that her clothes had molded to her body from the wet. His strides were long and sure, his gaze warm and steady. When he stopped before her, she leaned into the hand he cupped against her cheek. “You’re off work early,” she said. “You’re getting wet,” he replied. A slight frown creased her forehead. “It feels good on my skin,” she said shortly. “Washes away the hospital scent.” “I’m sorry,” he said softly. Right now she didn’t want to think about how close her mother was to death. “It’s no one’s fault. It just is.” Houston took her by the hand and led her toward the house. “You never did say why you’re here so early,” Rachel prompted. Houston stopped at her front door and turned, piercing her with a look and an answer that struck her mute. “I was hungry for you.” Her purse slid off her shoulder and onto the porch as she stared up at him. Then her arms went around his neck and her lips found his mouth. Someone groaned. Someone laughed. Softly, but enough to get the point across that unless they got themselves inside, they were about to make love in plain sight. A few moments later Houston shut the door, closing them in and the rain out. Water ran from her hair into her

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face, and there was a widening puddle beneath their feet. Houston arched an eyebrow in a questioning look. Rachel reached for the top snap on his shirt. After that, it was simply a matter of time until they were upstairs and stretched out across her bed, their wet clothes in a pile at the front door where they’d left them. Houston rolled over on his back, pulling her with him until she was straddling his legs and his hands were cupping her breasts. Her hair was wet against her back. It felt good against the building heat in her body. “Ah, Cherokee, you are so beautiful,” Houston whispered. Rachel grabbed his wrists and then leaned forward, pinning his arms above his head as she went for his mouth. He groaned and broke free of her grasp, then held her fast. With one hand cupping the back of her head and the other splayed across the curve of her backside, he stole both her breath and her kisses until she couldn’t think straight. “Love you, love you, love you,” Rachel whispered. “I know, baby, I know,” Houston said. She was trembling beneath his touch. Her breath was little more than short, urgent gasps as he slipped his fingers between her legs and began to stroke the slick, hard nub beneath his fingertips. She shuddered, clutching at his shoulders until her nails were digging into his flesh. The heat continued to build. “I want you, Houston. I want you now.” She reached for him, curling her fingers around the hard shaft of him surging against her thigh. She heard him groan, then she closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of becoming complete as Houston slipped himself inside her. “Oh God,” she whispered, and it was more a prayer

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than a remark. “Oh, Houston. So good. So unbelievably good.” He started to move, and then the sensation of their bodies in flight was all she could feel. The simple act of breathing faded into the background of her mind, and nothing mattered except chasing the addictive ebb and flow of making love. In and out. Hard to soft. Hot flesh. Rain-washed skin. Pleas and promises. All of them shattering in the moment of climax. Then silence. Shared, satiated silence. For a time neither moved, and the only sound to be heard was the hammering of raindrops on the roof above their heads. The phone rang. Rachel jerked, yanked rudely from her reverie to the reality of the world in which she now lived. She turned away from the window and picked up the receiver. “Hello.” “Rachel, it’s me, Maris. Tom Mikeowitz is on his way over to pick you up. I’m going to be about fifteen minutes late. You two go on to the restaurant and claim our table. Order yourself a drink. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” “If you’d rather postpone this until another day, it’s fine with me,” Rachel offered. “No, no!” Maris cried. “We need to talk. Jules wants to do the next Timeless shoot from Egypt, in front of the pyramids.”

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Rachel froze. “Egypt?” Maris laughed. “Yes, isn’t it exciting? Something about ancient queens and camels and . . . oh, I don’t know. We’ll talk as soon as I get there.” “Yes, all right,” Rachel said, and hung up the phone. Then she glanced at her watch and dialed the concierge. “This is Rachel Austin. My agent is on his way over. Please let me know as soon as he arrives; I’ll come down. We’re on a tight schedule today.” “Yes, Miss Austin,” the young man said. Rachel hung up again and headed for the front closet to get her umbrella. This time she had no urge to get wet. In this business, image was everything. Downstairs, Beatty Andrews got the message. A few minutes later a yellow cab turned a corner and headed his way. From where he was standing, he recognized the short, balding man who he now knew was Rachel’s agent. He didn’t know his name, but he liked the man okay. Much better than the Farrier man who often escorted her out at night. The driver made a quick swerve to the curb and pulled to a splashing halt, showering Beatty’s pants legs with dirty water. He frowned and cursed beneath his breath as Tom Mikeowitz started to get out of the cab. “Sir, please wait.” Mikeowitz hesitated. “Yes?” “Miss Austin asked to be notified of your arrival. She said she would meet you down here.” Mikeowitz nodded and settled back in the seat. A short while later Rachel came hurrying through the lobby toward the door. Beatty’s heartbeat quickened. Her dress was short and red, and he didn’t

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think he’d ever seen legs that long or skin so beautiful in his life. Remembering that they’d made love together only this morning made him feel powerful and strong. “Miss Austin, you look beautiful today,” he said softly as he opened the cab door. But Rachel was still trying to digest the thought of going to Egypt, and she barely paid the doorman notice. “Thank you,” she said, and quickly ducked into the cab, anxious not to get wet. Moments later her cab disappeared into the traffic, leaving Beatty alone with his frustration. She was different now from the woman she’d been when she first arrived. He didn’t like to think that his Rachel was becoming crass and hard like all the rest of the beautiful people, but it seemed to him that it was so. She used to speak to him personally. Used to look him in the eyes. Now even her smiles were missing. Their relationship was changing, and Beatty didn’t like it. If Rachel had known what chaos her cavalier attitude would cause, she might have done things differently. But she didn’t, and the drabness of Beatty Andrews’s life continued to darken. Houston stood beside his pickup truck, watching as Kenny Monday ran back and forth between the drilling rig and his car. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he figured that when there was something to tell, Kenny would unload.

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He looked up, letting his gaze follow the silhouette of the air rig, which was a state-of-the-art model. A shiver ran through him as he considered what was playing out before his eyes. It would be too damned ironic if he actually made any money out of this scheme. The only woman he ever loved had left him because he was poor, and now that it looked as if his circumstances might change, it didn’t matter. She was already a jump ahead of him in the money department, too. God only knew what kind of salary she was pulling in, but he hoped it was enough to satisfy the emptiness inside her that his love couldn’t fill. A whoop of laughter sounded. He turned. Kenny was coming at him, waving a handful of papers and pointing to the rig. Houston’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the skinny man running. Then he reminded himself, Don’t count on it, Houston. Don’t count on anything except yourself. “So?” Houston asked. Kenny was grinning from ear to ear. “Damn, I’m good,” he crowed. Houston couldn’t help but grin in return. “I always did think humility was your best feature.” Kenny laughed aloud. “It’s down there, just like I said it would be. You, my friend, are going to be one rich son of a bitch.” A swift spurt of joy came and went. Houston stuffed his hands in his pockets and then leaned against the fender of his truck. “I think I’ll save my hooray for later.” Kenny kept grinning. “You do that, bub. We start

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drilling next Monday. By Thursday—Friday at the latest—you’ll wear the hell out of hooray.” Houston’s mouth dropped. “That soon? How can that be?” “Technology, my friend. Technology.”

� eight �

Rachel’s lunch with Maris was long and, for the most part, surreal. Between the deference of the waiters and the opulence of the surroundings, it all seemed staged. Even though her face had made the cover of more than one magazine, as well as a Times Square billboard, she felt no different inside. In Mirage she had always been on the outskirts of acceptability. And now, even though she might be counted as someone special, she still felt as if she didn’t belong. She had money in the bank, with a promise of much more to come, yet there was a hollowness to her life that she didn’t know how to fill. Across the table, Maris and Rachel’s agent, Tom, kept talking about Jules Farrier’s next concept for Timeless, but Rachel couldn’t focus. She knew she was nodding in all the right places because Maris kept talking and talking, but she just wanted to cry. The emptiness inside her was spreading on a daily basis. She knew its origin. It had a name. Houston.

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Sweet Lord, but she missed him so much it was a physical ache. “Rachel . . . Rachel.” Rachel jerked, her attention instantly refocusing on the man across the table. “I’m sorry, Tom. I must have been daydreaming.” Maris frowned. This woman was making her nuts. Never in her life had she known a woman this beautiful who was so unconcerned with herself. She’d just outlined one of the most unbelievable promotions in advertising history, and all Rachel could do was stare out the window. “It doesn’t matter,” Maris said. “For the moment all you have to remember is that Jules will be picking you up at seven.” Now Rachel was paying attention. “Tonight?” Maris sighed. “Yes, my beautiful airhead, tonight. Do you remember anything of what I’ve been saying?” Rachel flushed. “No.” Tom frowned. He hadn’t known Rachel long, but she was a coup to his agency. The last thing he wanted was for her to flip out. “Is everything okay?” he asked. Rachel shrugged. “I suppose I was woolgathering. I look around at all that has happened to me and keep waiting for my mother to shake my shoulder and tell me to wake up, that I’m going to be late for work.” Maris smiled and then reached across the table to pat Rachel’s hand. “Ah, a little case of homesickness, is it?” Tears burned the back of Rachel’s eyes, but she

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wouldn’t turn them loose. Holding on to the pain was the only way she could hold on to reality. “I suppose so,” Rachel said quietly, and looked away. Maris gave Tom a knowing look and then leaned toward Rachel. “Look, sweetie. We can always book you a quick trip home. You know, to touch base, a feel-better visit. Are you interested?” Just for a moment Rachel let herself think of driving up in Houston’s front yard, of walking into that old, ramshackle house and falling into his arms. And then she remembered their last phone call, and the anger and pain she’d heard in his voice. She sighed. She could never go back. Home wasn’t there anymore. It belonged to a bank, and Houston belonged to a life that she’d given away. Her chin quivered, but her gaze was steady as she looked Maris in the eyes. “My mother’s dead. There’s nothing left for me back there—at least not anymore. I made sure of that when I left.” Maris frowned. Secrets. Secrets made her nervous. “If you change your mind, all you have to do is just ask.” Rachel nodded, giving both her agent and the woman who was creating her career her full attention. “Now, about tonight—tell me again. This time I promise I’ll be listening.” Kenny Monday was dancing in a circle, laughing and waving his hands as a black plume of oil shot straight in the air. Houston stood beneath the downpour and

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still couldn’t believe it was happening. Every word he’d ever heard about oil wells kept running through his mind as the thick, black liquid showered down upon him: blowout, gusher, Texas tea, black gold. But any way he said it, the facts still remained the same. They’d struck oil. He looked at Kenny and started to grin. Kenny whooped out loud and threw his hat straight up in the air. His face and clothes were rapidly dappling with runny black droplets. “We’re rich, bub. By God, rich!” The oil splattered like bullets onto Houston’s hat, dripping from the brim and then onto his boots. He looked down at his clothes. They were soaked clear through. They’d never come clean again. And then it hit him. Hell, he didn’t have to worry about getting them clean. If he wanted, he could throw the damned things away. Even burn them. He would never be poor again. He started to laugh, first at himself, and then at the situation in general. Once he would have bet money that he and Rachel Austin had been the two poorest people ever to come out of Mirage. And now here they were, both rolling in money. The laugh froze on his face. He hoped to hell her money was making her happy, because all the oil in Texas would never be enough to make Houston accept losing her. Houston pointed at the well, squinting through the downpour at the roughnecks standing on the periphery of the strike. “How long they gonna let that thing blow?” he asked. Kenny shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. The su-

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perintendent is a good man. He’s been in the business for years. They’ll do what needs to be done when the time is right.” Houston frowned. “I never was one to waste money,” he muttered. “I’ll just go have a word with him.” Kenny grinned as Houston walked away, then bolted toward his car to get his cell phone. There were investors to call and a whole set of wheels to put into motion. And this was just the beginning. Beatty paused in the hallway outside Rachel Austin’s apartment, glancing up and down the hall to make certain he was unobserved. He wasn’t supposed to be here; it was his day off. But he hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything at home until he’d touched base with Rachel in some way. After some extensive reading on the subject of romance, he’d decided that the growing distance between him and Rachel was due to the fact that he hadn’t paid her enough personal attention. Women liked to be wooed. He was ready to woo. Satisfied that he was alone, he laid down the tissue-wrapped rose that he’d bought from a street vendor, placing it directly in front of her door and wishing he could put it in her hands instead. As he straightened, he impulsively pressed the flat of his hand against her door and then closed his eyes. “For you, my love,” he said softly, and then broke away and headed for the service elevator. An ornate mirror in the hallway threw back his reflection as he scurried past. His unassuming demeanor belied the passion burning within him. There

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was a squint to his eyes that had nothing to do with poor eyesight. It was as if he was constantly braced for the next blow to fall. Somehow over the years, every dream that he’d had, every hope that he’d claimed, had withered and died. Until Rachel. She’d given him a focus and revived dreams he’d thought were long forgotten. Just as he reached the service elevator, he heard a melodic ding behind him. Adrenaline surged. It was the sound that the elevator made as it reached a stop. Since Rachel was the only resident on the penthouse floor, it had to be her. He ducked into a small alcove and then peered between the fronds of a tall potted palm, desperate for the sight of her face. He heard her voice before he saw her. A surge of pure joy filled his heart, and he took a small step forward before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be here. Moments later he heard another voice. A frown darkened his face. It was that Farrier man. First out of curiosity and then from a growing jealousy, he watched the tableau playing out down the hall. “Rachel, darling, your photo shoot was magnificent. This latest campaign is going to be even bigger than the first. And did Tom tell you? The sales for Timeless are going through the roof.” Rachel smiled. “Glad to oblige.” Jules laughed aloud and hugged her. It was brief and entirely innocent, and she accepted it in the manner in which it had been given. When Jules was like this, she almost liked him. But not enough to forget the blue-eyed Texan she’d left behind. Never enough for that.

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“What’s this?” Jules said, and picked up the rose. “Looks like you have an admirer.” Then he frowned. “But how did it get here?” Rachel peered inside the paper. “There’s no card.” Then she shrugged. “Oh, well, there’s no telling who it came from. Besides, the concierge delivers to my apartment regularly.” “And leaves it on the floor?” Jules asked. Rachel paused. “No, they always call after I’m home and deliver it to me personally.” She frowned. This was all too puzzling, but she was tired from the shoot and anxious to shower and change. Worrying about a single rose on her doorstep seemed silly. “I’m sure it’s all right.” Jules handed her the rose as she reached toward the security panel to punch in her code. Moments later a click sounded. Jules stepped in front of her and turned the knob. “Allow me,” he said softly. Rachel hesitated, glancing at the man to her left. He was close. Too close. But his expression seemed benign. She shrugged off the thought, telling herself that if she was going to live in this world, she must learn how to accept what went with it. Even if that meant men who were a little too touchy-feely for her comfort. “Thank you,” she said, and walked inside. Jules was at her back. He shut the door behind them and then stood for a moment, absorbing the sight of the woman who had become the center of his world. He almost hated her for mattering so much. He’d never met a woman who couldn’t be bought—until her.

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“Mind if I fix myself a drink?” he asked, pointing toward the bar. Rachel shrugged. “Be my guest, although I haven’t the faintest idea what’s there. I generally don’t drink.” She headed for the kitchen to put the rose in a vase of water. Jules took off his suit coat and tossed it on a nearby chair as he strolled toward the wet bar, raising his voice enough to be heard as she left the room. “Of that I’m well aware, my dear. I’ve certainly escorted you to enough soirées to know that by now.” Rachel smiled, although to be honest, she would have preferred it if he’d just left her at the door and gone about his business. She wanted to shower and change into something more comfortable. And she wanted to call Esther Goodman. It had been days since they’d talked. She put the rose into water and then walked back into the living room, eyeing the man at the bar. She had to admit he was good-looking, even though he was too cosmopolitan for her tastes. His dark hair was always perfectly groomed, his clothes impeccably tailored. His eyes were even darker, his features just the least bit hawklike. But she supposed that had more to do with his position in life than with his personality. He was powerful and rich and in charge. He simply looked his part. She shrugged off the thoughts. Except for the Timeless campaign, what Jules Farrier did with his life was of no concern to her. “Would you like a sandwich to go with that drink?” Rachel asked. “There’s plenty left from the ham I baked on Sunday.”

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Jules paused, his fingers curling around the bottle of brandy. “You cooked?” Rachel stared at him, almost grinning at the oddity of his question. “Well, yes. How else would I eat?” Jules let go of the bottle, his interest in the brandy forgotten. He kept trying to picture Rachel standing before a stove, stirring and chopping and whatever else people did to create marvelous meals. It didn’t work. All he could see was the woman who’d been moving before the cameras only a short while ago, scantily clad and undulating to a drumbeat that he could still hear playing in his mind. He shuddered, trying to remember what she’d asked. Oh yes. Something about eating. “The women I know either coerce someone into taking them out, or they order in,” he said. Rachel laughed. “How boring.” It was the laugh that did it. The joy on her face. The delight in her eyes. He forgot the promise he’d made, both to himself and to her. “My God, Rachel Austin, why isn’t there a man in your life?” He crossed the room and took her in his arms, his voice breaking with need. “And why the hell won’t you let it be me?” Rachel froze. Somewhere within her she’d known this would happen sooner or later, even though he’d promised their relationship would stay strictly business. They’d been in each other’s company for far too long. She took a deep breath, trying out the thought in her mind, but all she could see was Houston’s face, Houston’s eyes, Houston’s smile. She closed her eyes and pushed away, aching for Houston’s touch.

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“Don’t,” she begged, and to her horror, she started to cry. It was probably the only thing that could have stopped Jules in his tracks. At the sight of her first tear, his lust died. “Damn, Rachel, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. I didn’t mean to—” Rachel covered her face. “It’s not you. It’s not you,” she sobbed. “It’s just me.” Jules took her in his arms again, but this time as a friend. “What’s his name?” If Jules hadn’t been holding her up, Rachel would have gone to her knees. He felt her weakness, and in that moment whatever lies he’d been telling himself simply ended. Her heart would never be his. She’d already given it away. “His name is Houston Bookout.” The name was strange to him, just as the place from which she’d come was something he couldn’t fathom. He didn’t understand small towns or country ways, and yet he knew that world had forged the woman Rachel Austin had become. “Why aren’t you with him? Better yet, why isn’t he with you?” She shook her head and tried to pull away from his embrace. It was too painful to think about. But Jules wouldn’t let her. “Answer me, Rachel. What happened? What’s wrong?” With every ounce of strength she had left, she tore free of Jules’s grasp. Her eyes were full of anger, at herself and at the situation life had thrust upon them.

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“I left him,” she muttered, and then started to shake. “I left him because we were poor.” She moaned and turned away, staggering to the window and then staring down into the streets below. Jules followed her. Because he had to. Because he couldn’t let her bear this pain alone. “But you have money now,” he said softly. Rachel spun around. “And he has pride. More pride than any man I’ve ever known. And honor.” Her voice broke. “Too damned much honor to take anything from me. His love was all he had to give me. But I thought that it wasn’t enough. I was afraid. So afraid of winding up like my mother and father and dying destitute and homeless.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering as the words continued to spill out. “Now I have money and fame and people who cater to my every whim, and it means nothing.” Her fingers curled into fists as she met his gaze. “God’s giving me a little lesson in humility, you know. I must say it comes hard to bear, but it’s no more than I deserve. I gave up the best thing I had for silver and gold.” Jules ached, both for her and himself. He’d had no idea of the depths of this woman, and in that instant he learned a hard lesson about himself. Before, he’d judged people far too many times on outward appearances. It would never happen again. Just because someone had both beauty and brains, that was certainly no indication that her life was perfect. “I’m sorry, Rachel. So sorry.” She seemed to wilt before his eyes. Her shoulders slumped as she looked away. Jules frowned. “No one’s perfect, Rachel. Accept

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that about yourself and go on.” Then he glanced at his watch. “I’m late for a meeting. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to forgo the pleasure of your cooking today. Another time.” She tensed as he touched her cheek gently. “And there will be another time, my dear. We’re in this for the long haul.” Then he held out his hand. “Partners?” She hesitated, but only briefly, before accepting his handshake. “Partners,” she whispered. Jules mentally kicked his noble ass all the way to the door. It wasn’t in his nature to be so generous, but Rachel Austin had a way of bending even the most hardened of men to her way of thinking. He opened the door, then turned. Rachel was right behind him. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears, and her cheeks were still tracked from the ones that had previously fallen. Never had she been more beautiful, or farther out of reach. “Thanks for seeing me home,” she said. Jules smiled. “You’re very welcome, my dear.” Then he cupped the back of her head and kissed her on the nose. “We’ll talk soon.” Rachel accepted the kiss for what it was. Comfort. Consolation. And also goodbye. From Jules Farrier’s standpoint, he’d just given up the chase. “Soon,” she echoed, and stood in the doorway, watching until the elevator doors had closed and taken him away. With a sigh, she turned and went into her apartment, carefully closing and locking the door behind

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her, unaware that there had been a witness to the kiss and embrace. Beatty Andrews was shaking with rage. She’d kissed the man. He’d seen it with his own eyes. It was just as his mother had told him: Never trust a woman. They’ll cheat on you every time. “No,” he muttered, staring at the door in disbelief. “No, no, no,” he repeated, hammering his fists against his thighs until they ached. “You bitch, you bitch, you beautiful, cheating bitch.” Blind with rage, he staggered to the service elevator. A short while later he emerged from the car into the basement. The building janitor looked up from his office, where he was reading his paper. “Hey, Andrews! I thought you were off today.” Beatty didn’t bother to answer. He just kept on walking. As Beatty made his way out the door, the doorman on duty looked up, surprised that Beatty was on the premises. “Can’t stay away even on your day off, huh, Andrews?” Beatty pushed his way past without commenting. The doorman shrugged and quickly forgot he’d even seen him. The air was warm, the traffic on the streets typically heavy. Cabs careened through nearly impassable traffic as if they had their own set of laws. Someone yelled from a passing bus. As he passed a corner café, a couple at a nearby table on the street suddenly leaned toward each other and kissed. Beatty’s

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stomach began to knot. That could have been him and Rachel. But she messed everything up. Women always messed everything up. “Hey, mister! Look out!” someone yelled. He looked up just as a cab sped by right in front of him. The driver laid on the horn, sounding his displeasure at Beatty’s lack of concern. Beatty stepped back onto the curb, fighting a nervous urge to pee. Damn. He’d almost walked in front of that cab. Two seconds later and he would have been dead. He started to shake. It was all her fault. He looked around, for the first time taking stock of his surroundings and realizing he didn’t know where he was. Music drifted out of a doorway ahead of him. He shuddered, and then wiped a shaky hand across his face. Without thinking, he followed the sound and found himself inside a neighborhood bar. As he slid onto a stool he caught a glimpse of himself in a long, smoke-dimmed mirror. He stared, then glared at the oddity of his reflection. “Stupid,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. That’s what he was, plain stupid. “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked. Beatty looked up, startled by the question. “Uh . . . beer. I’ll have a beer.” “Imported or domestic? Light or—” “Just a plain fucking beer,” Beatty snapped. Moments later a brown bottle was set in front of him. Beatty picked it up, downing it in one long, thirsty gulp. “Do it again,” he said as he set the empty down with a thump.

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This time the need to exterminate something wasn’t so strong. He took his time, nursing the cold brew while his anger continued to grow. There was a program in progress on the television above the bar. Unsolved Mysteries—his mother’s favorite show. Most of his thoughts were centered on getting even with Rachel and what he was going to tell his mother when he came home with liquor on his breath. And then he picked up on the story in progress and started to take special note. The longer he listened, the more certain he became that he’d just found a way to make Rachel Austin pay. An hour later he was locked inside his room, his fingers flying on the keyboard of his computer as he slipped into a chat room where would-be warriors went to play. Houston signed the check with a flourish and then slid it across the loan officer’s desk. “There you are, David. That makes the loan on my ranch paid in full. And we’re all straight on the Austin purchase as well, right?” David Winters smiled and shook his head. “Right. You know, Houston, you’re one lucky son of a gun, and I’m real happy for you. If we can do anything for you, don’t hesitate to let us know.” Houston grinned. “That’s a whole different tune from the one you were singing when I took out the loan a while back.” The loan officer had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry, Houston, but you know how it is.” Houston nodded as he stood. “Yeah. You can borrow money out the ass when you have it to spend.

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But when you really need it and you’re hard-up and broke, you couldn’t borrow a quarter to call home.” Winters stood up as well. “Still, if you need anything, all you have to do is ask.” Houston paused. “I bought the Baker place last week. It adjoins my land.” “Yes, I heard,” Winters said. “I’m building a house. In fact, the dozer is out there today, building a pad. I might be needing to borrow some money before it’s finished. Just a shortterm loan, though. Nothing major.” David Winters beamed. “Whenever you’re ready, give me a call. Since we already have your file, I could have the papers drawn up on short notice.” Houston nodded. “I’ll be in touch.” There was a spring in his step as he left the bank. The next stop was Dale Emery’s Feed and Seed. As he walked in the door, he kept thinking that he would never have imagined turning in his resignation. Getting fired, maybe. Quitting, never. Dale Emery saw him coming and sighed. He could tell by the look on Houston’s face what was coming. “You look too damned happy for a man who’s about to be unemployed,” Emery muttered. Houston grinned. “It’s been a long ride, Dale, and you can’t know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Emery returned the grin. “Why do I think there’s more yet to come?” Houston laughed, thinking how good it felt to be debt free. “Is the Mace kid working out?” he asked.

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Emery nodded. “Yeah. He reminds me a whole lot of you. A little cocky, but willing. I reckon he’ll do.” Houston nodded and then held out his hand. “If my leaving this abruptly leaves you shorthanded, give me a call. I’ll be happy to help you out for the next couple of weeks.” Emery shook his head. “Nah. I’ll manage. Besides, I probably couldn’t afford you now, anyway.” Houston grinned as he walked away. It felt strange, knowing that he would never be committed to someone else’s timetable again. Then he amended the thought. It felt strange, yes. But it also felt good. Damn good. “Hey, Houston, honey! Where you goin’ in such a big hurry?” Houston stopped. Amy Dalton was leaning against her car. All five luscious feet of her were packed into skintight Levi’s and a fitted red shirt. Her hair was blond and curly. Her eyes were blue and full of promises even a fool couldn’t miss. She was pretty and willing, and he couldn’t have cared less. His heart belonged to a tall, leggy Indian with long black hair. “Afternoon, Amy. How’s that fiancé of yours?” Amy pouted. “Shoot, Houston, Will Benton is just my boyfriend, not my fiancé. You don’t see a ring on my finger, now, do you?” She waved her hand to prove her point. Houston arched an eyebrow and then grinned. “That’s because he pawned it last week in a poker game. You’ll have it back by the first of the month, just like always, and you know it.” She pouted. “Maybe I don’t want it back. Maybe

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I’m tired of playin’ house with a man who keeps losin’ the key to the door.” Houston shrugged. “Maybe you two need to quit playing and get down to serious business.” Then he tipped his hat. “I’ve got to be running along,” he said. “Real nice to see you again.” He left, ignoring the pout on her lips. He knew where it came from and he knew why she’d even bothered to speak. A month ago she wouldn’t have acknowledged his existence. But now that he was a man of substance, he was finding himself with a whole new circle of “best friends.” Friends he could well do without. As he slid behind the wheel of his truck, it occurred to him that Rachel must be going through similar experiences of her own. Last week he’d seen another magazine with her picture on the cover. He could only imagine the adulation she was receiving. Then his gut tightened. And the men. There were bound to be men standing in line at her door. Angry with himself for letting her back in his heart, even for a second, he gunned the engine and sped out of town.

� nine �

The shadows were lengthening as Beatty made his way through Central Park. It had been three days since he’d witnessed Rachel’s deceit, and going to work was a physical pain. The urge to quit, to remove himself from her presence, was strong. But he couldn’t let her ruin what he’d worked years to achieve. She needed to be taught a lesson. And since he was the man she’d wronged, it was his right— even his duty—to avenge his honor. As he emerged from a copse of trees, he looked ahead to the bench beneath a large, spreading oak. It was already occupied, and by a man in black! A surge of adrenaline left him giddy. He stifled an urge to laugh. This was just like the stories in his magazines. Secret meetings. Dangerous men doing dangerous stuff. For the first time in his life, he was behaving like a real man. A few moments later he slid onto the opposite end of the bench, took a sack from his pocket, and started tossing out crumbs. Within seconds a handful of pigeons and a couple of squirrels were scrambling

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about his feet. Beatty glanced at the man on the far end of the bench. Other than to turn the pages of the newspaper he was reading, he hadn’t moved. Beatty took a deep breath. “One for all,” he said nervously. The man never looked up. “And all for one,” he growled. Beatty could barely sit still. “Did you bring the stuff?” The man turned a page. “Did you bring the money?” Beatty nodded, then realized the man couldn’t see his answer. “Yes,” he said quickly, and emptied his sackful of crumbs onto the ground. Then he took a bulging legal-size envelope from his pocket and laid it on the bench. After that, he wadded up the empty crumb sack in his hands and got up to throw it away. When he turned back around, the man was gone and a small gym bag was lying where his money had been. Beatty bolted for the bag, clutching it to his chest as he quickly surveyed the area. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No one was in sight except an old man tottering down the path about a hundred yards ahead. A burst of excitement shot through him. He’d done it! Now he had what he needed to teach Rachel Austin a lesson. He wanted to look inside, but there would be time enough later to see what his money had bought. Margaret Andrews was furious. She’d been to confession twice this week alone, said three novenas and performed two acts of contrition, and still the anger

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within her had not subsided. She kept telling herself she was old, but she wasn’t a fool. She’d been doing laundry for men for most of her life and she knew what those stains on the sheets were all about. Her Beatty was abusing himself, and it was high time it stopped. He was old enough to control his manly urges. But ever since he’d tacked those disgusting pictures of that foreign-looking woman on his bedroom walls, the stains had been constant. To think that was going on right beneath her nose, in her own house . . . it was not to be tolerated. And since it was obvious to her that he wasn’t going to stop, it was up to her, as his mother, to do what must be done. Full of righteous indignation, she marched into his room with a garbage bag in her hand and began ripping the pictures from the walls. There were dozens of them now. Covers from Vogue. Ads from Cosmopolitan. From Mademoiselle. Her hands were shaking with rage as she ripped and tore, stuffing the glossy papers into the bag as if they were something foul. Bits of the images were burned into her brain as she went about the business of razing his world. She stopped briefly to look at the one in her hand. The woman’s dark skin—all that black, flowing hair. Those knowing, sluttish eyes, that wide, beckoning mouth. Despite the fact that it was only a perfume advertisement, in Margaret’s opinion it was nothing more than public promises of unsanctioned lust. Margaret’s spirit soared as the pictures came down. When the walls were bare, she breathed a sigh of relief, certain she’d set her son free. Then her heart skipped a beat as she heard the front door slam.

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Beatty was home! A moment of fear came and went before her defenses slid into place. She set her jaw, determined to have her way in this. “So!” she muttered, already shifting into a judgmental mode. “You’re finally home. Do I smell liquor on your breath?” Beatty stood in the doorway to his room, so stunned he couldn’t speak. He pushed past her, setting the bag he was carrying onto his bed, and then staring at the walls in disbelief. Margaret’s satisfaction began to waver. “Well, have you nothing to say for yourself?” she demanded. He turned then, staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Standing in the shadow of the doorway, Margaret fought an urge to panic. Suddenly it became important to her that he admit she was right. She lifted the garbage bag, waving it toward him. “You were committing a sin and you know it. The signs were there! On your sheets! Always on your sheets!” Beatty’s face turned a dull, angry red. He took a single step forward. Her son’s silence was unnerving. This wasn’t the way she’d expected him to react. She took an uncertain step back. “As your mother, it was my duty to see that you—” Beatty hit her with his fist. The impact startled him as much as it did her. Her head snapped as she fell backward. A loud crack split the silence of the room as the back of her head and body hit the edge of the

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door frame. She groaned once and then expelled a long, single breath as she slid to the floor, the garbage bag still clutched in her hands. Beatty stared. His mother had landed sitting up, with her legs sprawled wide, and her head lolling to one side. Her expression seemed shocked, her gaze slightly blank. A single drop of blood was pearling at the corner of her mouth, and his knuckles were stinging. He took a deep breath as the rage within him began to subside. “Cover yourself,” he muttered, trying not to stare at her pale, blue-veined thighs. She didn’t move. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, a bit louder. “You shouldn’t have interfered with my room.” She seemed oblivious to his complaint. Beatty started to sweat. “I have rights,” he said loudly. “I’m a grown man. I pay the bills. I buy the food. I have rights.” She didn’t blink. Beatty leaned forward. When he touched her shoulder, she slid sideways like a sack of flour. Her head bounced against the floor with another thump. But there was no outcry. No sound of dismay. Beatty stared in disbelief. “Mother?” She didn’t move. Beatty pushed at her shoulder with the tip of his finger. For once he would have welcomed a whine. “Damn it, Mother, I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have come in my room.” A fly circled above where Margaret was lying and

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then landed on the side of her face. Beatty stared at it, watching as it crawled, undeterred, toward her eye. “Oh God . . . oh no . . . oh shit,” Beatty moaned, and then pinched his lips together to keep from screaming. He crawled down beside her and tried to lift her up. But Margaret Andrews was past needing to stand. Beatty felt her neck for a pulse. There was none. Then he thumped on her chest a few times trying to start her heart, just as they did on TV. But she didn’t respond, and the sound of his fist pounding her soft flesh made him sick. “Mother . . . Mother . . . wake up. It’s me, Beatty. I’m home for supper. What have you cooked?” But Margaret’s cares of this world were over. In fact, she would have been shocked to know that she’d given birth to the man who would ultimately end her life. When she didn’t answer, Beatty rocked back on his knees, straightened her skirt, and then started to cry. The garbage bag was open at Margaret’s feet. Beatty reached inside, taking out one of Rachel’s pictures and smoothing the wrinkles as best as he could. He stared at the beautiful image until it blurred before his eyes. With shaking ringers, he pulled the garbage bag into his lap. “It was all your fault,” he muttered, taking the pictures out one by one. “Your fault. It was all your fault.” He looked down at his mother. A shudder racked him. He didn’t know what to do. As he sat, bits and pieces of the stories he’d read began coming back to

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him. The soldiers in those stories killed, too. But under orders, of course. It didn’t count if you killed under orders. And when they killed, sometimes they had to hide the bodies, but only until their mission was complete. At that moment an idea began to form. He must hide his mother’s body from the police, at least until he’d dealt with Rachel Austin. They would never understand that it wasn’t his fault she was dead. But where? This wasn’t the jungle. There were no caverns, or canyons, or thickets of trees in New York City, only great, towering buildings set along endless miles of concrete. And even though they never had visitors at the apartment, he couldn’t leave her here. Someone would notice the smell. So where? He thought of the antique trunk sitting at the foot of his mother’s bed. It was just the right size. And he could store it in the basement of their building. It would be like a crypt. He liked the idea of crypts. Mother wouldn’t want to be put in the ground. And it was still summer. The super wouldn’t be down in the basement in the summer. No furnace to tend. By the time winter came, the smell would be gone. He looked at the bag sitting on his bed, then back at his mother. Now he was convinced his plans were right. He crawled to his feet and went into his mother’s room, where he began emptying the trunk of the winter quilts she stored there. When he was done, he dragged the empty trunk down the hall, then stopped, staring at her dead body again. This didn’t seem real. He kept expecting that at any moment he would awaken and start this day over.

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A puddle was forming beneath Margaret’s body, and Beatty suddenly wrinkled his nose at the offensive smell of urine and feces. He sighed. Mother would be furious at him for making her soil herself. He opened the trunk and then stepped back, judging Margaret’s size against the vacant interior. It would be a tight fit, but it should work. Then Beatty held his breath and began cramming what was left of Margaret Andrews into her own grandmother ’s trunk. Once the lid was shut and locked, he headed to the kitchen for a sponge and pail. A short while later he was down on his hands and knees, cleaning up the urine stains with a strong solution of disinfectant. Even though the mixture had been lemon-scented, there was no way to disguise the sharp, astringent odor of chemicals. He sighed. Mother hated this smell. And then he remembered. What Mother hated no longer mattered. He rocked back on his heels and stared around the apartment, then dropped the sponge into the pail and stood. Drying his hands on his pants, he began to walk through the apartment. Alone. He was alone. Fear surged and then ebbed as quickly as it had come. A spurt of nervous excitement shifted through him. He’d always wanted a place of his own, and now he had it. A hand-crocheted doily lay against the headrest of Beatty’s favorite chair. Fingering it curiously, it occurred to him then that this sort of thing didn’t belong on a man’s chair. He dropped it in the trash as he passed. Then he went through the small, cramped

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apartment room by room, discarding some things, moving others—making this place more to his liking. When he thought to look up, it was after midnight and Margaret was still in the hall. Beatty frowned. Like his mother, the trunk was out of place in his world. It was time to finish what he’d started. He sneaked a dolly from the janitor’s room and loaded on the trunk. By three A.M. Margaret Andrews had a new address. North end of the basement, in the midst of a huge jumble of boxes, second stack on the right. Except for some tile work yet to be done in the bathrooms, Houston’s new house was finished. The sprawling, single-story ranch house had been built beneath the only stand of trees on his new property. In fact, the trees were part of the reason he’d bought the land. Someone had told him they’d been planted over a hundred years ago, by the first owner. He didn’t know how old they were, and he didn’t much care. Their presence on the flat, windy land gave him a sense of comfort and satisfaction. They represented shelter, both to the body and to the soul. He walked through the house, seeing it with fresh eyes and marveling that something so grand was his. The west wing was all bedrooms. Four, to be exact. Kenny had laughed at the size of the rooms and then claimed the one on the end for when he visited. The master bedroom was at the other end of the house, just off the room designated as a library office. The west wall of the living room was floor-toceiling windows. It was Houston’s favorite part of

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the house. The view from where he was standing took his breath away. He imagined how beautiful the sunsets would be from here, and then he shook off the thought. Without Rachel, a sunset was nothing more than the end to another lonely day. He frowned as he headed for the front door. His stomach was grumbling, which figured, because he hadn’t eaten since morning. And while he knew there was little to eat at his old house, it was still better than going back into Mirage and eating alone. Not that he couldn’t have driven into Mirage and met up with any number of people who would willingly share his table. An old pain tugged at his heart as he slid behind the wheel of his battered truck. Money could buy a lot of things, but it couldn’t buy happiness. And it couldn’t buy love. He drove out of the yard and then headed east. Within the month, this new place would be home and the long drive out to the Bookout ranch would be a thing of the past. In a couple of days an entire houseful of furniture would be delivered to outfit the empty rooms. Moving day wasn’t going to be all that difficult, either. Except for his clothes and a few pictures, there wasn’t anything from the old house worth taking. A short while later he pulled up in the yard. Taco looked up from his place on the porch and then dropped his head back on his paws and closed his eyes. Houston got out. “What? No welcome-home kiss? No ‘Glad to see you, darling, I missed you so much’?” Taco snorted and sighed.

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Houston stopped to scratch his head. “Wonder what you’ll think about moving,” he said, more to himself than to the old dog. Then he unlocked the door and went inside. Taco would adapt, just as Houston had. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it just the same. The message light was blinking on his answering machine as he entered the kitchen. “Not now,” he muttered, and hung his hat on a hook by the back door. The house smelled musty, even unused. But Houston knew why. Except for eating and sleeping, he couldn’t bear to stay inside. There were too many memories of Rachel in these rooms. Echoes of her laughter haunted him in his sleep. More than once he’d been certain he’d heard the front door open, then heard the sound of her footsteps as she hurried down the hall toward his bedroom. Twice this week he’d been standing at the sink making coffee and could have sworn that he’d heard her call his name. It was getting on his nerves. The sooner he moved into his new house, the better. Everything there was new and fresh, untainted by her presence. Then he could get on with his life. Maybe one day he would find a good woman who wanted a home and a family as much as he did. He thought of those four empty bedrooms and pictured them filled with children and the house ringing with laughter. He sighed. It was a good dream. The only problem was, every time he dreamed it, the woman at his side looked like Rachel. It was five minutes after three A.M. when Taco came trotting around the corner of the house and flopped

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down on the porch. He lowered his head to lick his paws and then paused in the act to sniff the air. A grumble sounded low in his throat. It was a reminder, more to himself than to the coyote that wandered beyond the barn, that this was his territory. Inside the house, Houston was oblivious to his dog’s vigilance. Although his sleep was deep, he stirred restlessly. Over the past few months he’d been able to cope with Rachel’s absence during the day by focusing on something else. But that worked only when he was awake. Asleep, she invaded him from the inside out. Tonight was no exception. Only this time something was different about his dreams. Something was wrong. Something bad. Something evil. Sweat beaded his skin as he struggled to pull out of this spell. But it wouldn’t let go. He was trapped in the nightmare. “Help me, help me. Dear God, someone help me.” Houston spun toward the sound, his heart pounding with fear. He recognized the voice, and even though he couldn’t see her through the smoke and the fire, he knew she was in terrible pain. “Rachel! Where are you? “ “Houston? Is that you?” He heard her sob. “I can’t see you. Please tell me where you are.” As he ran, the smoke drifted around him, permeating his clothes and filling his nostrils. Death hid in the thick, swirling shadows. He could feel it. Suddenly she screamed, and his heart lurched. “Rachel! Rachel! For the love of God, answer me!” He spun around in desperation, and as he did, the smoke began to part, as if the great hand of God had drawn a knife through it. He saw her then, covered in blood with her

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hands outstretched, feeling her way through the smoke and the fire. He lunged toward her just as her image started to fade. “Cherokee! Cherokee! Don’t go! I’m here!” She turned toward the sound of his voice, her mouth open wide in a soundless scream. He gasped and then froze, unable to move or speak. Her eyes—those beautiful, grass-green eyes—were gone. Houston woke himself up screaming her name. “Jesus,” he whispered, and rolled out of bed, unwilling to lie one second more in the place where the dream had been born. His heart was pounding as he staggered to the bathroom and turned on the water, then stood splashing his sweaty face with shaking hands. On the verge of nausea, he stumbled out of the bathroom, pulling on his Levi’s as he left. The floor was cool under his feet as he headed for the front door. He needed air and space and something in his mind besides the remnants of that hellish nightmare. Taco whined as Houston walked out on the porch, but at a word from Houston, he quickly settled back down. Houston stepped to the edge of the porch and looked up at the sky. Literally thousands upon thousands of stars lined the darkness, from horizon to zenith and down again. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, absorbing the faint scent of sage in the air, as well as a hint of the ever-present dust. The wind had quieted, but he knew by morning it would be active again, blasting its way across the vast west Texas plains. As he stood, the horror of his nightmare began to

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recede. When he could think without wanting to cry, he sank down on the top step and put his head in his hands. His path through life had long been steeped in fact. And although he had the occasional nightmare, it had never been anything this graphic. Never this blatantly evil. And never in his life had he been this afraid. He didn’t believe in omens. He didn’t believe in visions. But there was a part of him that knew what he’d seen would come true. He closed his eyes and started to pray. “God, I can’t watch over her, but you can. Keep her safe. Keep her well. And whatever you do, in the name of all that’s holy, don’t let her die.” Almost a week had passed since Margaret’s untimely exit from Beatty’s life. And in that time Beatty’s attitude had undergone an abrupt change. Yesterday on his way to work he’d caught a glimpse of himself in a plate-glass window and had not recognized his own image. The man in the reflection was swaggering, and there was a tilt to his chin that had never been there before. When he realized it was himself that he saw, he stopped and stared, turning until he was facing his own reflection. The high forehead and receding hairline were still there. His eyes hadn’t gotten any darker, his shoulders no broader, his legs no longer. But there was something about the man in the window that commanded attention. Beatty rolled his shoulders and stuck his hands in his pockets as he resumed his trek to the subway. The day was warm, but there was a promise of rain in the

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air. As he continued his journey a twitch began playing at the corner of his mouth, finally pulling his thin lips into a caricature of a smile. He was changing. He could feel it. But to know it was becoming visible as well made him proud. He thought of the day ahead, and of the woman he would most certainly see before it was over. His heart skipped a beat. Everything was ready. His Internet contact had been more than thorough. The man in the park had furnished not only the supplies needed for a bomb, but a diagram of how to assemble it. A sense of purpose was new to Beatty Andrews, but it was something he knew he could get used to. Before, he’d only read about such things as implemented explosive devices, but now he was about to use one. IEDs were as varied as the people who used them, but their intended purposes were always the same. Whether the device maimed or killed was unimportant. What mattered was that notice be taken of the cause. He thought of the opulence of Rachel Austin’s lifestyle and how she had changed, from the kind and loving woman she’d been when she moved into the apartment to the spoiled, bed-hopping cheat she’d become. Of course, Beatty’s world was a maze of fabrications. The fantasy in his mind had become his reality because his reality was too painful to bear. He made a mental note to pick up some fancy wrapping paper and ribbon on his way home from work. Rachel’s little present was ready. All it needed was a bit of something pretty to catch her attention. There was a slight skip to his step as he started down the stairs into the subway station. It felt good to be

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prepared. Before the week was out, Rachel Austin would be sorry she’d messed with a real man. Rachel could hear the phone ringing as she stepped off the elevator. Juggling her shopping bags, she made a dash for the door, punching in the entry code as fast as she could. The phone was still ringing when the door slammed shut behind her. She frowned, wondering why her answering machine hadn’t picked up. Yanking the receiver from the cradle, she let her bags slide to the floor and dropped to the sofa, breathless. “Hello?” “Miss Austin, this is the front desk. We have a delivery for you.” Rachel sighed. Why hadn’t they said something to her a few minutes ago when she’d walked right past? “Thank you. Please send it up.” She dropped the receiver back into place and then kicked off her shoes. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch. She headed for the refrigerator to fix herself a snack. Jules was sending a car for her at eight, but that was almost four hours away. No way was she going to wait until then for food. In the midst of smearing mustard on a slice of bread, the phone rang again. She grabbed the receiver, balancing it between her ear and shoulder as she continued to make her sandwich. “Hello?” “Rachel, sweetheart, it’s me, Estie.” Rachel started to grin. “Esther! It’s so good to hear your voice. When are you going to come see me?”

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Esther Goodman laughed. “Soon, lambkin, soon. But that’s not why I called.” Rachel slapped a piece of pastrami onto the bread and then folded it all in half, licking a droplet of mustard from her thumb as she took her first bite. “Are you chewing in my ear?” Esther asked in a mock scolding tone. Rachel grinned. “Yes. I was starving.” “The only model I know who has no regard for her diet.” “I don’t have a diet,” Rachel said. “My point exactly,” Esther said, and then chuckled. “But I don’t suppose it matters now, does it? You are a capable woman in your own right. You don’t need an old woman telling you how to take care of yourself.” Rachel’s smile slipped. “I don’t know about that,” she said softly. “I hesitate to think what would have happened to me if you and Maury hadn’t taken me under your wings.” Esther leaned back in her chair and stared out the window. It was raining in Philadelphia today. She missed New York City. She missed the shows and the restaurants . . . and she missed this young woman’s company more than she would have ever believed. “Rachel, about that visit . . .” Rachel’s smile widened. “You’ll come?” “Let’s just say that I’m giving it careful consideration.” “I have plenty of room,” Rachel said. Tears blurred Esther’s vision. “I know you do, child, especially in your heart. But if I come, I’ll stay in my old place above the restaurant. The sound of breaking dishes always did put me right to sleep.”

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Rachel burst into laughter. Esther joined her. And then the doorbell rang and Rachel remembered the delivery. “Someone’s at the door. Don’t hang up. I’ll be right back.” Rachel dashed to the door, then peered through the peephole. As promised, one of the staff was standing outside her door holding a gaily wrapped package. She swung the door wide. “My goodness, that’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The young woman smiled. “Yes, Miss Austin, it surely is,” and placed it in Rachel’s hands. “No card?” The girl shrugged. “No, ma’am. Maybe it’s inside. Most of the nicer shops do it that way.” Then she smiled. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Rachel shook her head and handed her a couple of dollars. The girl smiled and waved as she left. As Rachel closed the door, she remembered that Esther was waiting and headed back to the kitchen. “Sorry about that,” she said as she picked up the phone and set the box onto the counter. “No problem,” Esther said. “I have nowhere to go but to bed.” Rachel laughed, then impulsively scooted the package aside and jumped up on the counter to sit, letting her legs dangle off the edge as she continued her visit. “I almost forgot why I called,” Esther said. “Which doesn’t surprise me. I forget a lot of things these days.” “So, why did you call?” Rachel asked, then reached for her sandwich.

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As she did, her elbow caught the corner of the present. And then it seemed as if everything began to happen in slow motion. “Oh no!” she cried, and made a desperate grab. But it was a case of too little, too late. The package disappeared over the edge of the counter. “Rachel, what’s wrong?” The world exploded in Esther’s ear. For a second her heart stopped, and then it started back up at a frantic pace. She knew that sound. She’d heard it far too many times in her nightmares to forget. But it made no sense. The war was over. There were no bombs in Manhattan. “Rachel!” No one answered. Esther started to cry. “Rachel! Sweetheart! Answer me!” And then she heard a low moan. She pressed her fingers to her lips and started to shake. “Oh God. Oh, sweet God. Don’t let her die.” Then she dialed the restaurant. Maury would know what to do.

� ten �

Someone was screaming. In the back of Rachel’s mind, she kept wanting to tell them to stop, but when she tried to take a deep breath, she realized it was her own voice that she was hearing. She stopped on a groan and tried to sit up, but the pain was so intense she blacked out. When she came to again, she was crying. She choked and then moaned. What was wrong? It hurt even to breathe. She stretched out her arm, expecting to feel pillow and bedclothes beneath her. But nothing was where it should be, and there was some sort of dirt on everything she could feel. Something sharp jabbed beneath her rib cage, and she gasped, almost passing out from the pain. She thought of Houston. He was always there for her. He would know what was wrong. “Houston, can you hear me? I need help. I think I’m going to be sick.” He didn’t answer. She couldn’t imagine where he might be. He never slept far from her side. Then she remembered that she wasn’t in her bed. She closed

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her eyes and groaned. That was why he couldn’t find her. She wasn’t in her bed. But if she wasn’t in her bed, then where was she? None of this was making any sense. She lay motionless, struggling to breathe, praying to stay calm. Then she heard the far-off sound of sirens and it all came crashing back. She wasn’t in Mirage, she was in New York City. Houston couldn’t come find her because he didn’t even know where she lived. Sorrow welled, tightening her throat and sending hot, burning tears to her eyes. Something crashed to the floor near her feet, shifting the dustladen air. She screamed. But when a blessed silence followed, she tried to relax, making herself focus on what she could remember last. Her memory skipped backward. The phone! She’d been talking on the phone. And there was a present beside her. It had fallen. A frown creased her forehead. After that, any memory stopped. But whom had she been talking to? Oh yes, Esther. She’d been talking to Esther. She sighed. Poor Esther. She was probably hysterical. Then Rachel bit back a sob. Given a little encouragement, she could get hysterical herself. Something trickled down the side of her cheek. She lifted her hands to her face and then moaned aloud from the pain. Her face was wet, and it stung. Why was it stinging? Then she froze, her fingers still cupping her cheeks. Smoke. She smelled smoke. Dear God, the apartment must be on fire. That was why she hurt. Her face had been burned. Panicked, she tried to roll over. She had to move. She wasn’t about to lie here

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and burn to death without trying to get out. It took several moments before she realized she couldn’t get up, and then a few more before it became apparent something was holding her down. Her hands were raw, her body aching as she ran her ringers along the weight, frowning at the unfamiliar shape and wishing it weren’t so dark. She needed to see. But as best as she could tell, a length of heavy metal was lying across her body. Gritting her teeth, she tried to push it aside, but it wouldn’t give. She blinked, trying desperately to clear her vision, but nothing happened. There must be a blackout. She’d heard of them happening but had never thought she’d experience one. Then something crackled behind her, and a new fear arose. She whimpered. Dear God, was the fire coming closer? Panic spiked as she tried once again to move whatever it was that was holding her down. It was no use. She was going to die. In that moment she thought of Houston again. He would never know that she was sorry. He would never know how much he meant to her. All he would remember was that she hadn’t had the guts to stay. She started to cry, then choked at the coppery taste of blood on her lips. She closed her eyes, praying to die before she burned. Her head was getting lighter, her breathing more labored. Through her fading consciousness, she thought she heard shouts at her door, then the sounds of splintering wood. Running footsteps vibrated the floor on which she lay. With her last ounce of breath, she cried out. “Help me. Help me. I’m here.” *

*

*

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Beatty Andrews stood on the opposite side of the street, watching as firefighters spilled from the fire trucks and ran into the apartment building. He looked up. Black smoke was boiling from the windows on the top floor. A pang of regret hit then. This didn’t have to happen. If she’d stayed true to him, everything would have been fine. In the distance he could hear more sirens. He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched with absent interest as a half-dozen police cars came to a screeching halt and the officers began blocking off streets and rerouting traffic, giving free access to all the necessary emergency vehicles. Almost immediately, ambulances followed, parking as near to the building as they could get. Medical personnel began moving into place, readying for the injured to be brought out. His eyes narrowed. They might as well send for the coroner. There was no way anyone in the apartment could have survived the blast. And while he hadn’t planned on anyone else being hurt, he wasn’t going to dwell on it if they had. They were casualties of war. In war, innocents died. And in Beatty’s mind, the battle between him and Rachel Austin was real. The police began moving back the curious while roping off the area with rolls of yellow crime-scene tape. Beatty quickly obliged by stepping into a doorway out of the way. Across the street, people began spilling out of the smoking building. Some were running; others walked as if in a daze, their faces etched with terror. Beatty watched, mentally counting them off. At this

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time of day, he knew, the residents present would be few. And then the first stretcher came out. His belly clenched and he took a step forward, watching as the paramedics transferred the patient to a gurney and wheeled it into a waiting ambulance. Was it her? He glimpsed a shock of white hair beneath a layer of blankets. He frowned. That would be Mr. Anthony from 6A. He should not have been injured. He lived six floors down. And then it hit him. Mr. Anthony had a bad heart. Beatty moved back against the building, ignoring another pang of conscience. So maybe the old man had had a heart attack. So what? Beatty’s mother was dead, and all because of Rachel. If Mr. Anthony died, it would be Rachel’s fault, too. As he watched, several more people were carried out. The two ambulances left, only to be replaced by another and then another as the casualties of Beatty Andrews’s war were taken away to be treated. And then there was a sudden flurry of excitement near the front of the building, and somehow he knew. He pushed his way through the crowd, desperate to see, needing to make sure. If it had not been for that long black hair, he would never have known it was her. What he could see of Rachel’s face from beneath the oxygen mask was a sooty black and covered in blood. A gasp rose from the crowd around him as they carried her toward a waiting ambulance. Stunned by her appearance, he froze, his mouth agape, his eyes wide and fixed. It wasn’t until the ambulance sped away that it hit him. Despite all his careful planning, Rachel Austin was still alive.

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He bolted toward a policeman standing on the corner. “Where are they taking her?” he shouted. The policeman barely gave him a glance. “Bellevue,” he answered. “They’re taking all of them to Bellevue.” Beatty started to shake. He didn’t know what to do. She should have been dead. He had followed the plan carefully. So carefully. Then what the hell had happened? A sudden wave of panic swept over him as he bolted for the subway like a rat going to ground. Jules Farrier’s private phone began to ring just as he was walking out of his office. For a couple of seconds he considered ignoring it, then he dropped his briefcase on the sofa and answered the call, his voice gruff with impatience. “Hello.” “Jules, it’s Maris. There’s been an—” Combing his fingers through his hair in an uncharacteristic moment of frustration, he interrupted her. “Damn it, Maris, it’s after hours. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” “Listen to me, Jules. There was an explosion in Rachel’s apartment. She’s in the hospital.” Jules heart stopped as images he couldn’t bear to consider flashed through his mind. “God have mercy,” he muttered. “What happened?” Maris was breathless, and it was obvious by the tone of her voice that she was near tears. “I don’t know. Maury Feldman called me. He said

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Rachel was talking to Esther when it sounded like something exploded. Esther panicked and called him. He called an ambulance, although one had already been dispatched.” Jules closed his eyes. He was afraid to ask, and yet it had to be said. “Is she . . . how bad do they . . . ?” Maris choked on a sob. “All I know is that she’s still alive. I’m on my way to Bellevue now.” “I’ll meet you there,” Jules said. The line went dead in his ear. For a moment he couldn’t bring himself to move. And then he thought of Rachel. Beautiful, beautiful Rachel. Thank God she was still alive. But he couldn’t help thinking: What must have happened to her face? Tom Mikeowitz was talking on his cell phone just outside the door of Rachel’s hospital room when he saw Maris hurrying down the hall. He quickly disconnected and went to meet her. Maris grabbed his wrist, almost afraid to ask. Tom shook his head. “It doesn’t look good.” Maris started to cry. “This is a nightmare. My God, my God. Do they know what happened? Maury said she was in the kitchen. Was there a gas leak? I don’t understand.” Tom frowned, then lowered his voice and pulled her aside. “I was just on the phone with a friend in the department. Right now this is just preliminary, but they think it was a bomb.” Maris gasped. “Are you serious?” He nodded. “They’ll know more by tomorrow, but

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one of the staff said a package had been delivered to her only minutes before the explosion.” Too stunned to speak, Maris turned away and covered her face with her hands. And that was how Jules saw her. Fear struck him, and it was all he could do to keep walking. “Maris?” She looked up. “Jules!” She pressed a hand to her lips, trying to maintain some control. “Oh, Jules,” she whispered. Clearly she was beyond conversation. He looked past her to Mikeowitz. “Tom . . . talk to me.” Mikeowitz took Jules by the shoulder and led him aside, repeating the same thing he’d just told Maris. “But this isn’t for public knowledge,” he warned. “If it’s true, there will be a criminal investigation. And you know what the media will do with that news.” Jules groaned. “Can we see her?” “No,” Tom muttered, and then slapped his leg, as if in sudden memory of something left undone. “What? “Jules asked. “Her family! We should be calling her family.” Maris looked up from digging in her purse for a tissue. “She doesn’t have any. Both her parents are dead.” “But surely there’s someone back in her hometown— a best friend, a preacher—who would want to know what’s happened to her.” Maris frowned. “To my knowledge, the only person she talked to with any frequency was Esther Goodman.”

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Jules looked away, unwilling to let either of them know he had information they didn’t. There was someone—a man from her past. What was his name? Dallas, no . . . Houston. That’s right, Houston. Houston Bookout. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked toward a cluster of chairs at the end of the hall. His conscience pulled at him as he slumped into a seat. But he didn’t move. Jealousy overrode compassion. He didn’t have the guts to face the man who held Rachel’s heart. A short while later the other two joined him. Twice they tried to draw him into their quiet conversation, and both times he ignored the gesture. He couldn’t think about anything but Rachel. He needed to see her. To know that she still breathed. And so they sat, three people who were bound by the ties of their business to a woman whose only tie to them had been her beauty. Even though the words were never spoken aloud, each of them had a reason, besides Rachel’s welfare, for keeping vigil there. If things were as bad as they seemed, then facts would have to be faced. As much as they might like her, as much as they truly cared for her well-being, Rachel Austin’s fifteen minutes of fame were probably already over. Just after daybreak Esther Goodman exited the elevator, escorted by her cousin Maury. Although she’d never met the people who had made Rachel famous, she recognized them from Rachel’s descriptions. The short, stocky one must be Mikeowitz, the agent. The woman was too chic, too cosmopolitan for anyone but the ad executive, Maris Binder. And the

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dark man wearing the Rolex and the Italian suit must be Farrier. They saw her coming. Maris recognized her instantly and set aside the Styrofoam cup she’d been picking to pieces. “Oh wow,” she said softly. “Would you look who’s here?” They looked up. Mikeowitz shrugged. “Who’s she?” Jules stood. “That’s Estie Goodman, you fool. She could buy and sell all of us a hundred times over. Get up.” Mikeowitz stood, not because he was impressed with her money but because she’d come on behalf of his client. Maris went to meet her. “Mrs. Goodman, I’m Maris Binder, a friend of Rachel’s. We met a couple of years ago at a fund-raiser for the Met. Sorry to see you again under such circumstances.” Esther nodded. “How is she? How is my Rachel?” Maury clucked nervously, shooing Esther toward a vacant chair. “Sit, Estie, sit. You can talk while you’re sitting.” Esther gratefully accepted the seat, but wouldn’t be put off from the answer she so desperately needed. Maris scooted her chair next to Esther’s. “Mrs. Goodman, this is Jules Farrier, the owner of Farrier Cosmetics, and Tom Mikeowitz is Rachel’s agent.” Esther nodded. “Please,” she said, clasping Maris’s hand. “How is she?” Jules took a seat nearby and leaned forward. “We don’t know much, only that she’s out of surgery. She

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suffered a lot of minor cuts, a couple of serious ones, and a couple of broken ribs and a ruptured spleen. Her face was burned—” Esther gasped. Jules hastened to add. “But not seriously. We were assured it’s nothing that won’t heal in time.” Maury gave his cousin a nervous glance. The trip alone had been grueling for Estie. The shock of this news could be bad for her health. “Estie, I think you should—” She silenced him with a look and then returned her attention to Farrier. “Please continue.” Jules sighed. “They told us that she suffered a pretty severe concussion from the blast.” “And both her corneas were scratched,” Maris added. Esther shook her head in disbelief. “What is the prognosis?” Jules looked away. Maris started to cry. It was Mikeowitz, ever the pragmatic, who answered. “They’re not certain, because she wasn’t awake enough to make a positive determination, but they’re pretty certain that she won’t be able to see.” Esther’s chin quivered. It was the only sign of the shock that went through her. “Is this temporary?” Mikeowitz shrugged. “They don’t know. And at this point her sight is not their primary concern. Her concussion was severe. I think they’re more concerned with the fact that she’s slipped into a coma.” “Who have you called?” Esther asked. They all looked startled. “Well, no one. Her parents are dead and she has no siblings.”

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Esther frowned. “There was a man from her hometown. She never mentioned his name, but I know that she cared deeply for him.” Maris nodded. “I suspected as much myself. But I was not in her confidence. I don’t know his name, either.” Jules stared down at his fingers, absently noting that he needed a manicure. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and bent over, methodically wiping a smudge from the toe of one of his custommade shoes. When he had finished, he straightened and began folding the handkerchief into a small, perfect square. “His name was Houston. Houston Bookout,” he said. Maris turned, staring at Jules in disbelief. “My God! Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Jules couldn’t answer and wouldn’t look up. Esther frowned. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is Rachel. We don’t know how to get in touch with this Mr. Bookout, but I’m certain there are people in Mirage, Texas, who do. Call information. If he doesn’t have a phone, call the local authorities. The name is unusual. They’re bound to know him.” “I can do that,” Mikeowitz said, and jumped up, moving a short distance away so that he could talk undisturbed. Esther leaned back and closed her eyes. She could sense Maury hovering nearby, but she was fine. And she would be even better when she knew that her Rachel would live. Downstairs in admissions, an insignificant clerk had been reading down a new patient list when one

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name jumped out at her. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she lifted her wrist to her nose and sniffed lightly, savoring the fragrance of her new scent. Timeless. Her boyfriend, Daryl, had gotten it for her for her birthday. Could this be the same Rachel Austin whose face had launched the line? She leaned back in her chair, absently tapping the pen she was holding against her leg. Her rent was due, and it was a week until payday. Maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to make a little extra dough. Well, she thought, there’s only one way to find out. As easily as that, the decision was made to interfere in another person’s life. Houston sat on the side of the bed, sick to his stomach and shaking. He’d had the same dream about Rachel again. He rubbed his hands on his face and then glanced at the clock. It was almost nine A.M. He groaned. Good thing he wasn’t working for Dale Emery anymore. Today was the day he would have gotten himself fired. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the bathroom. Moments later he was standing beneath the showerhead, using the sharp jets of water to wash away what was left of the nightmare. He stood in the shower until the water ran cold, and then he turned it off and got out. He was reaching for a towel when the phone began to ring. He wrapped the towel around his waist and then bolted for the phone beside his bed. “Hello.” “Houston Bookout?”

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Houston frowned. He didn’t recognize the voice. “Yes?” “Mr. Bookout, forgive the intrusion, but I need to ask you a question.” Houston’s frown deepened. “Who is this?” Mikeowitz sighed. “Sorry. It’s been a hell of a night. Let me start over. Mr. Bookout, my name is Tom Mikeowitz. I’m Rachel Austin’s agent. Do you know her?” Houston sat down on the side of the bed. “Jesus,” he whispered, and closed his eyes, picturing the nightmare. “Is she still alive?” Mikeowitz’s attention focused. “Why, yes . . . but how did you—” Houston’s hands were shaking. “A dream. I kept having this dream.” Mikeowitz shuddered. This was too damned spooky for him. He made a mental note to tell the police to check on the man’s whereabouts at the time of the explosion. Just because he was in Texas now didn’t mean he couldn’t have been in New York yesterday. Then Mikeowitz continued. “She’s in Bellevue Hospital in New York City. Um . . . it’s at First Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street.” Houston’s voice was shaking. “What happened? How badly is she hurt?” “She suffered cuts, broken bones, and a ruptured spleen. Also some burns, but they were minor. It wasn’t actually a fire. It was more of an explosion. Right now she’s in a coma.” Houston covered his face with his hands, imagin-

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ing Rachel alone and afraid. She was hurt. He couldn’t bear the thought. And then he remembered the last part of his dream. Of Rachel lost and crying out, and of him standing in front of her, shouting her name. And no matter how loud he shouted, she still couldn’t see him. Suddenly everything began to make a cruel sort of sense. “Mr. Mikeowitz . . .” “Yes?” “What aren’t you telling me?” Mikeowitz cleared his throat. There was no easy way to say this. “Well, the doctors can’t say for sure how long the condition may last, but for now, Rachel’s blind.” Houston closed his eyes, trying to picture the Rachel he knew forever in the dark. “Sir, would you do me a favor? Tell the hospital that I’m on my way.” “Yes, sir, I expected you would be,” Mikeowitz mumbled. “Some of us will still be here . . . waiting.” By the time Houston hung up the phone, his purpose was clear. Despite what had happened to her, he felt a terrible sort of relief. At least she was alive . . . and he knew where she was. After that, everything else seemed inconsequential. Only after Mikeowitz disconnected did he realize that they were all watching him. “Well?” Maris asked. “Was it him?” Mikeowitz crossed himself. “Yes, it was him.” “What’s wrong?” Maris asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

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Mikeowitz took a deep breath. “You’re not going to believe this.” Jules had had enough. His worry about Rachel, coupled with the long, sleepless night, had just about done him in. “Damn it, Mikeowitz, either spit it out or shut the hell up.” “He knew.” Jules sighed in disgust. “What do you mean, he knew?” “Said he’d dreamed she’d been hurt.” Jules blanched and looked away. A part of him resented like hell that another man would have that kind of connection with Rachel. “My God,” Maris gasped. “You aren’t serious?” Mikeowitz nodded. “Is he coming?” she asked. “Of course he’ll come,” Esther said. “That’s what people in love do.” It wasn’t until Maury took her hand and squeezed it that she realized she’d been rubbing at the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. “Well, now,” she said softly, meeting his worried gaze. “I’m fine, Maury dear. It’s Rachel who needs your prayers, not an old woman like me.” Maury lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed first her palm and then the row of numbers tattooed on her skin. Esther lifted her chin, and in that moment the wrinkles on her face seemed to disappear. “She’s a survivor,” she said softly. “Just like me.”

� eleven �

“Passengers, please prepare for landing. Return your seat backs to their upright positions and fasten your tray tables. We will be touching down in just a few minutes. Enjoy your stay in the New York area, and on behalf of the captain and all of the crew, thank you for flying Continental.” Houston glanced up at the passing flight attendant and then took a deep breath. Enjoy? That might be damn near impossible. But he pulled the seat belt a little tighter across his lap and then turned to the window to his left. It was night now. Almost midnight. There’d been hell to pay getting a flight out of Midland-Odessa airport, but he’d done it. Then the connecting flight in Dallas had been late. He kept thinking of Rachel, hurt and alone in a hospital room, and he wanted to cry. He was scared—as scared as he’d ever been in his life. But not for himself. For Rachel. He stared down at the city below, trying to picture the Rachel he knew being happy in a place like this. She’d always liked space and privacy, and being able

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to run barefoot whenever she chose. He couldn’t yet distinguish individual buildings, but there was a blanket of lights as far as the eye could see. That meant people. Millions of people. He shuddered. But Rachel had chosen to come here. And she’d stayed. Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought. Maybe that was part of the reason she’d left him. Maybe he hadn’t allowed her to be herself because he was too busy loving the woman he wanted her to be. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the seat. As long as she was alive, he would ask no more. The plane began to descend. A short while later Houston was in a taxi on his way to Bellevue Hospital. Mikeowitz had gone home hours ago. After being assured that Rachel was resting comfortably and could not receive visitors before tomorrow, Maris had also gone home a little after nine P.M. But neither Esther nor Jules had been willing to budge. Each sat within sight of the door to Rachel’s room, and each also had a better-than-average view of the elevator. And each had an agenda for staying. Jules was exhausted and hungry and about as soul-weary as he’d ever been in his life, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not yet. Not until he saw for himself the man who held Rachel’s heart. And Jules knew he was coming. He’d listened without comment as Mikeowitz had related every word of his conversation with Houston Bookout. There was a deep streak of jealousy within him that resented the connection between Houston and Rachel. He kept thinking back to the moment of the

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explosion—of how he’d been on his way out of his office to meet some people for dinner and how distracted he’d been when Maris had called. He’d had no inkling of what had happened to Rachel, and he was in the same damned city. So he sat with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor and trying to imagine how he was going to piece the bits of his world back together without Rachel Austin in it. Even if she healed completely, her recovery would be too slow for him to use her in his cosmetics campaigns again. Of course his company would see to all of her medical bills, and they would honor her contract as well. It wasn’t as if she was suddenly going to become penniless. But there was that nasty bit about her not being able to see. He frowned and put his head in his hands. That he wouldn’t accept. To know that those stunning green eyes would be forever sightless was an abomination. And her face. He kept seeing her face. So perfect. And now so terribly ruined. He sighed. As much as he hated to accept it, she would have to be replaced. In the span of her years, Esther had been at far too many bedside vigils. She knew the significance of having someone near who cared. She also knew how swiftly fate could change one’s hopes for the future, and she couldn’t bear to think of Rachel without someone near her who cared. And although she was at the point of exhaustion, there was no way she was

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leaving this hospital until the man from Texas arrived. He was coming for certain. Tom Mikeowitz had assured them it was so. But until she saw for herself that he was the kind of man she could trust, she wasn’t about to budge. The noise level began to increase down at the nurse’s station. They both glanced up. The shift must be changing. Jules glanced at Esther. “Mrs. Goodman, can I get you anything? Some coffee? A blanket?” Esther shook her head, then added, almost as an afterthought, “But thank you for asking.” He nodded, then stood, stretching his arms and then his legs as he looked around to see if there was any coffee left in his cup. From the corner of his eye, he saw a man getting off the elevator. He turned, his curiosity swiftly turning into a full-fledged stare. The man was tall, very tall, and dressed in western-style clothing. He had a suitcase in one hand and a small box in the other. What he could see of the man’s face beneath the brim of his Stetson was expressionless, but there was a purpose to his stride that Jules recognized. He stiffened instinctively. Esther saw the man also, and before Jules could stop her, she was on her feet, going to meet him. “Houston Bookout?” Houston stopped, staring with surprise at the tiny, white-haired woman who’d called him by name. “Yes, ma’am?” “I’m Esther Goodman. Rachel is a dear, dear friend of mine. And this is Jules Farrier. He owns the company Rachel was modeling for.”

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Houston looked up and over Esther’s shoulder. Jules’s fingers curled into fists. And then something clicked in Houston’s mind and he looked back at Esther. “Was modeling?” The past tense of the word devastated him. The suitcase he was holding dropped to the floor with a thud, and his face paled. “Oh God, please don’t tell me that she—” “Oh no, my dear! I’m so sorry!” Esther cried, and grabbed Houston by the arm. “I didn’t mean to imply—” Then she sighed, dabbing at her eyes with the tip of her handkerchief. “It’s been a long day and night.” Houston inhaled slowly, vaguely aware that a doctor was being paged and that someone was crying in a room across the hall. He couldn’t think past his next question. “Then she’s still alive?” Esther nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d best sit back down.” Houston could tell that the old woman was drained. Impulsively he took her by the arm and quickly helped her to a nearby chair. When she was seated, he squatted down in front of her. “You okay?” Esther smiled and brushed the side of his face with her hand. “I’m fine, young man. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You came to see my Rachel. So go.” Houston’s gaze softened. “Yes, ma’am. I aim to do just that.” Then he stood and gave Jules a considering look. “Where is she?” Jules pointed down the hall. “Fourth door on your

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right.” When Houston started to walk away, Jules grabbed him by the arm. “Wait! You can’t go in there now. Visiting hours are over.” Houston’s gaze never wavered. “I didn’t come to visit,” he said, and pulled out of Jules’s grasp. Jules took a step after him, unable to believe that this man was going to bulldoze his way into Rachel’s room without any regard for authority. “I have to warn you,” he called out, “she doesn’t look like she did.” Houston stopped. When he turned around, there was a look on his face that made Jules flinch. “I don’t give a goddamn what she looks like,” Houston said softly, and then turned his back on Jules and walked away. Esther closed her eyes, sighing with relief. This Texas man seemed to be all Rachel had hinted at, and more. Houston walked inside, his gaze immediately drawn to the woman in the bed across the room. At the same time he was registering the devastation of her injuries, a weight that he’d carried for almost a year was lifting from his heart. He’d found her. Her eyes were heavily bandaged. What he could see of her face bore evidence of the cuts and burns that she’d suffered. But it was the repetitive beep of the heart monitor that drew him across the room to her bed. For now, that blessed sound of life still in progress was enough. He bent down, lightly brushing his lips across her forehead. Her skin was hot—too hot. And her eyelids were fluttering as if she was dreaming. There was a

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deep cut at the corner of her mouth and another one above her left eyebrow. His voice was shaking as he whispered in her ear. “Cherokee . . . baby . . . it’s me, Houston. I’m here with you.” He laid his hand on her arm. “This is me, touching you.” Overwhelmed by emotion, his voice broke, and he had to take a deep breath before he could continue. “Wherever you’ve gone, you can come back now. You are no longer alone.” Then he opened her mother’s music box, which he’d carried across so many miles. The notes spilled out, forming the familiar melody of “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and blending with the intermittent beep of machines in the room. The field of bluebonnets was bathed in sunlight. Butterflies and honeybees wove invisible patterns of flight above the tall, stately blooms. The gently rolling prairie was a field of soft green, and the old split-rail fence separating Rachel from the flowers was gray with age. Warmth from the sun’s rays bathed her skin, while an errant spring breeze played with the ends of her hair. She looked down at herself, laughing in surprised delight at the clothes she was wearing. She’d had an outfit just like this when she was eight. The dress was red, with black embroidery around the neck and hem, and she’d cried when she finally outgrew it. Movement on the crest of the hill caught her eye. She looked up, her heart surging with joy. “Mama!” she cried, and ran forward, pulling up her skirt and climbing over the fence in one effortless motion.

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Rachel paused, thinking that she couldn’t remember her mother ever being this young—or this beautiful. Her thick black hair was hanging down her back instead of up in the braid that she’d always worn. Her skin was firm and smooth, and the smile she was wearing lit her all the way through. Then her mother waved and called out something Rachel couldn’t quite hear. “Wait there,” Rachel shouted. “I can’t hear you.” She started forward, wading through the kneehigh bluebonnets, shifting the pattern of their serenity, and sending the butterflies and bees up into the air. She was closer now. She could hear the sound of her mother’s laughter. She felt weightless, as if her feet weren’t quite touching the ground, and never in her life had she known such a feeling of contentment. The sun continued to burn, shining brighter and brighter upon the place where her mother was standing until Rachel felt that, in this moment, all the light of the world had been concentrated upon the bluebonnet hill. Her mother lifted her arm and waved once again. Rachel waved back and started to run. “I see you, Mama. I see you.” Suddenly the sound of music filled the air. It was “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” her mother’s favorite song. But where was it coming from? “Cherokee . . . this is me, touching you.” She stumbled, catching herself just before she fell. That sounded like Houston. But he shouldn’t be here, and neither should the music. When she looked up, a shadow was passing on the ground between

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herself and her mother. To her horror, her mother suddenly turned away. “No, Mama, no!” Rachel screamed. “Don’t leave me again.” Again Houston’s voice came out of the darkness behind her, the sound carrying over the notes of the music. “I’m here, baby. You are no longer alone.” She looked up the hill. Her mother was gone. “No,” she moaned, then called aloud, “Mama, Mama, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.” Again Houston spoke to her, his voice louder, more urgent. “I’m here, baby, I’m here. You’ll never be alone again.” She turned, her heart heavy with regret. With one last glance toward the sunlit hill and the bluebonnets waving in the breeze, she started walking toward the sound of the music, led by the promise he’d made. She was so tired of being alone. Jewel Amalfiano, RN, opened the door to her newest patient’s room and then frowned when she saw a man sitting in the corner in the shadows. The gossip was already spreading around the floor that Rachel Austin had been the victim of a crazed fan, and seeing a stranger in the room made her worry. She paused in the doorway, giving herself leeway to call for security should the need arise. “Sir, you’re not supposed to be in here!” Houston met her gaze with a straightforward stare. He’d been expecting this challenge ever since he sat down.

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“Yes, ma’am, I am,” he said softly. His answer startled the nurse. It wasn’t the excuse she normally heard. “Are you family?” “All she’s got.” The nurse relented, but only slightly. “I was given to understand that both of Miss Austin’s parents were dead.” Houston glanced at Rachel and then grinned at the nurse. “I can understand your concern,” he said. “But I’ve known Rachel for years, and I can assure you that my feelings for her are not fatherly.” Jewel almost blushed. Almost, but not quite. She still had a responsibility to her patients, especially one who might be the victim of a crime. “May I see some identification?” she asked. Houston stood immediately and handed her his wallet. The fact that it was bulging with cash was not lost on the nurse as she looked at the picture on his driver’s license. Then she saw the address. “You’re from Texas?” she asked as she handed his wallet back to him. Houston nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And so is she.” Jewel sighed. “I understand your concern, but we have rules. I’m sure you want only the best for Miss Austin.” “Are you the best?” Houston asked. Again Jewel was taken aback. The man kept turning her words around. “I like to think so,” she muttered, and then gave Houston a hard look. “And this woman is in my care.” Houston took off his Stetson and stepped forward, extending his hand.

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“And in mine,” he said softly. The tone of his voice deepened. “If someone is trying to harm Rachel, they’ll have to come through me to do it. Do you understand?” Jewel Amalfiano came from a long line of fiery Italians, and she knew persistence when she saw it. She sighed. Houston saw her relent, and he spoke before she had time to change her mind. “I will not get in your way,” he said. “But I cannot leave her alone. I promised.” Jewel knew that what she was about to do was against all hospital rules. She shook a finger in his face. “Don’t touch anything.” Houston nodded. “No, ma’am.” “And that means her, too.” Houston turned, his eyes softening and his lips parting in a gentle smile as he gazed down at Rachel. “That’ll be a little bit harder to do.” Jewel caught herself smiling, too. Then she remembered why she’d come in and waved him back to his chair. “I can’t make promises about what will happen to you on the next shift,” she said. “But I’ll make a note on her chart, just the same.” Houston took a deep breath and then exhaled softly, feeling as if he’d just crossed a small but crucial bridge. He sat quietly, watching with sharp interest as the nurse took Rachel’s vitals and then checked her monitors and IV. A few minutes later, satisfied that all was well with her patient, the nurse left. Once again Houston found himself alone with the sound of the mechanical beep. Frowning, he picked

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up the music box and began to rewind it. As he set it down, he opened the lid. The melody trickled out like water spilling over a rocky creek bed. Clear. Distinct. Constant. The music box she’d left behind was all that was left of Rachel’s home. He hoped to God it was enough to bring her back to him. An empty tamale can lay on its side at the edge of the cabinet. The sauce that had dripped onto the floor below had been dry for days, but not so dry that the cockroaches covering the mess were refusing to feed. At least a week’s worth of dishes was piled high in the sink, and the milk in the refrigerator had long since gone sour. In the living room, pizza delivery boxes were piled high on the floor, and the rank scent of old food filled the room. Beatty stood in the middle of the living room with the television remote in his hand, flipping through channels with no regard for programming. His stare was blank, his gaze fixed upon the curtains above the television screen. The diagram of the bomb that he’d built kept running through his mind. He’d followed the instructions so carefully, from cutting the blue sheet of Flex X to attaching the electric initiator securely to the battery pack. Everything had been exactly the way it had been drawn. And yes, it had exploded. But why wasn’t she dead? A frown furrowed his forehead all the way to his hairline as he hit the power button on the remote and then tossed it on the cushion of a nearby chair. His belly grumbled, reminding him that another day had gone by and he had yet to replenish his store

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of food. Morose and feeling sorry for himself, he kicked at the stack of pizza boxes and then headed for the kitchen to get a beer. Maybe later he’d order up some Chinese. A pang of loneliness hit him. He hadn’t had Chinese since before Mother died. He turned on the light as he entered the kitchen, sending a good dozen cockroaches into hiding. At the sight, he flinched. Mother could not abide bugs. He headed for the cabinet beneath the sink to get the spray. It was only after he’d doused the cabinets and the dishes, both dirty and clean, that he remembered Mother was dead. Quietly he walked back into the living room and stood in silent condemnation of what he’d let his home become. A dark flush came up his neck, spreading across his cheeks and forehead. Instant heat. Instant shame. His right eye began to twitch as his belly tied itself into knots. “No more,” he muttered, and set the can of bug spray aside. “No more.” With more purpose than he would have believed himself capable of, he went for the garbage bags, then began gathering up refuse. Room by room, he rid himself of the filth, and in doing so, the weight sitting on his heart began to dissipate as well. By the time he was through and heading for the living room with a broom and mop in hand, he had come to a new understanding. Beatty stroked the broom straws across the floor with a strong, rapid motion, taking satisfaction in the reappearance of gleaming hardwood in much the same way that he’d pleasured himself beneath the shrine he’d built to a woman’s beauty. It wasn’t that the

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bomb had failed. In fact, quite the contrary. It had served its purpose nicely. Rachel Austin had suffered as he’d meant her to. Maybe he just hadn’t been looking at the results in the right context. According to the news reports, the beautiful Miss Austin wasn’t perfect anymore. Her skin was marked, and she could not see. Beatty added a little skip to his step as he moved through the rooms. She’d turned away from him, choosing taller, more handsome men than himself. He giggled. What now, pretty woman? Whom will you choose when you cannot see? Even better, who will have you when your beauty is as flawed as your soul? Relief bloomed. This was his justice. And he didn’t have to give her up after all. She had just needed to be taught a lesson. Now that she’d been humbled, she would be happy to take him back. It only stood to reason that she would need a place to stay when the hospital released her. And since she was flawed, he was certain that her employers would be letting her go. This was perfect. She would welcome his attention with open arms. She had to. Only this time, he would be the one in control. With a strut in his step, he hung the mop up to dry and put the broom in the closet, then headed for his mother’s room. A slight pang of regret tugged at him as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. This room hadn’t changed for as long as he could remember. It was past time for renovations. And first thing tomorrow, he would call in sick and then begin readying the room for Rachel’s return. That night, and for the first time in days, Beatty had a sense of purpose again. Just before he drifted

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off to sleep, he wondered what color he should paint Mother’s walls. Maybe pink. Rachel would probably like pink. And then it occurred to him that Rachel couldn’t see what color the walls were painted. He rolled over and tucked his pillow beneath his jaw. That was okay. He’d find other ways to make the room comfortable and attractive for her. Beatty smiled. He was good at taking care of women. He’d been doing it all of his life. Houston stepped off the elevator with a cold can of pop in one hand and a paper-wrapped hamburger in the other. The cafeteria food in the hospital was no worse than his cooking, and some days it was better. As long as he got enough sustenance to keep him going, he would take what was offered. He glanced down the hall toward Rachel’s room, then frowned. Some man was just going inside. From where he was standing, he could tell the man was carrying something, but he couldn’t tell what, and from the street clothes he was wearing, rather than scrubs or a white uniform, Houston could tell that he didn’t belong. Houston started walking, and by the time he got to the nurses’ station, he was in an all-out jog. “Jewel, who just went in Rachel’s room?” he asked. The RN turned. Houston Bookout had become as accepted on the floor as the staff, and she was surprised by the tension in his voice. “Why, no one,” she said. He set his food on the counter. “There’s a man in there. I saw him go in.” Jewel pointed at a nurse. “Call security,” she said.

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“Get them up here on the double.” Then she bolted out from behind the desk and ran to catch up with Houston. Frankie DeNiro was high on delight. His tip had paid off after all. He couldn’t begin to imagine what he was going to get for this picture. He leaned over Rachel’s bed, rapidly snapping one picture after the other, from every angle he could get. Suddenly the little camera whirred, and he knew he’d reached the end of the roll. He jammed it in a pocket in his pants leg, then zipped it safely inside before taking up the larger camera hanging around his neck. Four shots later a sharp pain pierced his neck. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he squealed. Then he turned around and knew that he’d been caught. The expression on the man’s face was ominous, as was the grip he had on Frankie’s throat. “I can’t breathe,” Frankie gasped. “That was my intention,” Houston whispered, and started dragging him out of the room by the neck. Jewel gave the intruder a disgusted look and took the camera out of his hands. “Here, let me hold this for you while he breaks your slimy little neck.” Houston gave her an appreciative glance. Over the past few days he’d come to like this nurse more and more. While he watched, Jewel popped the film out of the camera and let it fall to the floor. “Oh my, how did that happen?” she said, and then shrugged and handed it all back. “Sorry. I don’t know much about cameras, after all.”

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Frankie heard the scuffle of running feet. Security would be here any second. All he had to do was play it hot, and if he was lucky, they’d never find the other camera on him. “How do you expect a man to make an honest living?” he complained, ruefully eyeing the exposed film. Then the man who was holding him gave him a sharp jerk, and it crossed his mind that he was glad security was coming. “Listen, you little son of a bitch,” Houston whispered. “You don’t come near Rachel Austin again. If you do, I will hurt you, more than you can ever imagine.” Frankie shuddered, then rolled his eyes and pointed wildly toward Houston as the security men slapped him in handcuffs and began leading him away. “He threatened me,” Frankie shouted. “You heard him. You all heard him.” “I’m sorry,” Jewel said. “But I didn’t hear a thing.” Houston watched until they were gone, then darted back into Rachel’s room to make sure she was okay. He watched in silence as one of Rachel’s doctors appeared to check her vitals. Only after Houston was satisfied that she was unharmed did he start to relax. He settled in a nearby chair to resume his silent vigil. A few moments later the door opened. He looked up. It was Jewel. She was carrying his pop and the sack with his hamburger. “This yours?” she asked. “Thanks.”

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Jewel handed them to him, watching with satisfaction as he unwrapped the hamburger and took a big bite. “You’re something, you know that?” she said. Houston looked up, still chewing, then grinned and shrugged. “I just made a decision,” she said. He swallowed, then asked, “What’s that?” “If I don’t ever find a man who loves me like you love her, then I’m not getting married.” Houston looked over at Rachel, his hamburger momentarily forgotten. Even like this, she was all he ever wanted. “Love’s a real scary thing,” he finally said. And then he looked back at Jewel. “But I’d rather be afraid and in love than alone.” Jewel nodded. “Like I said. Rachel Austin is a lucky woman.” She left, leaving Houston behind to dwell on her words. He looked at Rachel again—at the needles and tubes, the bandages and burns—and doubted that she would agree. Then he picked up his hamburger and took another bite. The alarm was going off and the incessant beep was driving Rachel mad. She kept trying to wake up and shut the thing off, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get her eyes open. She raised her arm, aiming in the direction of the sound, and then groaned as pain shot through her right side. “She’s awake!” someone cried. Rachel frowned. Yes, she was awake all right, but

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who on earth was that? It sounded like Maris, but that made no sense. Why would Maris be in her bedroom? She licked her lips, then winced. Another pain. What was going on? “Someone call the nurse.” Rachel sighed. That was Maris. She recognized the authoritative sound in her voice. “Someone get Houston.” Rachel’s heart leaped. That was Esther’s voice. But she must have been imagining things. It sounded as if Esther was talking about Houston. That was impossible. Houston was in Texas. Rachel was in New York. “Dr. Bandi, pick up line three.” Rachel’s nostrils suddenly flared. After spending so many months at her mother’s bedside, she recognized the familiar scent of hospital disinfectant. And that voice—wasn’t that someone paging a doctor? If so, then she wasn’t in her bedroom at all. She must be in a hospital. That would explain her delusions about Houston, as well as the pain. But why? She licked her lips again, trying to form her thoughts into words. “Where . . . ?” “Lie still, sweetheart.” Fingers slid up the length of her arm, gently squeezing her elbow. She recognized the perfume. “Esther?” She felt breath against her cheek, then the imprint of lips against her skin. “Yes, dear, it’s me.” Rachel sighed. She trusted Esther. Whatever was happening, it would be okay. “Why . . . ?”

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“You’re in the hospital, dear. You were injured in an explosion. Do you remember?” Rachel’s mind was a jumble. Dozens of images flashed through her thoughts. And then she jerked and moaned. Esther tightened her lips. She could tell by the sudden tension in Rachel’s body that she was remembering. “It’s all right, dear. Just rest. You’re safe.” Rachel tried to blink, but the pressure against her eyes was too tight. She moaned and lifted her hand toward her face. Suddenly someone grabbed her hand. “Cherokee . . . baby . . . leave it alone.” She gasped, sending another shard of pain through her middle. That voice! She hadn’t been hallucinating after all. “Houston?” His heart nearly broke. Her voice was weak—so weak. “Yes, baby, it’s me.” “Why . . . what—” He cupped her cheek with the palm of his hand. “Not now. Just rest.” She sighed again, and when he started to move away, she whispered, “You’ll stay?” He took a deep breath. “Yes.” Her voice was fainter now. “Promise?” He smiled. Some things about her were still the same. “Yes, Cherokee, I already promised you.” She sighed. “Yes . . . I remember.” Her voice was fading away. “You promised not to leave me alone.”

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His eyes widened perceptibly as he straightened. That first day—so she’d heard him after all. On the seventh day after the explosion, the picture hit the papers. Houston was livid that the man had escaped with film after all, but Rachel’s agent had dismissed it as something to be expected. Houston had already decided he didn’t much like this city, and this just confirmed it. If that hadn’t been enough to deal with, the police were coming today to question Rachel about the bombing. They had permission from Rachel’s doctor, but Houston wasn’t happy. No one had asked him what he thought. So he hovered nearby, ready to step in on her behalf if need be. Rachel could hear him speaking in undertones to her agent, although she couldn’t understand what Houston and Tom were saying. In a way, she didn’t really care. All of her energy was focused on trying to get well and out of the hospital. The fact that she had nowhere to go when the day arrived did not daunt her. She’d managed before. She would manage again. But no one had told her that when the bandages came off her eyes, there was a very good chance she would be blind. No one had mentioned that there was a cut on the side of her neck that would certainly scar. And no one had seen fit to tell her that, at Andrew Bartalow’s orders, Maris Binder was already in the process of looking for a replacement to continue the Timeless campaign. In more than one sense of the word, Rachel Austin was still in the dark. Jules had been to her room only once since Houston’s arrival. At the time, his reluctance to speak of

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anything regarding work had not bothered her. She was in no shape to consider it herself. But in the last twenty-four hours it had occurred to her more than once that, except for Houston and Esther, her friends had become decidedly scarce. Then, early this morning Tom Mikeowitz had shown up with the news that the police would be coming to talk. She didn’t mind, although she felt there was little she could tell that would help the investigation. The whole incident still seemed surreal. One moment she’d been laughing and talking on the phone, and within the space of her next breath, she had almost ceased to exist. Her days and nights were mostly measured in increments of how much pain she was in, and the reality of the explosion was a pall on her heart. It seemed impossible to believe that a total stranger could want her dead. So she lay in quiet discomfort, drifting in and out of sleep in mortal fear for what he might do again, once he learned she wasn’t dead. Across the room, Houston showed his concern through vigilance. With each passing day Rachel grew stronger. Although she still could not see, Houston thought he noticed her other senses becoming more acute. He didn’t think she was aware of it yet, but he saw it happening, and it scared him. He dreaded the day when the bandages would be removed. How would she react to a world still in darkness? Mikeowitz fidgeted with his tie and then glanced at his watch. “I wish to hell they’d hurry up,” he muttered. “I’ve got to meet a client for lunch.” Houston didn’t bother to answer, and Mikeowitz

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hadn’t expected him to. It was just something to say to fill in the awkward moments of silence. Houston glanced toward the bed. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Rachel had fallen back to sleep. Her hands were limp, and her heart rate was slow and steady. Mikeowitz followed Houston’s gaze, shaking his head in disbelief. “It still doesn’t seem real,” he said. “One minute she’s the hottest client I have, and the next thing I know, it’s over.” Houston shifted angrily. “Not a goddamned thing is over except the carnival ride she’s been on. She’s alive, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the only thing that matters.” Mikeowitz flushed with embarrassment. “I know, I know,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” Then he shrugged. “Yes, I guess I did. In my business, facts are facts, and right now, as precious as her life is, her worth as a model is over. Even if her scars eventually disappear, she still can’t see. She can’t walk a catwalk or smile at a camera if she doesn’t know where it is.” Houston’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Damn it, keep your voice down. The last thing she needs is something else to worry about.” Mikeowitz gave Rachel a nervous glance. “Sorry. I don’t think she heard me.” But Rachel had heard, and was thankful that she’d learned to mask her emotions at an early age. In fact, right now it was almost easy to hide how she felt, because she was in shock. Forcing herself to a calm she didn’t feel, she let herself think the word:

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Blind. It was a small, one-syllable word with varied meanings. But Rachel had never been a woman to ignore the truth. And what she’d unintentionally heard had sent her into a panic. Blind. As in never see anything, ever again, for as long as she lived? My God, haven’t I endured enough in my lifetime already? Wasn’t it enough that I lost my parents and my home? Must I walk through the rest of my life blind, as penance for being born with a pretty face? She started to shake. The pain of her new reality was almost mortal. To know that she would never again see colors or clouds in the sky, never see a smile or the shape of a tear, and—oh God—never see Houston’s face again . . . The fact that her life in the world of fashion had been fleeting was incidental. If she was blind, then how could she earn her living? How would she cope? Even worse, where would she go? In the midst of her panic, a knock sounded on her door. She stiffened. A few seconds later the sound of muffled voices and heavy footsteps across the room announced the arrival of the detectives who’d come to talk to her. She shifted uneasily on the bed and then turned her head toward the door. “I’m awake.” Houston jumped at the sound of her voice, then gave her a nervous glance. How long had she been listening? He moved toward her. The others followed. “Rachel, the officers investigating your case are here to speak with you.”

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Rachel managed a smile. “So I’m a case now, am I?” They all laughed out of nervous relief. The detectives knew who she was. And while they were veterans at their jobs, it was still a bit daunting to remember the beauty who’d been on the billboard in Times Square and relate that face to the woman lying in the bed before them. It wasn’t that she was so terribly scarred; she wasn’t. But the flawless face was no more. “Miss Austin, my name is Detective Daniel Sullivan, and this is my partner, Detective Peter Gianelli. We’d like to ask you some questions about the morning of the explosion.” Rachel wanted to scream. Questions? She couldn’t cope with more questions. All she wanted was her life back. She kept picturing herself answering the door, taking that damned package into her kitchen, and then watching it slide off the counter. She’d already been told that the fact that she’d inadvertently knocked it off had probably saved her life—that if she’d opened it up in the normal fashion, the brunt of the explosion would have hit her squarely in the face. “Ask away,” she said. “But don’t expect miracles.” Her chin quivered slightly. It was the only sign she gave them of her inner distress. “I’m fresh out.”

� twelve �

Rachel had been in the hospital over two weeks, and the routine of being bathed and cared for by people she couldn’t see was getting on her nerves. Added to that was the fact that the police were getting nowhere with her case. All they knew for sure was that someone, probably a deranged fan, had gone to the trouble to make a bomb, wrap it in pretty paper, and have it delivered to her doorstep. She had received no prior threats, no crazy love letters from strangers—nothing that could have been interpreted as harmful—and yet it had come. Each day she woke up in this new world of darkness, knowing she was still in danger. She felt helpless and useless. And she was so tired of pretending to be strong. She needed privacy—and dear God, she needed to cry until there were no tears left. But in a hospital, privacy was impossible. Esther was somewhere in the room. Rachel could smell her perfume. And she knew without asking that Houston was gone. The room seemed larger, the air thinner, without his presence. This afternoon they

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were taking the bandages off her eyes, and she’d never been more afraid. Even though she knew the predicted outcome, a part of her was holding out for a miracle. And then she heard the door swing open and she turned toward the sound. “Hey, Cherokee, glad you’re awake. Look what I brought you.” Rage surfaced immediately. She was on the verge of breaking, and the ordinary phrase was like a knife in her heart. “I would love to,” she snapped. “Unfortunately, that’s not possible.” Esther arched an eyebrow at Houston, whom she’d come to adore, and then slipped out of the room. Houston kissed Esther’s cheek as she passed, and then frowned as he looked back at Rachel. Her bitterness was to be expected. The doctors had warned them it would be a natural part of her healing process. And while the anger had been coming on for some time now, his careless comment hadn’t helped. But he knew Rachel in a way none of the others did. He knew she was tough. And he knew she was strong. She’d come this far without giving up. He would be damned if he’d let her wallow in self-pity. “It was a figure of speech,” he said shortly, and thrust the stuffed rabbit he’d bought into her lap, then grabbed both her hands and forced her to touch it. “Look at it, Rachel. Touch it. Smell it. Hell, if you’ve a mind to, give it a taste. But don’t shut out the rest of the world because you’ve got bandages on your eyes.” “Why not?” she snapped, and then threw the rab-

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bit onto the floor. “Nothing is going to change once they’re off.” Houston inhaled sharply. She knew! For once in his life, he was at a loss for what to say to her. But Rachel didn’t wait for him to answer. “Why don’t you laugh? Why don’t you say ‘I told you so’? I wouldn’t blame you.” She bit the lower edge of her lip to keep from crying. “From where you’re standing, I would imagine you think this is justice. I put my faith in the shallow things of life, and look where it got me.” Houston paled. That she would say such a thing, even in anger, made him furious. “Shut up, Rachel. Just shut the hell up. Are you crazy? How dare you even joke that I would wish you harm?” Rachel flinched. Anger was rare in this man, but when it happened, it could be frightening. Yet she couldn’t stop herself. Even though it was selfdestructive, the simple act of arguing with him made everything seem normal. “But I am crazy, remember? I left you for this.” At that her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. Filled with remorse, Houston gathered her into his arms. “No, you didn’t leave me for this. You left to follow a dream. I’m as sorry as I can be that this happened, but you damn sure didn’t deserve it, and it isn’t your fault.” She tried to push him away. “I don’t want your pity,” she muttered. At that moment Houston’s own patience snapped. “Well, hell, Cherokee, I knew that. How stupid do

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you think I am? You didn’t want me. You didn’t want my love. Why would I think you’d want my pity?” She gasped. Startled by the sarcasm in his voice, she stilled as he moved away from her bed. Suddenly a new fear came over her, one that was worse than the fear that she’d never see again. What if he left her, just as she had left him? “Houston, I didn’t mean to—” “Yes, you did,” he said shortly. “At least do me the courtesy of keeping to the truth.” Although her lips were trembling, Rachel lifted her chin. And in that moment Houston knew he had never loved her more. Wounded in both body and spirit, she still held her head high. His anger dissipated, and he allowed himself a small smile before continuing. “While we’re on the subject of pissing each other off, I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you that I’m taking you home with me when the doctor releases you.” She was silent, and Houston waited for the eruption. But it didn’t come. “Well, don’t you have anything to say?” he asked. If asked, Rachel would not have been able to describe the emotions playing havoc with her heart. For months she’d been wishing for that very thing, and now to have it happen was like a dream coming true. Only the dream wasn’t quite right. In fact, it was more of a nightmare. He could take her back to Texas, and she would gladly go. She could even spend the rest of her life there. But in the true sense of the word, she’d never see it again. “Thank you,” she said, her voice more abrupt than

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she might have wanted, but to show emotion was to give in to grief, and right now she couldn’t afford to be weak. Houston’s shoulders slumped with relief. He’d been expecting a fight, not instant capitulation. “You’re welcome,” he said shortly, and wished he had the right to take her in his arms and just hold her. But he gave her the space he thought she needed. “Well, then,” he muttered, looking around for something to entertain her. “Would you like to hear another chapter in that mystery we were reading?” Rachel lay back against her pillow and nodded, listening to the shuffle of papers and the opening and closing of drawers as Houston searched for the book. “It’s on the shelf above my robe.” Houston halted in astonishment. “How did you know that?” Rachel considered the question. How had she known that? And then she remembered. “Esther was reading to me this morning when a nurse came in to give me a bath. I guess I heard the hinge squeak when she opened the closet door. I heard the sound of something sliding across metal, and then I heard her close the door.” Houston walked to the closet and opened the door. The book was right where she’d said it would be. “Good job, Cherokee. You were right.” Rachel smiled. Houston stared. That smile. He hadn’t seen it in almost a year. And to see it now, when she was so terribly hurt, was more than he had prepared himself to withstand. His vision blurred, and he found himself looking at her through a film of tears.

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“Houston?” He cleared his throat, watching as she nervously picked at the sheet covering her legs. “Yeah?” “I dropped my rabbit. Would you get it for me?” It was the closest thing to an apology he was going to get, and he knew it. “Yeah, sure,” he said gruffly, and picked the rabbit up from the floor where she’d thrown it. “It’s brown, with black eyes and a little pink nose.” Rachel sighed as he put it in her hands, then she began the awkward journey of feeling her way across the stuffed animal’s face. As her fingers traced the length of the long lop ears, she chuckled, then tucked it under her arm. It was soft, and in a very few moments it began to grow warm from the heat of her body. “I’m ready,” she said. Houston opened the book with shaking hands. The wounding of Rachel might be the end of him yet. He shuffled through the pages until he found the last place marked, then cleared his throat again and leaned closer to the light, letting the story fill the silence between them. “ ‘The stripper was dead. Shot through the heart with an arrow, just like the four other victims had been. The inspector sighed. It was going to be another long day.’ ” A dollop of paint dripped on Beatty’s cheek. He swiped at it with the back of his hand as he ran the paint-filled roller up and down the wall. Every now and then he took a step back and squinted to get the full effect of his work. It had taken him longer than

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he’d planned to get to this day, but it had been worth it. There had been mountains of his mother’s junk to discard. Closets to clean. Drawers to empty. Everything had to be perfect for Rachel when he brought her home from the hospital. His routine at work was the same, and except for the penthouse, all of the other apartments were habitable. He and every other employee of the building had been interviewed by the police, some more than others, but there were no suspects. He almost chuckled with glee. Life was back to normal. It would take days longer, maybe even weeks, before the repairs on the penthouse were finished, but Beatty didn’t mind. He still clocked in on time, was courteous on the job, and kept to himself when it was over. Everyone talked about what had happened to their most famous tenant, but no one suspected a thing. The clerk who’d delivered the package to Rachel had turned in her resignation, claiming mental distress. But none of that mattered to him. To Beatty, the ends had more than justified the means. Twice he’d made plans to go to the hospital and see Rachel, and each time he’d talked himself out of the trip. It wasn’t time. When her last so-called friend walked out, then he would make himself known. Besides, he didn’t want to show undue interest in her welfare while the investigation was so fresh. There was another facet of the events he’d set in motion that pleased him greatly. It was all over the news. An all-out search was in progress for the new “face” for Farrier Cosmetics. That was good. Her career had been the cause of their troubles. And while he yearned to be with her, he satisfied

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himself by calling the hospital every day to check on her progress. When it had been upgraded from critical to serious, then from serious to stable, he had rejoiced. He dismissed the fact that her suffering was a result of his actions. Like his mother’s death, it had just happened. Rachel had transgressed. He had disciplined her. It was over. When she was ready to be released, he would be there for her. He would remind her that he had not abandoned her when the going got tough. In fact, he was the only one who’d stayed true. With a smile of satisfaction, he dipped the roller back into the pan, loading it with a fresh coat of paint. He thought nothing of the fact that he was painting the walls red. She was magnificent in red. It was one of her best colors. Rachel stood at the window in her hospital room, trying to shut out the chatter from the people behind her and taking comfort from the warmth of the sun upon her skin. Even though her legs were still shaky and her endurance was short, it felt good to be standing. Behind her, Esther was repeating to Houston the story of how she and Rachel had met. Rachel sighed. That seemed so long ago—and in another lifetime. Something clattered loudly in the hall outside her door. Startled by the sound, she turned, and in doing so almost lost her balance. She reached out, desperate for something concrete to hold, and found herself grasping Houston’s arms. “I’ve got you,” he said softly, and then gave her a swift hug. “Maybe you should lie back down, dear,” Esther said.

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“I’m not dying, damn it, I just lost my balance,” Rachel muttered, then bit her lip at the silence that followed her thoughtless remark. She sighed. “Sorry. Even though we all know the outcome, I guess I’m a bit nervous about the bandages coming off, after all.” “It’s okay, baby,” Houston said. “You can bark at me all you want.” And then he added, “As long as you don’t bite.” Everyone laughed, including Rachel. “Maybe I will lie back down,” she said. “My legs are still a bit shaky.” Rachel got back into bed with more help than she needed. But after her outburst, she didn’t have the heart to tell either of them no. While she was still fussing with her covers, the door opened. At the sound of footsteps she froze, unaware it was Jules instead of the doctor they were all awaiting. Jules gave Houston a defiant look, then walked to Rachel’s side. “Rachel.” Her mouth curved into a bitter smile. “So, Jules, did you come to see the show, too?” A bit taken aback by the tone of her voice, he stuttered out an answer. “I—I just thought I should be here for you.” Suddenly Rachel was tired of pretending a flippancy she didn’t feel. She was tired of lies and of not being able to see the truth on people’s faces. “How is the search going for your new Timeless model?” she asked. Jules’s skin turned pasty. “What do you think?” he muttered. “You are impossible to replace.” A corner of Rachel’s mouth turned down in disbelief. “Nice try, Jules, but we both know it has to be done.”

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Jules turned away, unable to look at Rachel any longer. The devastation of this moment was harder than he had imagined. The explosion hadn’t just robbed her of her sight, it had ripped her from the world in which he lived. He knew, as readily as he knew his own name, that when she left this hospital, he would never see her again. Houston kept quiet. As much as he hated to admit it, what was going on between Rachel and Jules Farrier had nothing to do with him. And while he suspected that Farrier was in love with Rachel, he wasn’t certain how Rachel felt about him. Esther took one look at both men, and then at the defeated expression on Rachel’s face, and decided it was time to butt in. “Rachel, darling, I want to tell you a story.” Rachel managed a smile. Esther’s stories were always a front for some lesson in life. “Yes, ma’am.” Esther smiled, then stepped close to Rachel’s bed and took her by the hand. “When I was a little girl,” Esther said, “I wanted to be a ballerina. I thought the ballet was the most beautiful expression of creativity on this earth.” Rachel heard the wistfulness in the old woman’s voice. “When I was little, I wanted to be a boy,” Rachel said. Esther laughed and stroked Rachel’s cheek. “And what a waste that would have been,” she said, then winked at Houston. “Anyway . . . I lived with my dreams, as all children do. And then everything in my world started to change. It became frightening and ugly, and my days became filled with different

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sorts of issues, such as would we have enough to eat that night, and would the soldiers come and take us away, as they were taking my friends.” Rachel knew a little about Esther’s background, but this was the first time Esther had ever brought up the subject of her past. Still clutching Esther’s hand tightly in her own, she grew still. Esther’s sigh drifted into momentary silence, and Rachel heard more pain in that sound than in any tears the old woman might shed. “The little girl who had longed to be a ballerina now hid in cellars and ate food unfit for the rats that crawled at her feet. All of her dreams, and all of the fantasy of her childhood, quickly died.” Esther’s voice was shaking, but her gaze was strong as she stared into Rachel’s face. Both men remained mute, stunned by the power of the old woman’s tale and at the same time horrified by what a race of people had endured at a monster’s hands. “What I’m trying to say to you is that I survived when everyone around me did not. Like you, I lost my home and my parents, as well as my brother and sister, through no fault of my own. For years afterward I suffered terrible guilt that I had lived when they had not. But I never once gave up, because I knew God must have had a reason to keep me alive—just as he kept you alive.” Rachel was crying now. Tears spilled out from under her bandages and onto her cheeks. Esther dabbed at Rachel’s face with her everpresent hanky. “Now, now. No tears, child. No tears. I learned long ago not to cry for the living.”

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Rachel grabbed Esther’s hands and then laid them against her cheek. “You shame me,” she whispered. “No,” Esther said. “I don’t tell this to shame you, but only to remind you that you have survived. What you do from this day on is up to you. But you must remember: You lived for a reason. Search for it and it will be your salvation.” Houston moved because he could no longer be a bystander to such a profession of faith. He hugged Esther to him, then reached for Rachel’s hand. “Esther is right, sweetheart. And I would be honored if you would let me help you find your way.” For a long moment no one spoke. Houston could feel Rachel’s tension. Her fingers were cold, her pulse racing beneath his touch. Behind them, Jules cleared his throat, then moved to where Rachel was lying. “Trust yourself, Rachel.” “No,” Esther said softly. “Trust God. He’s gotten you this far. He won’t let you down.” Rachel exhaled slowly, and as she did, a great weight seemed to lift from her heart. No matter what today’s outcome was, somehow she knew she would find a way to endure. “Houston?” His voice was gentle as he gave her fingers a quick squeeze. “What is it, baby?” “When the doctor comes in, will you stay?” “Yes.” Esther sighed with relief as she glanced at the somber expression on Houston Bookout’s face. Rachel had a long way to go before she found her

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inner light, but with this man at her side, nothing was impossible. Jules turned away, suddenly aware that he didn’t belong here. But Rachel heard the rasp of his shoes upon the floor and reached for him. There was something that she needed to say to him, too. “Jules, wait!” He turned, and when he saw her outstretched hand, he grasped it as a drowning man would have reached for something afloat. “I’m here,” he said quickly, letting her pull him closer. Rachel patted his hand, feeling the brush of fine silk and the hard edge of his Rolex. “I have to thank you,” she said. “You made the dream of a lifetime come true for me.” “But I couldn’t make it last,” Jules answered, his voice breaking. Rachel smiled crookedly. “Nothing is forever.” Houston spoke. He knew he was interrupting, but he couldn’t let that pass. “That’s not true, baby,” he said softly. “Some things last, whether you want them to or not.” The smile slid off Rachel’s face. She knew what he meant. He’d loved her before, and he still cared enough to come even though she had walked out on him. Only now she didn’t have the luxury of telling him that her leaving had been a mistake, that she still loved him, would always love him. There was no way she would inflict herself as a burden on anyone, especially a man with a heart as big as Houston’s. He would never tell her no. And she would be his down-

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fall. He had nothing. The last thing he needed was a blind woman to take care of. She sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said, then she tugged again at Jules’s hand. “But just because it didn’t last doesn’t make it any less special. For a while I was at the head of the class.” Jules stared at her face. It was healing. She might need a trip to a plastic surgeon to remove one long scar on her neck, but aside from that, within a few weeks it would be difficult to tell she’d ever suffered the injuries. But the bandages on her eyes told the story. He shook his head, struggling to maintain decorum when all he wanted was a bottle of whiskey and a hole to crawl into. “Rachel, I don’t know what to—” “I don’t want you to do anything,” she said. “I just wanted to say thank you.” “Then you’re welcome,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. Before anything else could be said, the door to her room opened again. She could tell by the sudden silence of the trio at her bedside that it must be the doctor. Nervousness returned. She dropped Jules’s hand and reached blindly outward. “Houston?” “I’m here, baby.” He grabbed her hand, feeling her tremble and wishing with everything he was that he could suffer this for her. She clutched at him, hating herself for the fear, but unable to do this alone. “Remember your promise.” His voice never wavered. “I won’t leave you alone.”

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“Then let’s get this show on the road,” she said, unaware that she lifted her head toward the light. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the doctor said. The nurse quickly added, “I’ll have to ask you to leave while the doctor examines Miss Austin.” Everyone began to file out except Houston, who remained at Rachel’s side. The doctor looked at him. “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind stepping out while—” “No,” Rachel said. “He stays.” The doctor shrugged. “As you wish, Miss Austin.” Then he turned to the business at hand and began to undo her bandages. “Now, do you remember what we discussed several days ago about your concussion?” “Yes.” “Although your lack of vision before you went into surgery could have been a result of the severe swelling of your brain, we still aren’t certain. Obvious damage to the optical nerve is not indicated at this time. I have to be honest—right now I don’t know what will happen. Only time will tell us the whole truth. What we do know is that there was no permanent scarring on your corneas or about your eyes.” “So what you’re saying is that even if I can’t see, I’ll still look good?” The doctor paused in the act of removing her bandages. There was a moment of silence. And then Rachel heard him inhale. “Just a few more bandages,” he muttered, picking up his commentary as if she hadn’t spoken. Rachel sighed. What she’d said was stupid. But she’d been saying a lot of stupid things lately.

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“Sorry.” “It’s all right. I can’t say that I wouldn’t be feeling a bit antagonistic myself right about now.” He dropped the last of the bandages into a pan the nurse was holding, then took a fresh swab and began dabbing at her eyes with a bit of lubricant. Rachel’s eyelids began to flutter. “Easy now, wait a moment,” he said gently. “Your lashes are still a little bit stuck.” Houston squeezed Rachel’s fingers, reminding her that he was at her side. She squeezed back. It was her only comment. A minute passed, and then another, and then another. Finally the doctor dropped the last swab into the pan and stepped back, eyeing Rachel with a practiced stare. Although he knew it was probably futile, he waved to the nurse to close the shades, just in case. “All right now, Miss Austin. Please open your eyes. I want to check the corneas again.” Suddenly the moment of truth was here, and she was afraid—so afraid. “Cherokee, whatever happens . . . it’s okay with me. Do you understand?” Rachel wanted to cry. Yes, she understood. Houston was saying he loved her no matter what. But what he didn’t seem to understand was that it wasn’t okay with her. She didn’t want to be a burden to anyone—especially herself. She clenched her teeth. Slowly, slowly, she opened her eyes. “They’re so dry,” she said. “Here,” the doctor said. “This will help.” He tilted her head.

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She felt the cool sensation of something liquid flowing over her eyes but saw absolutely nothing that gave her hope. “How’s that?” he asked. She blinked rapidly several times in succession. “Better,” she said, staring straight ahead, willing something—anything—to appear. “Are you in pain?” the doctor asked. Rachel’s breath caught at the back of her throat. “Only in my heart,” she whispered. Startled, he reached for her wrist to check her pulse, but she pulled away. “From disappointment. Only from disappointment.” Fighting back tears, Houston let out a slow breath. So today wasn’t her day for miracles after all. The doctor sighed. “Tell me what you see, Miss Austin.” Rachel’s chin quivered, but her voice was surprisingly strong. “Nothing.” Just outside the doorway, Jules Farrier heard Rachel’s answer, then took a deep breath and walked away. Esther Goodman sighed, unaware that she was, once again, absently rubbing at the numbers tattooed on her wrist. It was sad to face, but far too often, life just wasn’t fair.

� thirteen �

As usual, the media had gotten wind of Rachel’s release from the hospital. And while she’d been out of the public eye during her recuperation, the pictures the photographer had sneaked out of the hospital had kept public interest high. The waiting news crews at the hospital exit did not surprise Rachel. It was Houston who should have been warned. He took one look at the crowd outside the double glass doors and cursed beneath his breath. They would have to go through that mass of people to get to the limousine that Jules Farrier had sent to take Rachel and Houston to the airport. Hauling one camera-bearing snake out of Rachel’s room had been one thing. A writhing nest of them was another thing altogether. “Wait,” Houston said, motioning for the nurse pushing Rachel’s wheelchair to halt. “What is it?” Rachel asked. The nurse grasped Rachel’s shoulder in warning. “I’m afraid there’s a bunch of photographers and camera crews outside, Miss Austin. I guess they must have found out you were being released.”

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“Oh Lord,” she groaned. “I didn’t think. And I should have. Houston, I’m sorry. If you think it’s necessary, I’m sure that hospital security would help us out.” He glanced down at her. All morning she’d fussed with her clothes and her hair, as if reassuring herself over and over by touch that everything about her was right. Not even Houston’s constant assurances had been enough. Except for the dark glasses she was wearing, and the small, red wounds on her neck that were still healing, her face looked the same. Her hairstyle was different—still well below her shoulders, but shorter after the burned parts had been cut away. The blue long-sleeved T-shirt she had on was more for comfort than style, but on Rachel, everything looked good. And instead of jeans, Houston had bought her some white sweatpants. They were a bit warm for the season, but definitely softer to the places on her body that were still sore, and more comfortable for travel. Houston frowned. “Don’t apologize to me, darlin’. They’re the ones who are about to piss me off.” The nurse gave Houston a worried look. “Should I call security, Mr. Bookout?” Houston looked at her and grinned. “Not unless you’re afraid I might hurt them,” he drawled. Rachel laughed. Oh God, she had missed this man. “Then let’s do it,” she said, waving everyone forward. But when the nurse wheeled her out, the sudden barrage of shouts and the clicking of dozens of camera shutters told her that once again she would be making the front page. Only this time, it wouldn’t be in quite the same style.

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“Miss Austin! Miss Austin! Can you give us a statement? How do you feel about what happened to you? What will you do now that you can no longer model? Where are you going to go now that your apartment was destroyed in the blast?” But something unexpected began to happen to Rachel. Bombarded by a cacophony of sounds, she could hardly focus on the questions. Without the added avenue of sight, the sounds were overwhelming. Shrieking sirens, shouts from passersby, the roar of traffic—it all fell in upon her. Unable to cope, she shrank against the back of the wheelchair in selfdefense. Then Houston suddenly thrust a bouquet of roses he’d been carrying into her lap. She fumbled with them, as well as with her stuffed rabbit. “Hold these, darlin’,” he said shortly. “I’ll be right back.” Rachel clutched them, feeling the prick of thorns through the wrapping and taking comfort in the fact that at least one of her senses still functioned properly. Another wave of shouts began, and then she heard Houston’s voice over it all, and everything inside of her settled. “I can’t stop you from taking your damned pictures,” Houston stated loudly. “But she’s not answering questions. Now back off.” One local newswoman poked a microphone in Houston’s face, while motioning for her cameraman to come closer. “Don’t you think her public has a right to—” Houston interrupted. “No, because someone from that public you so righteously defend is responsible for what happened to her. Until they find him and

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bring him to justice, she has nothing to say.” Then he put his hand over her microphone and leaned closer, lowering his voice so only that one reporter could hear. “Look, lady. Where I come from, I was taught to be courteous to females. I was told that women are prettier than men, and usually a whole lot smarter. Now, if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll get this damned microphone out of my face and you’ll get out of my way. Because I’m putting Rachel in that limo and taking her home. And if we’re real lucky, someday this will all seem like a bad dream.” “But sir,” she sputtered. “You don’t under—” Houston’s voice lowered another notch, and he leaned even closer, until he and the woman were almost nose to nose. “Lady . . . you don’t want to make me mad.” The newswoman was startled, and her mouth went slack. While she was struggling with words, Houston spun, motioned for the nurse to push Rachel forward, and plowed his way through the throng of people who stood in their way. Oddly enough, although they hadn’t heard what he said, the crowd parted. Now and then someone yelled out a question, but did not push for an answer. Only after the limousine began pulling away from the curb did the newswoman Houston had spoken to begin to regain her equilibrium. “What did he say to you?” someone yelled. “He wanted my phone number,” she snapped, and motioned for the cameraman. “Let’s go,” she said shortly. “We got enough for the broadcast. Besides, what does it matter? Rachel Austin is already old news.”

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* * * The radio was playing softly in the background. Beatty hummed along with the tune as he smoothed out the wrinkles on Rachel’s new bed. The sheets were satin, and a pristine white, as were the pillowcases over the mound of pillows he’d arranged against the headboard. The white lace bordering the bedspread barely brushed the shining hardwood floor. When he was finished, he stood back, admiring his own handiwork. He inhaled deeply, then smiled. The room felt alive. The red walls seemed to pulse, like the inside of a wildly beating heart, while the virgin white bed became an island of calm. Beatty didn’t care that Rachel would never be able to actually see it, because he’d created it for himself more than for her. She was his prize, and this room was his display case. He looked toward the door, at the picture frame leaning against the wall. One last thing to do and the room was finished. He picked up a hammer and quickly drove a small nail in the wall, exhaling lightly with satisfaction as the fresh paint was pierced. He laid the hammer aside, reached for the picture, and hung it on the wall, then stepped back. Judging it level, he dusted off his hands. It was done. Satisfied with his work, he picked up the hammer and blew the picture a kiss as he left. It wasn’t the best picture of her he’d ever seen, but it said it all. In full color, and cut straight from the front page of The National Gossip, was a photo of Rachel Austin coming out of a charity function on Jules Farrier’s arm. She was looking up at him and smiling when the camera snapped, forever catching

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her moment of delight at something he’d said. Beside it was a picture taken in Rachel’s hospital room. With her injuries in prominence and tubes coming out of her mouth and nose, the contrast was sharp and ugly. In the kitchen, he put away his hammer and washed his hands. As he was drying his hands, he glanced at the clock. His heart skipped a beat. It was just after six P.M., past time to call the hospital and check on his girl. He knew the number by heart, and patiently waited as the phone began to ring. When the nurse answered, he smiled to himself. He liked this nurse. She was always friendly and sincere in her efforts to pass on the news he so desperately needed. “Fourth floor nurses’ station.” “Hello,” Beatty said. “I’m just calling to check on Rachel Austin’s condition.” The nurse’s voice rose in delight. “As of this morning, she’s no longer a patient at Bellevue.” Beatty’s stomach turned, and he caught himself swallowing bile as he stuttered over his next words. “Wh-What do you mean? She didn’t take a turn for the—” The nurse hastened to add, “Oh no, sir. She’s fine. She was released.” No, no, no, no. “Y-You’re kidding, right? She c-can’t be gone. She was coming with me.” The nurse frowned. “No, sir. I’m not kidding. If you’d like, I can transfer you to our public affairs officer.” Beatty started to sweat. “No, no,” he muttered. “I don’t need to talk to anyone else. Just tell me, where did she go?”

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“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” the nurse said. “Maybe you could check with her agent.” Beatty started to shake. Then, because he could no longer hold on to the phone, he hung up. Everything inside him began to give way. He shuddered, then felt a sudden warmth on the inside of his leg. He looked down. A puddle was forming around his left shoe. He grabbed at himself, but it was too late. It was instinct that made him look up, half expecting his mother to appear in the doorway with a disappointed stare. But no one was there. Then he remembered: His mother could never berate him for anything again. In fact, he was guessing that right about now, she was in much worse shape than he was. He staggered out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room, stripping off his clothes as he went. By the time he reached his bed, he was naked. Without his clothes to disguise his lack of manly stature, his slight build and pale, thin body looked almost juvenile . . . until you looked at his face. There all the ravages of the years and all the disappointments of his life showed most clearly. He walked to the closet like a man in a trance and began pulling out clothes, dressing himself in whatever he put his hand on first, with no regard for style or match. When he was decently covered, he headed for the front door. Just as he opened it, the door across the hall opened, too. “Why, Beatty, hello! How is your dear mother? I haven’t seen her in a while.” Beatty jerked as if he’d been slapped, staring in

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sudden confusion at the old woman who lived across from his apartment. It took him a moment to remember that her name was Marjorie. Marjorie Carl. “She’s gone,” he said shortly, and started toward the elevator. Marjorie’s bushy white eyebrows shot upward. Her mouth suddenly dropped, elongating the field of wrinkles time had plowed through her face. “Gone? Gone where?” Beatty didn’t bother to stop. “South, to Florida,” he muttered. “Got tired of the cold.” Marjorie tutted. “She didn’t say anything to me. Why didn’t she say something before she left? I thought we were friends.” The elevator opened. Beatty leaped on. The old woman was still talking as the doors closed. He took a deep breath and then rubbed his hands across his face. He needed to think. Where would Rachel go? He suddenly realized that he knew nothing about her beyond the people who’d come to her Manhattan apartment. But they wouldn’t be coming there again. He’d seen to that. He slapped his hand against his thigh in frustration. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. A few minutes later he dashed out of the building and into the street, staring about him with growing confusion. A bus came rumbling past, and he looked into the windows, searching the faces of the passengers inside. A cab sped past the curb where he stood, and impulsively he stepped into the street for a better view of the fare in the backseat. A horn suddenly blared, and he jumped back just in time to keep from getting run over.

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“Watch out!” a man yelled, and then gave Beatty the finger. Beatty’s face turned a dull, angry red, and he shook his fist at the taillights of the disappearing van. Without looking either left or right, he stepped off the curb and into the traffic, his gaze fixed upon the steps leading down to the neighborhood subway station. He would go the apartment building. There was an empty apartment on the fifth floor; that was where she must be. It wasn’t as large or as nice as the penthouse, but that probably didn’t matter anymore, since she couldn’t see her surroundings. All the way across town he kept thinking Rachel’s name. By the time he emerged from the subway and started toward the apartment building, his fantasy had become his reality. Yes, by the time he reached the building, she would be standing there waiting for him. She’d hear his voice and feel his hand upon her arm, and she’d laugh, asking why he’d taken so long. But as he turned the corner and the building where he worked came into full view, it was painfully apparent that Rachel wasn’t standing under the gold and black awning—or on the steps. He gritted his teeth and began saying her name a little faster. This would make everything right. He almost laughed. How could he have been so silly? Rachel was a celebrity—or at least had been a celebrity. She wouldn’t be waiting on the front steps, but at her front door instead. He’d knock and she would ask who it was, and then cry because she couldn’t see. He would take her in his arms and tell her not to be sad, that he would take care of her. He would be her eyes on the world.

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When he reached the apartment building and darted under the striped canopy, his thoughts were so focused he almost ran into Binalski, the doorman on duty. “Hey, Andrews, what are you doing here? I thought you were off today.” “Forgot something,” he muttered, and hurried inside. He reached the front desk and then grabbed the register, startling Frances, the clerk. She was short but substantial, and her wild, flyaway curls always looked uncombed. “Beatty? What do you think you’re doing?” He looked up. Frances was frowning. She was always frowning. It reminded him of his mother. He frowned back. “Checking to see if anyone moved into the empty apartment.” Frances took the register out of Beatty’s hands. “No, nobody has, and it wouldn’t be any of your business if anybody did.” “Someone I know was looking for a place to stay. I was just checking,” he muttered. Frances snorted delicately. “No one you know could afford to stay here.” Beatty sucked in an angry retort. Bitch. It’s a damned shame you weren’t up on the penthouse floor when it blew. Then he tried a different approach. Maybe she’d heard something that would help him find Rachel. “Say, have you heard anything new about Miss Austin? Like, is she moving back here anytime soon?” Frances grinned and shoved a newspaper into

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Beatty’s face. “I doubt it, and if something like that happened to me, I wouldn’t come back here, either.” Beatty grabbed the paper and began reading the caption beneath the picture at the head of the gossip column. As he read, a new wave of panic began to spread. In spite of the dark glasses she was wearing, he could tell that the woman in the wheelchair was definitely Rachel. He’d know her anywhere. But what he didn’t know was, who was that strange man with her? “Don’t run off with my paper,” Frances grumbled. Beatty didn’t bother to respond. His entire focus was on the caption beneath the picture: Rachel Austin, the recently injured Timeless girl, leaving Bellevue Hospital with an acquaintance from her hometown of Mirage, Texas. The man, identified as Texas oilman Houston Bookout, is rumored to be more than an old friend. Beatty cursed. She’d done it again. And right beneath his nose. All the time he’d been working so hard to make everything right for her homecoming, she’d been planning to sneak off with another man. The expression on his face turned cold as he started out the door, muttering to himself as he went. “Rachel Austin, you just made a very big mistake.” “What did you say?” Binalski asked as Beatty stepped out beneath the striped awning. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.” Binalski chuckled. “Better watch that. Someone might think you’re crazy.” Beatty paused, then turned. Crazy? They might think him crazy? His mouth parted into a wide, gaping grin. The longer he stood there, the wider the grin became.

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Crazy. Finally he was staring at Binalski and laughing aloud. Binalski frowned. “It wasn’t that funny.” But Beatty’s laughter was turning into hysterical shrieks. Even after he’d walked out of sight, the doorman could still hear the sound of Beatty’s laughter. He shuddered. Maybe crazy wasn’t that far off after all. Houston leaned toward Rachel as their plane touched down at the Midland-Odessa airport. “Another hour and we’ll be home.” Rachel nodded, letting out a slow sigh of relief as the prop plane thumped, bumped, and finally rolled to a stop. She’d heard the phrase “flying blind” all of her life, but she doubted if the common connotation was even close to the truth as she now knew it. Feeling weightless and powerless, as well as accepting the fact that the earth was thousands of feet below, was frightening, especially to a woman who’d rarely been in an airplane. But to experience the same sensations without any point of reference to anchor her, except the voice of the man at her side, was terrifying. And even though she couldn’t see, just knowing she was on solid ground was, for the moment, enough. “Passengers, please wait until the pilot turns the seat belt sign off before getting out of your seats.” Rachel leaned back and sighed. She sensed Houston was staring at her, but right now she was too relieved to be on guard. His announcement that he was

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taking her home to Texas had been the most beautiful words she’d ever heard. She’d come with him willingly, because the familiarity of her old life seemed safer than the uncertainty of her new one, and because she so desperately loved him. But in allowing him to bring her home, she also felt shame. Once again she was using him to make her life easier. But there was another truth she had to bear that was more painful than her own. Surely Houston’s offer had come out of pity, and maybe a sense of honor, but not love. She’d ruined that between them forever. “Houston?” “What, honey?” “Let’s wait until the others are off, okay?” “Sure, whatever you want,” he said, and slipped his hand in hers. The scent of weary travelers was thick in her face as she sat quietly in her seat. She could hear Houston gathering up their things, and she felt stupid and useless. The odor of urine was suddenly strong as someone walked past her with a baby in need of a dry diaper. The child had fussed and cried more than he’d slept. Rachel could only imagine the parent’s relief in getting out of the plane. Something bumped her arm. “Sorry,” a man muttered, and kept on walking. A young couple moved past her, talking in lowered voices, still locked into a disagreement that sounded as if it had been going for hours. Rachel leaned back and closed her eyes. Travel was wearing, even for the whole and hearty. And then someone hesitated near her seat. There was the sound of an indrawn breath, and then the air

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seemed to shift in front of her face. Out of reflex, she drew back and had to stop herself from calling Houston’s name. She knew he was right beside her. Nothing was going to happen that he couldn’t control. And still, the hesitant catch in the stranger’s voice made her nervous. “Excuse me, ma’am, but aren’t you Rachel Austin?” Rachel turned toward the sound of the voice. “Yes.” “Could I have your autograph?” Rachel inhaled sharply. The request was innocent, but it had taken her unawares. “I . . . uh, I can’t . . .” Houston leaned across, took the magazine from the man, then laid it in her lap and put a pen in her hand. “It’s just a name, Rachel. You’ve been writing it all of your life.” He took her by the hands, making her touch the paper. “Find your boundaries and then do your thing.” It was only then that the young man realized her handicap and started trying to apologize. Houston met his gaze and silently shook his head. The man silenced. Rachel’s mouth went dry. “Damn you, Houston. You know I can’t do this.” “Why?” “You know why.” Then Houston took the pen and magazine out of her hands. “You’re a lot of things, Cherokee, but I never figured you for a coward.”

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Rachel’s face flamed angrily as she held out her hands. “Give them back,” she muttered. Houston put the magazine back in her lap without a word. Rachel measured the sides of the paper with the tips of her fingers, repeating the motion twice more before she felt comfortable. Then she held out her hand, palm upward. “The pen, please.” Houston took off the cap and placed it in the middle of Rachel’s palm. “Loaded and ready to bear,” he said softly. Rachel’s nostrils flared. Damn him. He was supposed to be helping her, not making her life more difficult. With her left hand positioned at the top left corner of the magazine, she moved the pen toward the middle of the paper, then hesitated. “What’s your name?” she asked. Embarrassed that he’d caused such a scene, he stuttered out an answer. “D-David. My name is David Howard.” Rachel lifted her face toward him, unaware that he was gazing at her with unabashed admiration. “So, David, tell me something.” “Yes, ma’am. Anything.” “You see the man sitting beside me.” “Yes.” “What’s he doing?” Houston looked startled, but no more than poor David Howard, who’d only wanted an autograph, not a part in a melodrama he didn’t even understand. “Why . . . he’s just sitting there, Miss Austin.”

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Rachel’s lips tightened. “Is he grinning?” Houston almost choked on a breath and was afraid to look up at poor David Howard, for fear that he would break out in a laugh. “No, Miss Austin, he’s not.” She nodded, as if to herself, and then put the pen to the paper. To her surprise, it was easier than she’d expected. The ink flowed across the glossy surface like water on glass, from the first letter of her name to the last. “There,” she said, handing him his magazine and pen. “But don’t blame me if it’s awful. I can’t see a damned thing, you know.” David Howard’s face turned red, but he kept looking at Rachel. “No, I didn’t know, and I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I wouldn’t intentionally do that for anything.” Rachel managed a smile. “It’s something I’m going to have to get used to.” The young man started to walk away, then stopped and looked back. “Miss Austin . . .” “Yes?” “For what it’s worth, you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Then he gave Houston a nervous look and bolted. Houston touched Rachel’s face. “He’s right, you know.” Rachel sighed. “Damn you, Houston Bookout.” “What?” Houston asked. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” Houston’s eyes darkened, and the smile he’d been

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trying to hide disappeared. He loved Rachel so much that he hurt, but he already knew that his chances with her were gone, unless she learned to love herself again first. “No, I’m not. And I can’t imagine what in hell ever gave you the idea that I would.” “Sir, do you need any help?” Houston looked up at the approaching flight attendant and then down at Rachel. “No, ma’am, we’re going to make it just fine.” As she felt her way down the aisle, Rachel kept telling herself that if anyone could make this right, it would be Houston.

� fourteen �

Rachel waited quietly in a chair inside the terminal, the lop-eared rabbit held tightly in her lap, while Houston retrieved his old pickup from airport parking. She was surrounded by their luggage, and it occurred to her that anyone could walk off with it and she would be none the wiser. For some reason, the thought struck her as funny. What had Houston been thinking when he’d left it with her? Did he think she was going to watch it? At the same moment she thought about laughing, she wanted to cry. Her old life, the one she’d tried so hard to escape, had been a series of downward steps on a broken ladder. But right now she would give anything to have it all back. A loud noise to her right made her jump. A few moments later she heard people laughing, and relaxed. But the tension of being alone amidst so much unidentified noise was unsettling. She shifted restlessly in her seat. Her healing ribs were still sore, and her feet felt numb from sitting so long. What she needed was a good long run, or at least a brisk walk.

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Once again, however, reality hit. Even if she felt like it, where would she go? There was nothing left in the world she’d known to guide her steps. She’d taken sight so much for granted. Her chin quivered. Surviving the explosion had taught her a hard lesson. She’d never take anything for granted again. And even though it was a waste of energy, she couldn’t help but play the if-only game. If only she’d never left Mirage. If only she’d trusted Houston and her heart, instead of letting fear rule. Then she remembered something her mother had said only days before her death. Her voice had been weak, so weak, and her grip on Rachel’s arm almost nonexistent. But the fire in her eyes had been fierce. Rachel shivered, letting the memory flood over her. “Rachel . . . I want you to promise me something.” “Anything, Mama. You don’t have to ask.” “Remember this . . . and let it guide you through life.” Rachel nodded. “To regret is to give importance to something that is only a mistake. But to accept it and move on makes it nothing more than a lesson in life’s journey.” Rachel sighed. So far her life seemed to be a series of trials and errors. Oh, Mama, why don’t I learn from my mistakes? She sat, concentrating on the sounds around her and playing a mental game with herself that she would recognize Houston’s footsteps when he came back. She waited, and then waited some more. Someone stopped and spoke to her in Spanish. It didn’t surprise her. Spanish was the second language in Texas, and with her dark skin and black hair, she was often

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mistaken for Mexican. But she didn’t understand enough of it to speak and was in no mood to try. “No hablo español,” she muttered. Whoever it was moved away. She frowned. What could be keeping Houston? How large could that parking lot be? And then it dawned on her how expensive it would be for him to get his vehicle out after so many days away. “Oh no. What if he doesn’t have enough money to—” Houston leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ve got money,” he drawled. “What do you want to buy?” The relief of his presence was staggering, but she didn’t want him to know how panicked she had been. She turned toward the sound of his voice. “I was worried about how much it was going to cost to get your truck out of the lot.” Houston paused. It suddenly occurred to him that she had no idea how his fortunes had changed. During all the weeks he’d spent at her side, he’d never once mentioned that they’d struck oil on his ranch or that he was pretty much rich as sin. As he stood there, a plan began to evolve. It would be not only risky but terribly deceitful. He knew she had some money, but it wouldn’t last forever. Especially if she had to hire someone to take care of her while she learned how to live in a sighted world. If she knew his luck had taken a turn for the better while her life was in this downward spiral, her pride would forever stand between them. Not only that, but there was a part of him that needed her to admit she still loved the man he’d been

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rather than the man he’d become. At that moment he made a decision not to tell. “It wasn’t too bad,” Houston said, referring to the amount he’d paid to get his pickup out of airport parking. “Besides, I have a little put by.” Then he picked up their bags. “Grab my arm, Rachel. It’s time to go home.” Getting into Houston’s old pickup was, to Rachel, like pulling a comfortable old blanket up over her head and snuggling down into a lumpy but familiar bed. Nothing had changed. Not even the fact that there was an empty pop can rolling around on the floorboards beneath her feet, or that the seat was gritty with dust. “You’ll have to get in on my side and scoot over,” he said, helping her into the cab. “I still haven’t fixed the latch on the passenger side.” She grinned wryly. At least some things are still the same. But she didn’t say what she was thinking as she slid past the steering wheel, accidentally kicking the empty pop can as she settled gingerly in the cushion’s dip. As she waited for him to follow, her nose wrinkled at the stale scent of the cab’s interior. “What do I smell?” she asked as Houston got behind the wheel and slammed the door. He arched an eyebrow and then looked around. “I don’t know. What does it smell like to you?” She sniffed again, but lightly. “Something old, but sweet . . . I think.” Houston grinned, relieved it was nothing worse. “Be glad that’s all you smell.” Rachel grimaced and reached down between the door and the seat for the seat belt. As she did, her

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hand brushed across what felt like cellophane, and then something crumbly and sticky. “Ewww,” she said, quickly yanking her hand back and shaking it in the air. “What is it? What’s on my hand?” Houston grabbed her fingers, eyeballed them closely, then lifted them to his mouth. Before she knew what was happening, they were in his mouth and he was sucking at them one by one, his tongue curling around the digits like vines up a tree. The sensation was a mind-bending pull, from the tips of her fingers to the pit of her stomach. Someone groaned. Afraid it was herself that she heard, she pulled her fingers from his grasp and wadded them into fists in the middle of her lap. Her heart was hammering so loudly in her ears, she could barely hear herself speak. “Are you crazy?” she said, more sharply than she wanted. Houston reached over and took off her dark glasses. “Not yet,” he muttered, and laid the glasses in her lap, then leaned across her lap, fished out what was left of a stale package of Twinkies from between the seat and the door, and tossed them out the window and into the pickup bed. He raked her face with a slow, hungry gaze, then grabbed her seat belt and buckled her in. She was still shuddering. “What did I stick my fingers in?” “My mouth,” Houston drawled, and started the engine. She inhaled sharply. “Damn it, Houston, don’t play games with me. Not about this.”

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He relented. “Twinkies,” he said, and drove out of the loading area and headed for the highway. “What?” “It was a half-eaten package of Twinkies.” Rachel resisted the urge to pull her feet up off the floor. “Before we go any farther, is there anything else I should know?” Still convinced that keeping Rachel in the dark about the change in his lifestyle was the best option, Houston never batted an eye. “Nope. Nothing I can think of,” he said, and pressed the accelerator down to the floor. The engine backfired once, leaving a black puff of smoke as he put the truck into gear. For Rachel, the sensation of an airplane’s liftoff had been frightening, but it was nothing compared to the sheer terror she felt now. The dust-laden wind suddenly whipping through the half-open windows was plastering her clothes to her body and stirring her hair into a frenzy. And the speed . . . God, the speed. She clutched the stuffed rabbit a little closer to her chest. “Houston.” When he didn’t answer, she realized her hesitant voice had gotten lost in the wind. She took a deep breath and then yelled to make herself heard over the roar of both engine and wind. “Houston!” “What?” “Slow down. Please slow down.” When he looked at her face, the knowledge that he had frightened her made him sick. Immediately he let up on the gas, then reached across the seat and took her by the hand.

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“Rachel . . . baby . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” Shaking now as she came off the adrenaline high, she leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath, willing her heart to a more normal rhythm. “Are you okay?” he asked. “If you need to stop, just tell me.” She shook her head, and then felt around for the glasses he’d taken off her face. When she found them, she slipped them hastily up her nose, settling them in place. Only after she was safely hidden behind the dark lenses and her fingers were deep in the soft plush on the rabbit’s back did she begin to relax. “No. I’m fine, just fine.” Houston gave her one last glance, then turned his attention back to the road. She might not realize it, but what she’d just done was patently clear to him. The glasses had become her shield. A kind of if-Ican’t-see-you-then-you-can’t-see-me protection. But Houston saw her just the same. He saw way past her hurt and all the way to her fear. He didn’t know what scared him most—that her spirit might never heal completely, or that it would heal and she wouldn’t need him anymore. This time he accelerated slowly. They rode the rest of the way home in silence. It wasn’t until Houston turned down the driveway and saw Taco sitting on the porch like a sentry on duty that he began to relax. He glanced at Rachel. She was pale and ramrod stiff. The trip had been grueling for her. And it was only just beginning. There was nothing he could do except provide her with shelter and food and whatever love she would allow herself to take. The rest was up to her.

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“We’re home,” he said softly. It was a reflex that made Rachel take off her glasses, as if she’d forgotten that their removal would make no difference to the dark she now lived in. A lump came to Houston’s throat. Tears burned his eyes, but he wouldn’t let himself give in to the grief. Instead he cleared his throat and managed a chuckle. “You won’t believe this, but Taco is actually standing up, wagging his tail, and coming to meet us.” A tiny smile tilted the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. The realization of her loss was just beginning. The next few minutes passed with excruciating politeness: Rachel taking Houston’s arm as he helped her out of the truck, Houston reminding her how many steps there were to the porch, Houston fumbling for the key before unlocking the door. Rachel felt her senses coming alive. Here were scents that she knew. Even the heat and the wind were acceptable, because they were familiar. And yet something was different; she just couldn’t say what. Waiting for Houston to unlock the door, she focused on the sounds. It was then that it dawned on her. Something new had been added. “Houston, what do I hear?” He paused and looked around. “I don’t hear anything, baby. What does it sound like to you?” “Sort of a thump thump thump, but in the distance.” Houston stiffened. The pump jacks from his wells. He’d become so accustomed to the sound that he no longer heard them. “That must be the pump jacks,” he said. She frowned. “Pump jacks?”

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“Yes, lots of changes have occurred since you’ve been gone.” His comment was enough to stifle whatever else she might have asked. She withdrew inside herself, waiting for him to open the door. Finally they were inside. This time it was Houston who wrinkled his nose. The air was stale and hot. But it looked to him as if Kenny had come out and picked up a bit, maybe when he’d come to feed Taco. He sighed. Kenny had become more than a friend—he’d become the brother he’d never had. Guilt hit him hard as he stared at the shabby rooms and worn-out furniture. Less than six miles away, he had a brand-new home full of brand-new furniture and appliances. He could take her there now and their comfort would be ensured. But if he did, then he’d have to tell her the truth. He glanced at her. There was an expectant look on her face, as if she was waiting for him to make the first move. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said softly. “This place is a—” Rachel handed him her rabbit. “Godsend,” she said, finishing his sentence for him. He frowned. “What?” Rachel almost hugged herself with relief. “It’s familiar. I know this place like the back of my hand.” And then she turned. “At least I used to,” she said. “Have you moved any furniture? Has anything changed?” Houston shook his head and then remembered she couldn’t see the gesture. “No, nothing has been moved. Everything is right where it was when you left, including a few dust balls, I would imagine.”

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Rachel sighed. “I don’t care. At least here I can see.” Houston swallowed. God, help me get through this. “Well.” He took a deep breath, trying to make light of something that was tearing him apart. “Who could have known that it would pay to be a slob?” A smile came and went so fast on her face he thought he’d imagined it. She looked exhausted and in pain. He thought of her healing ribs and the headaches she still suffered from the concussion. “How about lying down for a while? For someone who was just released from the hospital, you’ve had a very long, very rough day.” He could see relief on her face. “Yes, please,” she said, and then added, “I would like to take a shower first.” “I think that can be arranged,” Houston said. “Let’s just hope I have some clean towels.” She put her hand on his arm, expecting to follow his lead. Instead he handed her the bunny and picked her up. “I can walk,” she said. “I know that,” he said gently. “Just humor me, okay?” Houston watched an odd expression settle on her face as he began to move. He had no way of knowing that Rachel was remembering the last time he’d carried her through his house like this, and how when they’d reached their destination they’d wound up in each other’s arms, making love all through the night. He couldn’t know how bittersweet this homecoming was for her, or that she’d dreamed of such a moment many times during her year in New York. All

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he knew was that while she was back in his life, she had never been farther away. The hum of the window air conditioner in Rachel’s bedroom drowned out the sound of a squeaky hinge as Houston opened the door and peeked in. Moonlight spilled through the window and onto the floor, leaving a pale swath of light by which to see. Rachel was sound asleep in the middle of her bed, with one arm flung over her head and the other clutching the rabbit he’d given her. He’d bought it in the hospital gift shop on a whim. Who could have known how important the toy would become to her? He had no way of knowing that it had become a symbolic bridge in Rachel’s mind. The stuffed rabbit was the first thing she’d “seen” in her world of darkness. His heart twisted with yearning. She didn’t belong in that bed. She belonged in his, and within his embrace, his chest pillowing her cheek. Through the window, he could see a line of straggling clouds scudding across the sky. His eyes narrowed. Maybe the wind would blow up some rain. The good Lord knew it was needed. He gave Rachel one last glance. Satisfied that all was well, he closed the door and went back to his room. But sleep wouldn’t come. His mind was awash with worries. She needed to find herself again, but he didn’t know how to help her. He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. Maybe when she was better she could enroll in a school for the blind. There were so many things she needed to learn just to be able to get through a day unattended. He fell asleep with her face in his mind.

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Hours later he woke to the sound of breaking glass. He was out of bed and across the hall to her room almost before he’d opened his eyes. “Rachel, sweetheart, are you all—” She interrupted, pointing downward with an angry gesture. “Need you ask?” He exhaled slowly. “Don’t move. You might cut your feet.” “Damn,” she muttered, and thrust her hands through her hair in mute frustration. He touched her arm to let her know where he was, then knelt at her feet and began to pick up the pieces. “It’s just a lamp.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “Oh, good. At least it’s nothing you’ll have to replace on my behalf.” Houston frowned but kept on working. Within a couple of minutes everything was under control. “Okay, all clear,” he said, then looked around for her suitcase. It was on the floor against the opposite wall. “Why don’t I unpack for you while you wash up?” “Think you can trust me to wash my own face? Maybe you’d better tag along—make sure I don’t drip or make another big mess.” Houston froze. “I’m not going to play that game with you,” he snapped. “I’m not going to let you tear yourself—or me—apart. What happened to you was horrible. But it wasn’t your fault, and it damned sure wasn’t mine. I won’t fight you, Rachel. Do you understand?” She exhaled slowly as a single tear slid down her cheek. Her chin quivered, but she held it high. “I’m sorry, Houston. This won’t happen again.”

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When he tried to hold her, she pushed his hands away. “No, let me finish. I think I need to get this said, for myself as much as for you.” Houston stepped back, giving her the space she so obviously needed. “I’m listening.” She nodded. “This may not be something you can understand, but when I lost my sight, I lost control. Even of my emotions. Tears ride close to the surface, as does anger. I have yet to know a minute of calm. Even when I’m laughing on the outside, I’m screaming in here.” She put her hand over her heart. “So I beg you now, before I do it again, to forgive me, because the pain doesn’t come from being with you— never you. It comes because I no longer know who I am.” Again Houston found himself fighting back tears. But if Rachel didn’t break, he damn sure couldn’t. “Understood.” She nodded. “Good. Now about that offer of unpacking for me . . .” “Yes?” “If you do, put the small stuff in the empty chest of drawers.” “Okay.” “Put my underwear in one drawer. Then put my shorts and T-shirts in another.” “I can do that.” She hesitated, and he could tell that something was still bothering her. “What is it, Rachel? I can’t help if you won’t talk.” “I can’t see colors. How will I know what goes with what?”

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He grinned, and she heard it in his voice. “Well, I always liked you best in your birthday suit, but . . . I have an idea.” She blushed and then bit the inside of her lip. The mention of their previous intimacy hurt. There was so much she’d given up, and all in the name of greed. “I’m listening,” she muttered. “I will stack your shorts in one pile, your shirts in another. And whatever is on top in each stack will match.” Rachel’s eyebrows arched dramatically. The suggestion was brilliant. “Why, Houston, that’s wonderful. How did you think of that?” He chuckled. “That’s how my mother did my clothes when I was a kid. I would have put on whatever was handy. We didn’t have much, but she took pride in making her men look as good as she could.” Rachel laughed, and the sound startled her. It had been so long since delight had taken her unawares. She felt so good, in fact, that she could almost make a joke about getting lost in a room. She held her hands out before her. “Am I still heading in the right direction?” “Not unless you were planning to spend the day in the closet,” Houston said, then took her by the shoulders and turned her thirty degrees to the left. Rachel tried not to show her frustration. “I would have found it . . . eventually.” “Yes, Cherokee, of that I have no doubt. Now go do your thing while I unpack. When you’re dressed, home in on the scent of brewing coffee. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

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“I won’t be long,” Rachel promised. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” At that, a thought occurred to Rachel. “Oh no! Houston, your job! You’ve been gone so long. Did Dale Emery fire you when you came to New York?” Houston flinched. This time if he lied, there would be no going back. “No, I didn’t get fired. I quit.” Rachel gasped. “But not because of you. I had already quit before your accident happened.” “But why? How are you getting by?” Then she blushed, as if realizing that she no longer had the right to ask such personal questions. “I’m sorry. This isn’t really any of my business anymore, is it?” Houston moved until he was facing her, then cupped her cheek, not because it was the wise thing to do, but because he could no longer bear to keep his hands off her. “It’s always your business, Cherokee.” Then he added, “I have a different job. One with a nearby oil company.” She frowned. “When did all of this happen?” “Right after they moved in and set up shop.” “And they didn’t mind you being gone so long?” Lying to her was almost painful. “Nope. They were real understanding. In fact, I would guess you’ll be meeting one of the guys pretty soon. His name is Kenny Monday. He’s become a real good friend.” A little spurt of jealousy came out of nowhere, surprising Rachel with its intensity. “Unlike me, he’s one of those there-when-youneed-them kind of friends, huh?”

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Houston’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t, Rachel.” She tried to smile. “Sorry. That came out of nowhere. Now, where was I? Oh yes, on my way to the bathroom—which, if I may say so, is becoming a necessity now.” Houston stepped aside. “And I was going to unpack.” “And make coffee. Don’t forget the coffee,” Rachel added. “Yeah, right,” Houston said, watching as she made her way into the bathroom and closed the door. He stood for a moment longer, absorbing what she’d just done. If he wasn’t mistaken, that had been jealousy he’d heard. A slow smile of satisfaction settled upon his face. Good. He’d use whatever it took to get Rachel back in his life. He made short work of unpacking her clothes, noting that some shopping would soon be in order. Everything she owned had been destroyed in the explosion, and they had what was in the suitcase solely due to Esther Goodman’s foresight. When he had finished, he stood listening to the water running in the bathroom next door. Then he nodded in satisfaction. It wasn’t going to be easy, but Rachel wasn’t a quitter. Somehow, between them, they would find a way to make everything all right.

� fifteen �

After three days at the ranch, Houston had solved the problem of coordinating her clothing, and while dressing herself was sometimes slow, she managed. She was competent enough to shower and shampoo her own hair without help. Her grooming wasn’t difficult. It was a matter of brushing her hair and then either pulling it back from her face with a band or leaving it down. Before modeling, she had rarely worn makeup, except for lipstick, so that wasn’t an issue, either. One of Rachel’s biggest hurdles had become feeding herself, and her inability to overcome the challenge of food on a plate was beginning to wear on her. The only way she could tell what was there or where it was located was if someone told her, or if she felt it for herself. Some foods she could identify by smell. But if there were several items on her plate, the scents got confused. She could tell which foods were hot from the steam rising against the palm of

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her hand. She could also locate cold foods in a similar way. Little by little, she was learning to cope. In Houston’s kitchen, most of the menu was simple enough: cereal or sandwiches for breakfast, sandwiches and soup for lunch, and something cooked on his outdoor grill for the evening meal. Quite often the main part of the meal would consist of frozen french fries, nuked until dry, and edible only with puddles of ketchup to swab them in. And hot dogs cooked on the grill were fast becoming her favorite food. They settled into an offbeat routine. Houston watched over Rachel like a mother hen with a single surviving chick, while Rachel stumbled her way through the days, slowly learning what it took to adapt. Only now and then did her patience run thin, and when it did, she let fly. Houston was of the opinion that time would help her cope and that Rachel would come to her own sense of understanding. But for the times when she did come undone, he let her pain run its course, and then hugged her when it had passed. But the emotion between them was stilted. Both knew it. Both could feel it. It was only a matter of time before one of them tripped an emotional trigger. Houston was out back dumping food scraps into Taco’s pan when the phone began to ring. He hastily scraped out the last of the leftovers and made a dash for the door. Rachel was in the kitchen, and it would be like her to answer. Which, in another life, wouldn’t have mattered a lick. But that was before

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the birth of the lie. Now every person she came in contact with became a possible danger to keeping the lie alive. “I’ll get it,” he yelled. But as his feet hit the back steps, he could hear her voice. Since she wasn’t talking to him, he knew it was already too late. He bolted inside, then stopped, holding his breath as he listened, the dirty plate dangling from his hand. “Yes, it’s good to be back,” he heard her saying. From the tone of her voice, it seemed that the call was for her. He frowned. Who could it be? He dumped the dirty plate in the sink and washed his hands, then tried to find something to do that wouldn’t make it seem as if he was eavesdropping. Nothing occurred to him, so he stood there unabashedly listening, watching her face come alive as she talked, and wishing to God it would come alive for him. “Yes, things are difficult,” Rachel said. “But I didn’t expect anything different.” Then she sighed, as if disgusted with herself for the answer. “He lets me eat with my fingers.” Houston sighed. Hell, she could eat with her toes if she wanted to. He didn’t care. “I know, I know,” Rachel said. “Houston’s already suggested the same thing. But the closest school is some distance away. I’d have to board there while I learned all there is to learn, and quite frankly, I’m not up to that yet.” Then Houston heard her voice soften. “Right now this house is as close to heaven as I’m going to get. . . . Why? Because I see it in my mind. The rooms are the same, as are the dishes in the cabinets. I’m not so lost here.”

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Houston’s guilt slipped a notch, maybe two, as he began justifying to himself why she didn’t need to know about his change of fortunes just yet. He wasn’t keeping secrets. He was just giving her time to adjust to this life before he thrust her into another. But it wasn’t all the truth, and he knew it. In the deepest part of his soul he needed to hear her say that she loved him as he was. Even if she was blind. Even if she might think he was her only hope. He still needed to hear the words. He tuned back in on Rachel’s conversation. “Yes, he’s here. . . . Good talking to you, too. Take care of yourself, and I love you. . . . Okay, hang on, I’ll get him. Houston, it’s Esther, for you.” Ah—so it was Esther whom Rachel could freely admit to loving. Just hearing those words made him ache. Once she’d laid the same claim to him. He strode to where Rachel was standing and took the phone, then put his arm around her and gave her a quick, nonthreatening hug. As he expected, she tolerated the hug only long enough to be polite, then moved out of his reach. He turned away to stare out the window, making himself concentrate on the call at hand. “Esther, darlin’, how’s my favorite shortie?” Esther chuckled. Her diminutive size had been a constant target of Houston’s teasing. “Still pushing five feet and hoping for more,” she answered. He laughed. “Hmmm, a positive thinker. My kind of woman.” “Enough already,” Esther scolded. “We both know your kind of woman is there at your side. How is she really doing?”

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Houston turned, checking to see where Rachel had gone. Through the screen door, he could see her sitting on the back porch steps. Taco was at her side, his head in her lap. Her head was bent to the task of rubbing an itchy spot between his ears, and he was wagging his tail, happy that someone was paying him notice. Houston masked a shaft of pain. Even the dog got more attention from her than he did. “I think she’s doing okay. Some days are better than others. Frustration plays a large part of her daily life. Right now her biggest headache is coping with food. She doesn’t want to go out to eat, and my cooking skills are pretty limited.” “Have you talked to her again about going to an institute for the blind? You know . . . to learn some coping skills that would compensate for that?” Houston sighed. “Yes, but I don’t think she’s ready yet. Everything has become so complicated for her. I think she needs to heal a bit more in body as well as in mind before she moves on to a new environment.” “You’re probably right. I just don’t want her to stay in the familiar world so long that she becomes afraid to venture out.” “I know. I’ll be careful not to let that happen.” “You’re a good man, Houston Bookout.” Houston smiled bitterly. “You’re telling that to the wrong person.” Esther clucked. “She will come around, you’ll see. For now, you have to believe enough for the both of you.” Houston nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That I can do.” “Well, then,” Esther said, “I will leave you to the

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business of catching cows and whatever else you do on that ranch of yours.” Houston thought of the oil wells pumping and the new ones being drilled as they spoke, and grinned. “I sold the cows some time back, and the whatever else is pretty much taking care of itself. That leaves me all kinds of time to be with Rachel, which is what I better go do. It looks as if she and my dog are about to go for a walk. I’d better tag along before he takes her out to the north forty and forgets to bring her back.” “I will call again soon,” Esther said. “We’ll be looking forward to it.” But after he hung up, he stood looking out of the doorway, hurting beyond anything he could imagine at the hesitancy in Rachel’s movements. Suddenly Taco glanced back at the door, as if sensing that Rachel was moving out of some mysterious circle of safety. Houston heard him whine. He sighed. “Yes, boy, I see her, and I’m coming.” The wind was light, the sun already high overhead. Rachel could feel the heat of it, more on the crown of her head than on her face. The breeze felt good, lifting the weight of her hair from her neck. The scent of sage and mesquite was in the air, as was a hint of dust. But in west Texas, that came with the territory. A horse whinnied. She turned toward the sound. Houston’s horses! She’d almost forgotten about them. Taco nosed the back of her bare leg. She brushed her fingertips across his head, lightly scratching between his ears. Houston had left so

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many responsibilities behind when he’d come to New York. She hadn’t given them a thought, and he’d never said a word. She ached for him. For the freedom she once had of lying beside him each night. She was so close to him now, and yet had never been farther away. She felt as if she were dying inside. In a way, this was worse than the separation had been. Here she felt his presence, but the bond between their souls had been broken. And she took all the blame. “Rachel, wait!” She paused, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to catch up with his voice. Moments later he slipped his fingers through hers and gave them a squeeze. “Want to take a walk?” She nodded. “How about the grand tour? All the way to the barn and back, and don’t forget the big cactus at the well halfway between.” “Sorry,” Houston drawled, “the cactus bit the dust. But I’ll be sure to take you by the site, although the memorial plaque is still at the engraver’s.” She laughed in spite of herself. Houston froze. He knew he needed to move. But all he wanted to do was taste that laugh before it disappeared. Rachel tugged on his hand. “Come on, Houston. Just remember you’re my eyes. Unless I decide to get down on the ground and start crawling about to do a little feeling and tasting on my own, I will see only what you tell me I see. And truthfully, I’m not in the mood to eat dirt.” Just when he thought he couldn’t bear this for her

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any longer, she managed to make him laugh. She was ready to play, and he wanted in on the game. “All right, then,” he said, his voice deep, almost gruff, with stifled emotion. “But no smart remarks from the back of the bus.” He aimed them north and headed for the barn. His gaze swept the land before him: the gigantic openness of unencumbered space, the vast blue-white sky with a horizon that seemed to go on forever. Set against such a backdrop, the structures of what constituted his home were painfully insignificant. “I don’t think I know where to start.” The confusion she heard in his voice surprised her. She couldn’t remember a time when Houston hadn’t been in control. “You’re not being judged on your performance,” she teased, and briefly leaned her head against his shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, one meant to comfort rather than to enthrall, but it staggered Houston just the same. He took a deep breath, willing himself to start talking before he did something they’d both regret. “We need rain.” She laughed. “Houston. Tell me something I don’t know. Like, are there clouds in the sky? And do those sprigs of dill your mother once planted still come up by the windmill? You know, tell me that kind of stuff.” “There’s a line of thunderheads to the north. They look like a bunch of spilled cotton balls. Too far away to do us any good.” An image began to form inside Rachel’s mind as

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her mind withdrew old memories, pasting them up in her darkness like cutouts on a flannel board. Houston looked up, gauging the sun against the zenith. “The sky looks more white than blue, and there’s a half-dozen vultures circling off to our right. Maybe a dead rabbit or a coyote. It can’t be cows, because I sold mine.” Another bit of the picture became real in her mind. She could almost see the wind currents keeping the carrion eaters aloft. Their graceful flight and majestic wingspans were things of beauty, even for birds of such ungainly stature. “I didn’t know,” Rachel muttered, thinking of the twenty or so rangy, bald-faced cows always moving with their noses to the ground, constantly in search of enough food to eat. “I fixed the corrals since you were gone. They look good. Painted them white.” She tried to envision this, and frowned. As long as she’d known him, the ranch had existed in colors of rust brown and metal gray. “You painted the barn, too?” “Yeah. The tin looks like new. It’s amazing what a man can do when he can’t seem to sleep.” The image in her mind disappeared. Suddenly all she sensed was great pain. Startled, she stumbled, but caught herself before she could fall. The moment he said the words, he regretted them. It had been thoughtless and cruel of him. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he muttered. “No,” Rachel said, accepting the blame. And then her mouth quirked. “At least something good came

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out of my selfishness.” Then she turned his attention back to the tour. “I heard horses. Are they still the same ones?” He nodded, then cursed beneath his breath, remembering that she couldn’t see an answer; she had to hear it instead. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t ride much anymore, but I still couldn’t bring myself to part with them.” Then he paused. “We’re at the windmill.” He took her hands and put them on the skeletal framework, watching with some degree of jealousy as Rachel’s fingers curled around the steel braces, feeling her way up its length with a tenderness he wouldn’t have anticipated. “You’ve painted this, too,” Rachel said, not bothering to hide the surprise in her voice. “It’s not rough with rust.” “Yes, well . . .” He let the silence speak for itself. Then he took her hand and moved it a bit to the left. When the cushiony heads of dill weed, bursting with seed, bumped against the palms of her hands, she jerked back, startled by the feel. “It’s okay. It’s just Mother’s dill, remember?” “Yes, I remember,” she said softly, and this time when she reached out, she curled her ringers around a small crown and pulled. The scent that came with the small bits of seed was distinctly tart and pungent, as only dill can be. She crushed it between her fingers, then lifted it to her nose. Instinctively her eyes closed as she savored the smell. “I love the scent of fresh dill.” Houston couldn’t quit staring. Her face was tilted just the least bit to the sun. Her expression was

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happy, almost content. A strand of hair clung like a stray black thread to the side of her neck. He reached out, barely touching her skin as he brushed it away. She turned toward his touch. “What is it?” she asked. “Your hair. A piece of it was stuck to your skin.” “Oh . . . thanks.” He swallowed, watching the way her lips formed the words. Everything around them became magnified a thousand times. The heat, the wind, the earth, the sky. He had the strangest sensation that if he didn’t move quickly, they would cease to exist. His voice was soft, barely a whisper against her face. “Ah, God . . .” She heard the ache in his voice, and could no more turn away from his need than she could have stopped her own breath. The dill fell from her fingers as she lifted her hands to his face. Before, she’d been unable to look at what she’d done to this man, but it was time. It was time. When her fingers brushed his cheeks, he took a quick breath. “Rachel.” It was a warning more than a question. “Shhh,” she whispered. “You see me. I need to see you.” His jaw clenched. She felt it and hesitated, aching for the loss of what had been. “I will not trespass,” she promised. “But I have missed you. I long to see you again.” A soft curse slipped into the silence between them. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of her fumbling journey into his soul.

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“I’m here. Look your fill.” The palms of her hands were suddenly soft against his face, and Houston knew that the scent of dill and the feel of the hot Texas wind would be imprinted in his mind for eternity. “Your face is thinner.” Her voice lowered with renewed sorrow. “I keep saying I’m sorry. Someday I hope you will know how much.” “Rachel, I—” “No,” she said quickly, brushing her finger across the curve of his lips. “Don’t talk. Not now. Besides, there’s nothing you can say that will fix what I’ve done.” Her shoulders slumped, but only momentarily. Then she lifted her head, concentrating intently as she ran her forefingers across the arch of his brows, feeling the thickness and texture and remembering what a vivid frame they were for his eyes. When she traced her fingers across his eyelids, they fluttered beneath her touch. Moisture seeped from beneath the thick fan of lashes, but she made no comment. And so it continued, her hands tracing the shape of his face, committing it to a new kind of memory, while sorrow continued to build. He was leaner, his features more chiseled. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh anywhere. She’d traced the faint but definite lines that time had dug into his brow, as well as those around his mouth. She could imagine them forming. Houston, clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth when the going got rough. It was the kind of man he was. And just because she’d rocked part of his world didn’t mean he’d quit on the rest. A great sense of pride began to grow in her then,

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for the man that he was. A better man than she deserved. Her hands flattened as they slipped to his shoulders. She felt the ridges of bone and muscle with no spare flesh between. More evidence of the devastation of her faithlessness. Beneath her palms, his heart was pounding wildly. She raised her head, and in that moment another image was suddenly etched into the dark palette in her mind: Houston, standing tall before her, staring down into her face with cold despair. At that moment Houston groaned. He’d had enough. “Rachel, please,” he whispered. She yanked her hands away, as if suddenly burned. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said softly, clutching her hands to her chest. “But I’m not. Now it’s my turn.” Rachel jerked. “What—” His hands went to her cheeks, and she never finished her sentence. She could feel his breath on her face. Closer, then closer still. There was a physical ache in the space between them, but when he put his arms around her and pulled her close, the ache disappeared. “Houston—” “Don’t talk,” he whispered. “Just give me this.” She sighed. His mouth brushed her lips. She turned to him like a moth to the light. He tunneled his fingers through her hair as he tilted his head downward, tentatively tracing the shape of her face with brief kisses, mapping her image while sanity left him. She groaned and clutched at him with both hands.

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He lifted her off her feet, then turned, pressing her against the windmill until she was pinned between Houston’s body and the steel at her back. “Rachel, I need—” Taco barked. Once. But the short yip was a warning Houston recognized well. Someone was coming. He tore himself away from her and looked over his shoulder. A dust cloud was just becoming apparent. “Well, damn,” he muttered, and gently put Rachel back on her feet. Staggered by the sudden sensation of being turned loose in a whirlwind without an anchor, she grabbed on to his arm for balance. “What? What is it?” “Someone’s coming.” Rachel groaned. And even as she was struggling with sanity, she kept telling herself it was for the best. She should have known that Houston would still want her—at least physically. But she didn’t think she could bear to make love to him ever again, knowing she would have to let him go. She began smoothing her hair nervously, thankful she’d had the foresight to tie it back from her face, and straightened the hem of her T-shirt. At the moment it was the best she could do. The urge to leave was strong, but she was uncertain about where to go. And the notion that some stranger would likely be watching her stumbling efforts to get back inside were all that kept her standing at Houston’s side. “Who is it?” she asked as she heard the car come to a stop. “It’s Kenny Monday, the man from the oil company, remember?”

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Rachel frowned. “Oh yes,” she said. They had yet to meet, but Houston spoke of him often. She knew that this meeting would be one Houston might dread. How do you introduce the woman who dumped you to your very best friend?

� sixteen �

Kenny got out grinning, but the smile on his face stopped somewhere between casual and wide. When he saw the woman at Houston’s side, every social skill he’d been taught faded away. He’d known she was here. Had even prepared himself for the meeting. But as he watched them coming toward him, he fought an overwhelming urge to cry. At a distance, they looked as if they were two halves of a whole. Their steps were in unison, right down to the sway of their bodies. He saw her speak, and watched as Houston ducked his head to catch the soft whisper. The deference with which the man bent to her broke Kenny’s heart. So, Rachel Austin. We’re about to meet. Kenny tried to ignore her beauty, reminding himself that it was only skin deep and that a woman worth her salt wouldn’t have walked away from a man just because he was poor. But as they came closer the reminder seemed senseless in the face of his awe. Even with the small imperfections left behind by the terrible blast, she didn’t seem real. He

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stared, wanting to find a flaw that would make her appearance as normal as the rest of the world. But it wasn’t so. It was only after they got closer that it hit him. Her eyes. Those beautiful clear green eyes were looking right through him. He stared at Houston, wondering how he bore the pain of that vacant gaze. And in that moment he forgave her for whatever hurt she’d caused his good friend, because she’d paid for it dearly. Houston nodded. “Morning, Kenny. I’ve been expecting you.” Kenny tried to meet Houston’s eyes, but he seemed unable to quit staring at Rachel. Finally he managed a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m trying to remember why I came,” he said. “But truth be told, it has completely slipped my mind.” Houston arched an eyebrow. “Rachel, this tall, ugly man who is staring at you as if you’re the last cookie on a plate was my friend Kenny Monday. I’m trying to decide whether to hit him now, or wait until you’ve gone in the house so you won’t hear him cry.” Kenny grinned. Rachel laughed. The introduction was just what had been needed to break the awkwardness of this overdue meeting. Kenny grasped Rachel’s hand. “He’s right, Miss Austin. I admit it. I’m staring.” And then his voice softened. “And I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed the sights as much as I am right now.” Houston snorted lightly. “Don’t pay any attention to his pretty words. He has a nice car. That’s the only reason women like him.”

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Rachel laughed again. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Won’t you come inside? It’s hot out today.” “It’s always hot in this blessed place,” Kenny muttered, then added with a wink at Houston, “But there are plenty of other things that make it worthwhile, right, old buddy?” Houston frowned, then shook his head. Kenny looked startled. Mutely he followed them into the house. “How about a cold beer?” Houston asked as Kenny quickly settled into his favorite chair. “Sounds good to me.” “Rachel, would you like something cold to drink, too?” “Do we have any iced tea left?” “I think so. I’ll check. If not, how about a beer?” “Make it a Coke and you have a deal,” she said. “Coming up,” he said, then he looked at Kenny and motioned for him to come. “Hey, Monday. Why don’t you give me a hand?” Kenny’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Sure. Be right back,” he told Rachel, and quickly followed Houston into the kitchen. “What’s the big deal?” he muttered. “Shhh,” Houston hissed. “I don’t want her to overhear this.” Kenny lowered his voice to a whisper. “Hear what? And while I’m asking questions, why are you still living in this place when your new house is finished and furnished, just waiting for you to move in?” “Because she doesn’t know about the oil wells or my new house or the new pickup that’s due to arrive

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any day. She doesn’t know about anything, and that’s just the way I intend to keep it. At least for a while.” “But why?” Houston turned, and the intensity on his face was impossible for Kenny to misunderstand. “I want her back.” Kenny shrugged. “But she’s already back.” “No. She came back because she needs me, not because she wanted to. I’ve got to find a way to help her become independent again. And then pray to God that she will stay with me because she wants to, not because she has no other choice.” “But if—” “Look, Kenny, use your head,” Houston snapped. “She left me before because I was poor—or because she was poor; I never really understood which. Anyway, that’s all in the past. If she stays with me this time, what I need to know is that she does it because she can’t live without me, not because I could buy her the moon.” “Ah.” “And,” Houston continued, “what I need from you is to keep your mouth shut about my business dealings in front of her. She thinks I work for the same company you work for. That’s all. Don’t let on that I own the damn thing.” “Gotcha.” Houston opened Kenny’s longneck, popped the top of Rachel’s Coke, and then thrust them into Kenny’s hands. “Here, and don’t hit on my woman while I’m looking for pretzels.” Happy to oblige, Kenny took the drinks and headed for the living room.

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“My dear Miss Austin, your refreshments have arrived. It seems there was no tea, so he sent a Coke instead.” “As long as it’s wet and cold, I’ll take it,” Rachel said, and took a long drink as Kenny settled in a nearby chair. While Kenny was spreading his own brand of charm, Houston was struggling with a guilty conscience. Another deception added. The lie was growing. Then he shrugged and headed for the pantry to look for the pretzels. Beatty Andrews had joined the ranks of the unemployed. Ironically, it was the bomb blast that had precipitated the management’s decision. Fearing another bomb, several of their renters had moved out, and even in a city where decent living accommodations were always at a premium, the owners of the building found themselves having trouble leasing the vacated apartments. Hoping to reassure the tenants that were still left and lure new ones, they hired a security company, which promptly installed round-the-clock guards at the door, negating the need for doormen. In a sense, Beatty had made himself obsolete. He would be eligible for unemployment, but that wouldn’t last forever, and he’d already checked into the fact that it would not be enough to cover the cost of his current lifestyle. He stood on the corner, lost in the crowd, his eyes on the light, willing it to change. Nausea burned in his throat. His stomach was knotted in fear. He needed another job. If he didn’t work, he couldn’t pay his rent. Moving was out of the question. He’d

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never lived anywhere else. He’d been born in that apartment. His father—and his mother—had died in that apartment. His chin quivered. His eyes filled with tears. What would he do? If his mother were still here, she would know. But she’d gone away, just like his Rachel. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Everyone he loved kept going away. “Move it, buddy, or get outa the way,” a man muttered behind him. That night Beatty’s answer came in the form of a dream. She appeared in the doorway to his bedroom. Her dress was stained, her body rotting, and she kept grabbing at her flesh, trying to put it back on her bones. A trickle of blood was running from the corner of her mouth, and she kept pointing to the walls in front of him, mouthing something he could no longer understand. Horrified that she’d come back in such a state, he tore his gaze away, to look in the direction she was pointing. The walls were covered with pictures of Rachel Austin. Even the ceilings were plastered with images of her face. On the floor at the foot of his bed was a pile of dirty sheets. As he stared, they burst into flames. It was then he could hear his mother’s words. She kept screaming for him to repent. He awoke with an erratic heartbeat and bathed in sweat. He looked wildly about the room, peering into the shadows for any lingering remnants of his mother’s ghost. The screen saver on his computer monitor was still dancing in the dark, but to his undying relief, she was nowhere in sight.

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He bolted from his bed and dashed across the floor to turn on the light switch beside the door. Everything was still in place, including a lingering odor of the scrambled eggs and toast that he’d made for his supper last night. He stepped into the hallway, moving swiftly toward Rachel’s new room and then stepping inside. As he did, he had a sensation of moving into something alive. The walls seemed to undulate, as wavering shadows, thrown off from a streetlight beyond the windows, moved across the surface. Below, he heard the startling shriek of approaching sirens and stared in fixed horror as the flashing red and blue lights suddenly reflected through the windows. He gasped. Just for a moment he saw his mother standing there. But the image was gone as quickly as it had come. He shook his head, reminding himself that his mother wasn’t here. This was no longer her room. It was Rachel’s. He took a deep breath and then closed his eyes, searching for her in his mind, but she was gone, too. It was then he remembered. She was in Texas with another man. He jerked as if he’d been slapped. When he looked up, his eyes were wide and filled with rage. He turned without thinking, grabbed a letter opener from his mother’s old desk, and stalked toward the pictures of Rachel he’d hung on the walls. A victim of idolatry in its basest form, he stared at her image until his eyes began to burn. “Bitch!” She stared back at him from the wall, smiling at his misery and pain. Then he lifted his arm and slashed, shattering the

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glass and ripping through paper, tearing her face from eye to chin. The release of rage from the action spurred more of the same, until Beatty was raping the walls with the talonlike blade. Long, jagged slashes appeared on the red surfaces, revealing the white underbelly of broken Sheetrock: a nightmarish reverse of the human body in its palest form. Finally he dropped to his knees, spent in both mind and body. His arms were shaking as he stared at the letter opener. The point was missing, having broken off in the wall during a previous slash, and bits of red paint clung to the handle, as well as to his hands, like splatters of blood. He opened his fingers, letting the blade fall to the floor, then stumbled out of the room and into the bathroom just in time to throw up in the commode. A few minutes later he stood naked beneath jets of cold water pouring from the showerhead. After a while he emerged, shivering so hard he could hardly focus on drying himself off. And even after he was dry and lying back beneath his covers, the dream kept running through his mind. It came to him then, how to put everything right. Nothing had been wrong with his world until he’d let Rachel Austin come in. It was all her fault. She’d ruined everything that mattered to him. And even though she’d paid with her eyesight, it wasn’t enough. Her beauty was unnatural. She was a child of the devil, just as Mother had claimed. She’d been put here to ruin good men. Men like him. What had happened wasn’t really his fault. And even though he had killed Rachel Austin in his heart, he still needed to watch her die. To gain absolution for his

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mother’s death, he must finish what he had started. But he’d have to find her again first. The longer he thought about it, the more he decided that getting fired had been fortuitous. At least now he wouldn’t have to explain why he needed time off. After he returned from Texas, he would look for a new job. He’d always wanted to be a bartender. Everyone liked bartenders. It would be easy to make new friends. Detectives Danny Sullivan and Peter Gianelli were batting zero on solving the identity of the bomber at Rachel Austin’s apartment. And there had been next to nothing left of the bomb itself other than a few bits of blue, which their bomb expert identified as Flex X, a pliable, sheet-style plastic explosive; a fragment of the electric initiator; and a small nine-volt battery. It was simple but deadly, and almost impossible to trace. They’d checked and double-checked every lead that they’d had, and interviewed every resident and employee of the apartment building many times over. No one had noticed anything unusual, and everyone’s alibi checked out. They’d questioned a cab driver who’d dropped off a passenger only minutes before the explosion had occurred, only to discover that the fare had been severely injured in the blast. There were easier ways to commit suicide. A victim was hardly someone to suspect. The young staffer who’d delivered the package to Rachel Austin’s apartment had come on duty only minutes before she’d made the delivery. She’d claimed the package was sitting at the desk with a note to deliver it. She didn’t know who’d left it. She’d

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thrown the note away and followed instructions. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. The staffer before her had claimed the desk was empty when she went off duty. That left them with little to go on. It was an apartment building. People came and went without hindrance. There would have been no reason to suspect that a package such as that one would contain a bomb. Three days ago Sullivan and Gianelli had learned through Rachel Austin’s agent that she was no longer in the hospital, and in fact was no longer in the state. They couldn’t much blame her. Somewhere in their city a man was getting away with murder. Yes, Rachel Austin had lost her sight and a career, but it was the old man who’d lived six floors below the penthouse apartment who had paid the ultimate price. He’d suffered a heart attack as a result of the excitement and died two days afterward, making his death a homicide rather than due to natural causes. In the past week no new leads had come in, and they had exhausted every avenue of investigation. At this point they were just waiting for a break. “Sullivan!” Detective Danny Sullivan looked up. Abe Malloy, his captain, was waving him into his office. He shoved aside the report he was working on and headed for Malloy’s office. “What’s up?” Sullivan asked. Malloy handed him a piece of paper. “You and Gianelli head over to the East Side. Here’s the address. Some guy found a body in a trunk in the basement of this apartment building.”

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Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Oh shit. I hope it’s been there for years. My stomach’s been bothering me all day. I don’t think I can take a fresh one. Forensics is still riding me over the last one I worked.” Then he grinned. “Maybe I’ll throw up on that damned Devine’s shoes this time. She gets the biggest kick out of my weak constitution.” Malloy grinned, then opened a drawer in his desk and handed Sullivan a small green jar. “Rub some of this under your nose. It always helped me.” Sullivan dropped the small jar of Vicks VapoRub in his pocket. “Thanks, Captain.” Malloy nodded. “I’ll expect a report on my desk ASAP.” “Yes, sir,” Sullivan said, and left, waving at his partner, Peter Gianelli, to follow. A short while later they arrived at the address. Patrol units had already cordoned off a portion of the street, giving easy access to all of the necessary emergency and police vehicles. “Hey, Donat, what have we got?” Sullivan asked as he made his way inside the building. The patrol officer pointed. “That way,” he said. “Thanks,” Sullivan said, and started toward a set of stairs at the other end of a darkened hallway. “Hey, Detective,” the officer yelled. Sullivan stopped. “Yeah?” “How long can you hold your breath?” the patrol officer asked with a grin. “Shit,” Sullivan muttered, and reached into his pocket for the Vicks, liberally dousing his upper lip

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with the thick, greasy unguent. “Here, Gianelli. Your stomach’s no stronger than mine.” A few moments later they opened the door and started down the steps. The intermittent flash of lights told Sullivan that the police photographer was still taking pictures of the scene, and he could hear the high-pitched voice of some man in distress— evidently the guy who’d discovered the body. “Somebody get him upstairs,” Sullivan ordered. “I want to talk to him after I’ve finished down here.” A nearby officer nodded, then took the hysterical man from the scene. Gianelli almost gagged. “This sucks.” Sullivan glared. “Do not mention anything to do with chewing or swallowing to me until sometime tomorrow.” “Sorry,” Gianelli said, and took a deep breath, pulling more of the menthol vapors up his nose to mask the overpowering stench. “Hey, Sullivan, what’s that under your nose?” Sullivan glared at the woman from the coroner’s office. It was moments like these that made him hate Susan Devine. She was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and he could hear the crack of her chewing gum from where he was standing. “Where’s the body?” he asked, choosing to ignore her comment. She pointed to an old trunk against the wall. The lid was up, and far too much of the body was visible to suit Sullivan’s mood. “It’s a woman,” Susan said. Sullivan looked, then gagged and averted his eyes.

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When he could talk without choking on his words, he asked, “Jesus . . . how can you tell?” Susan Devine took a tissue from her pocket and spit her gum into it as she gave the body another critical look. “Well, she’s wearing a dress, so it’s either a crossdresser or a woman. And she’s old. Lots of white hair.” “How long do you think she’s been dead?” Sullivan asked. She shrugged and tossed the gum into a nearby container of trash. “In this heat, it’s going to be hard to tell. But I would say at least a month, maybe longer. You can tell by the way the maggots have—” Sullivan pointed his finger in Susan’s face. “Save it,” he said, wondering if he looked as green as he felt. “That’s more than I wanted to know. Just get me a copy of the autopsy report ASAP.” She grinned. “You got it.” Then she reached in her pocket, pulled out a package of jelly beans, and popped a couple in her mouth. “Want some?” she asked, offering both Sullivan and Gianelli the sack. They glared at her, then walked away to the sound of her laughter. Upstairs, the hysterical man was somewhat calmer. Both detectives pulled out their notebooks as Sullivan began the interrogation. “Sir, what’s your name?” “Charlie Costa.” “Do you live here?” “Yeah,” he said. “I’m the super.” Sullivan glanced up from his notes. The building

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superintendent. At least that explained why he’d been in the basement at this time of year. The heat down there had been intense. No windows, no air, no nothing except the huge furnace that would heat the building in winter, some trash, and boxes—and, of course, the body in the trunk. “How long have you worked here?” Charlie squinted thoughtfully. “Nearly twenty-five years.” “And how did you come to discover the body?” “Well, I was halfway down the stairs when I smelled it. After that, it was a matter of following the odor.” Sullivan squelched a shudder. “Obviously you don’t go into the basement often, or you would have found it before now.” Charlie nodded. “What was your purpose in going down there today?” “Mrs. Silver, in two B, said there was a bad smell coming through the heat register in her apartment. She’s so fussy, always finding fault with something. I thought she was imagining things. I almost didn’t go.” “I know this is a difficult question,” Sullivan asked. “But did you recognize the body?” Charlie shuddered, then wiped at his face with his hands. “No . . . my God, no. There’s nothing left to see.” “I know, sir, it’s a terrible sight. But I want you to think for a minute. The dress the woman was wearing. Have you seen it before?” Charlie kept shuddering. “I don’t hardly remem-

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ber what it looked like,” he said. “All’s I could see was that face . . . or where her face was supposed to be.” Sullivan nodded. “Let me ask you this, then. How many residents live in this building?” Charlie frowned. “Oh, more than a hundred, I’d say.” “Do you know them all by sight?” Charlie nodded. “Yeah, we ain’t had a vacancy in years. Most people who live here have been here for a good twenty or thirty years. Some even more.” “So who’s missing?” Charlie’s eyes widened. “Oh God—I never thought—I just saw it and . . .” He leaned against the wall. “Of course she had to have lived here. How else would her body have wound up in the basement?” Sullivan sighed. “I can’t say for certain that it’s so, but I would think it likely.” “Jesus,” Charlie muttered, shaking his head. “So, Charlie,” Gianelli asked. “Think of all the old women who live in this building, then tell me: Who haven’t you seen in a while?” Charlie shook his head. “Right now I could hardly remember my own name, let alone the names of more than a hundred tenants, but I got a resident list in my office.” “You got any copies?” Sullivan asked. “Yes, sir,” Charlie said. “I’ll bring you a couple. Be right back.” Gianelli glanced at Sullivan as the superintendent scurried across the hall into his office. “What do you think?” he asked. Sullivan took out a handkerchief and wiped the ex-

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cess Vicks from under his nose, then handed it to Gianelli, who did the same. “As soon as we get the list, we start knocking on doors.” Gianelli agreed. “I’ll start at the top and work my way down.” “I’ll meet you on six. That’s halfway. Got your twoway?” Gianelli patted his pocket. “If you get lucky, give me a call. Don’t do anything on your own. Anyone who would stuff another human being into a trunk like a bunch of old rags isn’t firing on all cylinders.” “So you think it’s a man we’re looking for?” Gianelli asked. “Well, it took someone strong to carry that trunk all the way down here, that’s for damned sure. So unless you run into some female weight lifter who seems to be holding a grudge, I’m leaning toward a male as the perp.” Gianelli nodded. “Agreed.” A couple of minutes later Charlie was back. He handed a copy of the list to each detective. “We have your number,” Sullivan said. “We’ll be in touch.” Charlie swallowed nervously and then nodded. “I’ve lived and worked here for a long, long time. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Forty-five minutes later Sullivan exited the elevator on the third floor and then glanced at his list, trying to decide which way to go first. As he was reading, a door slammed, breaking his focus. He looked up,

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frowning at the old woman who was heading his way. When she saw him, she hesitated. The uncertainty on her face was obvious, and when he put his hand in his pocket, it turned to fear. He winced. The last thing he wanted to do today was scare some old lady out of her last breath. “Police, ma’am.” He pulled out his badge and headed her way. “I need to ask you some questions.” Marjorie Carl breathed a sigh of relief and leaned a little harder upon the walking cane she used when she went out. “What is it I can do for you, Officer?” “What is your name, ma’am?” She frowned. “Marjorie Carl.” Sullivan scanned the list. “Carl . . . Carl . . . oh yes, here you are. Three C.” Her frown deepened. “What did you say your name was?” “Sorry,” Sullivan said, and showed her his badge again. “Detective Danny Sullivan, ma’am. We’re here investigating a possible homicide.” Her eyes widened as she clutched at the collar of her dress in sudden fright. “Here? On these premises?” Sullivan nodded. “Yes, ma’am. How long have you lived here?” “Almost thirty years,” Marjorie said. “My husband, Aaron, and I moved here right after he went to work for the city. Aaron drove a bus, you know.” “Yes, ma’am,” Sullivan said, making a few quick notes. “But Aaron’s been dead for almost twenty years

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now.” Her pale eyes suddenly watered. “He had a heart attack. Died in his sleep.” “I’m sorry for your loss,” Sullivan said, and wondered how Gianelli was making out. With people this old, the questioning often got sidetracked, as was happening now. But Sullivan also knew that with the older generation, either you let them tell things at their own speed or you got nothing at all. “So, have you noticed anything strange in the last few weeks? Any unusual noises? People fighting? Anything like that?” Marjorie shook her head. “Oh no, Detective. Everyone on this floor gets along just fine. Why, I’d hardly know I had neighbors if I didn’t see them in the hall. Except for Margaret, of course. She’s my best friend. She lives across the hall from me. We’ve been going out to lunch once a week for the last twenty-odd years.” Just as Sullivan started to interrupt, Marjorie shifted gears. “At least she was my best friend, but now I’m not so sure.” “What do you mean?” Sullivan asked, his interest aroused. “Well, a few weeks ago, she up and moved to Florida without even saying goodbye. I know the last few winters have been terribly hard on her, but they’re hard on us all, don’t you know?” Sullivan nodded. “So, have you heard from this lady—what’s her name again?” “Margaret Andrews. She lives just across the hall from me, in three B.” Marjorie took out her handker-

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chief and dabbed at her tearing eyes. “No, I haven’t, and I must say it has hurt my feelings. The least she could have done was say goodbye, don’t you agree?” “Yes, ma’am,” Sullivan said. “So, did she live alone?” “Oh no. Her son, Beatty, lives with her.” Then she lowered her voice and moved a step closer. “He never married, you know. I always thought he was a little odd, but Margaret doted on him, so I never said a word, of course.” “Of course,” Sullivan said, and made a couple more notes in his notebook. Then he looked down the hall. “Do you think her son is home now?” She shrugged. “I doubt it,” she said. “He works as a doorman at one of those fancy apartment buildings. I forget the name, but it’s that place where that model lived. You know, the one that got bombed.” She frowned. “It’s frightening what this world has come to. In my day, things like this didn’t happen.” “Yes, ma’am, you’re right. It is frightening.” “So, is there anything else I can do for you, Officer?” Sullivan glanced at his notebook. “No, ma’am, not right now. And thank you for your help.” Marjorie smiled and fluffed her cotton-white hair. “You’re welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to get to the bakery before they sell all the potato bread. Today’s Tuesday. They always bake potato bread on Tuesdays.” “Yes, ma’am. Have a good day,” Sullivan said, and then stood aside and watched as Marjorie got on the elevator and dropped out of sight. The moment she was gone, he headed down the hall to 3B. It was as

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Marjorie Carl had predicted. There was no one home. He grabbed his two-way. “Gianelli.” A few seconds later the radio squawked. “Yeah. Got something?” “Maybe,” Sullivan said. “How about you?” “Nothing,” Gianelli said. “I’m gonna make a couple of calls,” Sullivan said. “I’ll get right back to you.” Then he flipped a few pages back in his notebook, checking for a phone number as well as the name of the woman who worked the front desk at Rachel Austin’s apartment building. Frances, that was it. The muscles in his belly were jumping as he made the call. He didn’t yet know why or how, but something told him this was more than coincidence. When the familiar twang of Frances’s Brooklyn accent rang in his ear, he grinned, picturing her flyaway hair and belligerent frown. “Frances, this is Detective Danny Sullivan. I talked to you the day after the bombing.” “Yeah, I remember,” Frances said. “But I don’t know anything more than I already told you.” “I’m not asking about that today. But I do need to know if Beatty Andrews is at work today.” “Nah, he doesn’t work here anymore.” Sullivan frowned. “Since when?” “Since last week.” “Was he fired?” “No, sir. The owners just decided to upgrade the security. With the bombing and all, they’ve lost some longtime residents.” “Yes, I can understand that,” Sullivan said. “Do you know if he has another job?”

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“I wouldn’t know. Him and me wasn’t the best of friends.” “Why?” Frances snorted in Sullivan’s ear. “Because he was weird, that’s why. And because he was such a mama’s boy. He’s almost forty, you know, and still living with his mother.” “Okay, Frances. Thanks for the information.” “Anytime.” And then she added, “Hey, Detective.” “Yes?” Sullivan asked. “You married?” Sullivan grinned. “Yes.” “Too bad,” Frances said. “If I remember right, you’re kind of cute.” Sullivan’s grin widened. “I’ll tell my wife you said so.” He hung up with the woman’s giggle ringing in his ears, then grabbed his two-way. “Gianelli, meet me at the super’s office. There’s an apartment I think we should check out, and no one’s at home. So I’m thinking I smell a gas leak, if you know what I mean.” “Be right there,” Gianelli said. Sullivan clicked off and headed for the elevator.

� seventeen �

“I don’t smell anything,” Charlie said as he stood outside the door to Margaret Andrews’s apartment. “Right now I don’t either,” Sullivan said. “But I sure thought I smelled gas earlier.” Charlie hesitated, the passkey dangling from his hands. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Andrews or her son, Beatty?” Sullivan asked. Charlie frowned. “Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen Margaret in several weeks. But I saw Beatty a few days ago. He spoke to me on his way out the door.” “And you haven’t seen him since?” Charlie’s frown deepened. “Not that I remember.” Sullivan shrugged. “I don’t have a search warrant, so this is your call. If you want to take the chance on finding another body a few days later, then it’s up to you.” Charlie turned visibly green and thrust the key in the lock. A few moments later the door swung open. “Beatty! Beatty Andrews!” Charlie called. “It’s me, Charlie. I need to check for a gas leak.”

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No one answered. Charlie shrugged. “Now that I’m here, I suppose I should go ahead and check.” “Mind if we tag along?” Sullivan asked. “I guess it would be all right,” Charlie said. The trio entered the apartment. Charlie went straight to the kitchen, with Sullivan and Gianelli dawdling a few steps behind. On the surface, everything seemed normal. The furniture was old but well kept, a style Sullivan remembered seeing in his grandmother’s house. Gianelli swiped at a thin layer of dust on an end table, then looked at Sullivan. “So they don’t keep a clean house. It’s not a crime,” Sullivan muttered. Charlie came back through the room. “The kitchen is fine,” he said. “I’d better check the bedrooms and the bath before I go, just to make sure.” “Good idea,” Sullivan said. “Say, Charlie, I just saw Marjorie Carl in the hallway a bit earlier. She said that Mrs. Andrews moved to Florida a few weeks ago. Know anything about that?” Charlie was halfway down the hallway. He turned, a look of surprise on his face. “Not a thing!” Then he added, “Of course, as long as the rent is paid on time, the residents don’t owe me an explanation of their personal lives.” Sullivan nodded and followed Charlie as he resumed his trek toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. “Okay in here,” Charlie said, then closed the door and retraced his steps to the door on his right. He opened it up, leaning inside to reach for the light. Gianelli was right behind him. He saw the computer

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first. Then the stack of survivalist magazines. Then the batteries. At least a dozen. He nodded at Sullivan, indicating interest. Sullivan stepped inside. When he saw a bit of blue lying on top of the magazines, he took a step closer. He was no bomb expert, but he’d been around enough to recognize Flex X when he saw it. His pulse rocketed. “So, Charlie, what do you know about this Beatty Andrews?” Sullivan asked. Charlie shrugged. “Only that he’s a loner. But they always pay their rent on time.” “He got any friends, like a girlfriend, maybe, or a drinking buddy or two?” Charlie grinned. “People like Beatty don’t have girlfriends.” Gianelli’s eyebrows arched. “Are you saying he’s gay?” “No. At least, I don’t think so. What I meant was, he’s such a mama’s boy he wouldn’t have been allowed to have a girlfriend.” Sullivan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as Charlie preceded them out of the room. “One more room and then we’re outa here,” Charlie said. “I don’t like to pry. That’s why I’ve had my job for so long. ’Cause I respect other people’s privacy.” “That’s an admirable trait,” Sullivan said. “This would be Mrs. Andrews’s room,” Charlie said. “I remember because about five years ago we had to replace the ceiling. One of the pipes burst in an apartment a couple of floors up. Caused a big mess.”

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Then he opened the door. “Jesus and Mary,” he whispered, and made the sign of the cross as his face turned a ghostly pale. “What?” Sullivan asked. “Jesus,” Charlie said again, and started to cry. “Jesus.” Sullivan looked past Charlie into the room beyond. “Oh man,” he muttered. “Gianelli, get a look at this.” They walked inside, trying to absorb the mindset of a man who could create and then destroy such a place. The walls were a shocking red, the color screaming out to be noticed. The jagged white gashes in the red surfaces made it look as if the room had bled itself dry. The bed, an elegant four-poster, had been all but destroyed. The white lace coverlet was in shreds, as were the linens and the mattress. “Look out,” Gianelli said, pointing to an object on the floor near Sullivan’s shoe. “Don’t step on that.” Sullivan looked down. “It’s a knife.” Then he squatted to look closer. “No, it’s a letter opener, I think.” “Take a look at this,” Gianelli said, pointing to the vandalized pictures that had been hanging on the walls. “Doesn’t she look familiar?” Sullivan stood and walked closer. As he did, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly rose. “Shit. That’s Rachel Austin.” Gianelli’s eyebrows arched. “And that was explosive in the other room, wasn’t it?” Sullivan nodded. Gianelli started to grin. “Didn’t you tell me that Beatty Andrews worked as a doorman at the apartment building where Rachel Austin was living?”

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Sullivan nodded again. “Could we be this lucky?” Gianelli asked. Sullivan wouldn’t jinx it by answering. He looked back at Charlie, who was turning paler by the moment. “I assume that Mrs. Andrews’s room didn’t look like this five years ago,” he said. All Charlie could do was shake his head. “Gianelli, check the closets. See if any of Mrs. Andrews’s clothes are inside.” “But if she moved to Florida, she wouldn’t leave them behind,” Charlie said. “That’s true,” Sullivan said. “If she moved.” Charlie’s eyes widened. He was starting to put two and two together. Suddenly it clicked. The body in the trunk. Margaret Andrews. The body in the trunk. The woman with no face. The body in the trunk. The flies. The maggots. He bolted down the hall, barely making it to the bathroom in time. At the same moment a wave of sympathetic nausea sent Sullivan fishing in his pocket for the little jar of Vicks. All he needed was a sniff, something to take his mind off the memory of the way the basement had smelled. “The closets are empty. Even the drawers are empty,” Gianelli said. Sullivan stood in the middle of the room, staring. “Gianelli, call the captain. Tell him what we’ve

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found. I want a warrant issued for the arrest of Beatty Andrews. Tell him we also need a search warrant for this address. Then tell him to send the boys from the bomb squad over here, as well as forensics. There’s a real good chance we just made a double play. If I’m right, looks like mama’s boy had to make a choice between his women. Mama lost out, and from the looks of this room, he’s pretty pissed at Miss Austin as well.” “Do you think Miss Austin knew him . . . I mean, knew him well?” Gianelli asked. Sullivan shrugged. “We’ll have to find out, now, won’t we?” Without opening his eyes, Houston could tell by the feel of the air that it was almost dawn. For as long as he could remember, he had been able to do that. Once his father had challenged him, saying that Houston was just full of imagination. But Houston had held fast to his truth, telling his dad that it was easy. All you had to do was take a good breath. The air was thicker at night and thinner by day. His dad had laughed, but Houston knew what he knew. So this morning he took a slow, deep breath. If he was guessing, he’d say five o’clock. He opened his eyes. It was a quarter to five. He grinned and rolled out of bed, grabbing his jeans as he went. After a quick trip to the bathroom to wash the sleep from his eyes, he headed for the kitchen to make coffee, then hesitated just outside Rachel’s door. Afraid he would wake her if he looked in, he started to move on. Then he heard her cry out. Moments later he was

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at her bedside. Her features were contorted, as if she was in pain, and she’d been crying. Tears were drying on her face. The bedcovers had tangled around her waist, and there was a pillow lying across her right leg. He could only imagine what she’d been dreaming. “Rachel, baby, wake up,” he said softly. “You’re having a bad dream.” Rachel gasped as his voice yanked her out of the nightmare. In a panic, she kicked the pillow from her leg before tearing at the covers wrapped around her. “Easy, Cherokee. Let me help,” Houston said, and peeled her out of the tangles. As soon as her arms were free, she was on her knees and trying to crawl out of the bed. Houston caught her before she fell, then pulled her into his lap. “Honey, easy. It’s me, Houston.” Suddenly she went limp. “Houston? Is it really you?” He sighed. “Yes, baby, it’s really me.” She started to cry, soft, quiet tears that ripped through his heart like razors. “I was dreaming,” she sobbed. “It was just like before.” “What are you talking about?” Houston asked. “The explosion. When I came to, I thought I was in Texas. I kept wondering why you didn’t come and help me. In the worst times of my life, you were always there for me. But this time you didn’t come. I didn’t understand why.” Her words were killing him by degrees, and all he could do was hold her.

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She shuddered. “Then I remembered. You couldn’t help me because you didn’t know where I was.” Her tears were falling faster now, her hands clutching at his bare arms, then at the sides of his face. “I am so sorry,” she sobbed. “I must have been crazy to do what I did to you.” Houston’s mind was racing. This was what he’d been longing to hear, but did it come from her heart—or from fear? God knew how badly he wanted this to happen, but not like this. Never like this. It took everything he had not to lay her down on the bed and make love to her then. She would have let him. But where would they be when it was over? He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her where she sat, soothing her with his voice as much as his touch. “Rachel, listen to me.” She stilled. “We’re already past that day. What matters is now. Tomorrow. Even next month and next year. I don’t dwell on yesterdays, and neither should you.” She turned her face up to him then, and, just for a moment, Houston could have sworn she was looking into his soul. But it was a trick of the early-morning light, because the next moment she blinked and he felt himself staring into the void that had become her gaze. Then, with more grace than he would have believed her capable of, she got out of his lap and off the bed, smoothing her nightgown and hair as if she were about to receive visitors. “Rachel, are you okay?” She turned, and again he felt as though her gaze pierced his soul.

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“You don’t dwell on yesterdays?” she asked. “No.” “That’s too bad,” Rachel said. “Because I won’t give them up. You are part of my yesterdays, and they are all I can see.” Then she walked out of the bedroom, stretching one arm out before her and the other out to her side as a guide, leaving Houston alone in her bed. The phone rang as she was drying her face. When she came back, the scent of coffee was drifting through the house, but she knew he was not inside. It felt empty. Just like her heart. About half an hour later she heard him coming back to the house. She supposed he’d been feeding Taco and the horses. Rachel sighed. And what had she been doing while he was going about the business of living? Trying to plug in the toaster and make toast. And she would have done it, too, if Houston hadn’t moved the bread. She’d been looking for it for the better part of five minutes and had yet to put her hands on anything remotely resembling a loaf of bread. The door opened behind her. She spun. “Houston, where did you put the bread?” “There’s not any,” he said. She leaned against the cabinet, fighting an urge to scream. “You didn’t tell me,” she muttered. “I was going to take you out to breakfast this morning,” he said. She gritted her teeth. “You didn’t tell me that, either.” Houston felt her frustration, even where he was standing.

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“Look, Rachel, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it—” “Do me a favor,” she snapped. “Next time, think. Then I won’t have to poke through every damned thing in this kitchen trying to find something that isn’t here.” Houston stared. “Are you through?” he finally asked. “Yes.” “Fine,” he said. “And next time you want to tear a strip off my hide, do it for the real reason, not because you can’t find the goddamned bread.” Rachel gasped. “I don’t know what you—” “You’re mad because I didn’t throw you back down on that bed and make love to you this morning.” An angry flush deepened the color on Rachel’s cheeks. She reached behind her, so furious that her fingers were trembling as they curled around the coffee cup she’d been going to fill. “You bastard,” she muttered, and flung the cup in the general direction of his voice. It shattered, leaving them both a little stunned that their morning had come to this. Houston was the first to move. He knelt and began picking up the pieces. Rachel was still shaking as he dumped the pieces in the trash. “Rachel.” It was all she could do to answer. “What?” “I’m sorry. Not a damned bit of what I said was called for.” She lifted her chin, wanting him to put his arms around her, but settling for the apology instead. “I’m sorry, too.” He sighed. “Can we start this morning over?”

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She hesitated, and then almost smiled. “Only if we start with ‘I was going to take you out to breakfast.’ ” “Will you go?” Still uncomfortable with eating in public, Rachel hesitated. “Where to?” she finally asked. “I need to go to Midland.” “If you’ll take me to McDonald’s for sausage biscuits, it’s a deal.” “Okay,” he agreed. “But one of these days we’re going to a regular restaurant, and you’re going to sit down in a chair, order your food, and eat it when it comes, without worrying if someone is watching.” “But not today.” He sighed. “No, Cherokee, not today.” “Why are we going to Midland?” “It’s your checkup day, and I need to pick up something I ordered.” She wrinkled her nose at the mention of the doctor. “It won’t take me long to change.” “You look good to me just the way you are,” Houston said. Rachel’s smile was automatic. “That tells me nothing. Remember, you’re the man who always liked me best when I wore—” The smile died on her face. “I’ll be right back,” she said shortly. But Houston knew what she’d been unable to say, that he liked her best when she wore nothing at all. His jaw clenched as he strode across the floor and turned off the coffeemaker. Then he stood staring blindly out the window, trying to pinpoint the moment when everything had started to go wrong. “Houston? Are you here?”

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He turned. She was back and wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a lightweight pink cotton shirt. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and she was wearing her dark glasses. He sighed. “Yes, I’m here,” he said, and took her by the arm. “How long has it been since the incident occurred?” the doctor asked. Rachel frowned. “What date is this?” “The twenty-fourth of August.” “A little over six weeks, give or take a few days.” “Hmmm.” Rachel waited for a remark to follow, but none did. “Are you experiencing any pain, either from your ribs or from your head?” he finally asked. “My ribs are fine, just the tiniest bit tender, and I still have the occasional headache. Nothing major.” “I’m going to check your right eye now,” he said. “Try not to blink.” She did as he asked. “Now the other,” he said. Again she sat without moving, following his examination by the pressure of his fingers upon her eyes and cheeks. “Do you have any sight at all?” he finally asked. “No.” She didn’t see the frown appearing on his forehead. “No flashes of light? No shadows, nothing like that?” “No.” “Hmmm.” There was something in the tone of his voice that made her heart skip a beat. She reached out, clutching his wrist.

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“Doctor, is there something you’re not telling me?” To her surprise, his pulse jerked beneath her fingertips. Her voice started to shake. “Oh my God, there is, isn’t there?” He stared at her, trying to assimilate his examination of her with the medical records that had been sent to him from Bellevue. “I can’t really say,” he said. “However, I would have thought by now . . .” Rachel put her hands on her chest as if to steady her racing heart. “Please, Doctor, for God’s sake, don’t play games with me. Are you saying that I could still regain my sight?” “I’m not going to go that far,” he said. “But I will tell you that your pupils are reacting to light. Not much, but some. Enough for me to question the diagnosis of irreversible blindness.” Rachel pressed a hand to her mouth. Her pulse was pounding, and her mind was in a whirl. “Don’t tell,” she said suddenly. He frowned. “I don’t under—” “Don’t tell anyone else what you just told me.” “But—” “No. I don’t want any more pity if your opinion proves to be wrong.” “As you wish,” he said. “However, if you do begin to experience any of the symptoms I mentioned, I want you back in my office immediately. Do you understand?” “Yes. Oh my God, yes,” she whispered. Then she added, “Where are you—I mean, exactly?”

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He took her by the hands. “Right in front of you, Miss Austin.” Rachel threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely. “If what you say ever comes true, I will name my first child after you.” “Oh no, please don’t.” Suddenly embarrassed by her impulsive behavior, Rachel drew back. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” He laughed. “No, no, you didn’t insult me. Quite the contrary. But I’ve spent my whole life trying to live down my name. I have five children, and not a one of them has been named after me.” “Oh,” Rachel said, and then frowned. “By the way, what is your given name?” “Merlin.” “As in the magician?” “One and the same,” he drawled. “I think my mother had a thing for King Arthur.” “Why?” “Because I also have a brother named Lancelot and a sister named Guinevere.” “You’re kidding.” “I wish.” Rachel laughed aloud. “Okay, you talked me into it. No namesakes.” The doctor patted her shoulder. “I thank you—and trust me, someday so will your child. Now, be off with you,” he said. “I’d like to see you again in about a month. Make an appointment before you leave.” “Yes, sir.” Then the doctor paused. “About the man who brought you in . . .”

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“Houston? What about him?” “He seems very concerned about you.” Rachel’s heart twisted. “Oh, he is,” she said softly. “But I don’t want his concern. I just want him to love me again.” The doctor touched her shoulder again. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would quit on someone he loved.” Rachel’s lips twisted bitterly. “No, Houston’s the kind who stays the distance. I’m the one who quit.” “Surely he would be willing to forgive and forget.” This time she laughed, but it was a sharp, angry bark that burned all the way up her throat. “Probably, and if I could find a way to forgive myself, it just might work.” “God will help you, if you’ll just ask,” he said softly. Rachel sighed. “Am I through?” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, you’re through. Here, let me help you down.” A short while later Rachel and Houston were back in his old truck, weaving through the busy streets of Midland. After the quiet of Houston’s ranch, the sounds of passing traffic were like a language she’d forgotten how to speak. They drove in near silence, stopping for red lights, switching lanes now and then to get to some destination she had yet to learn. Finally the truck began slowing down. She sat up straighter. When he stopped, she cocked her head, listening for identifiable sounds. She heard none. “Where are we?” she asked. Houston looked out the windshield. “The Chevrolet dealership.”

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She frowned. “What are we doing here?” “Picking up my new pickup.” He watched a smile cross her face. “You’re kidding!” He grinned. Ever since the doctor’s office, she’d been so quiet. Almost too quiet. If he’d known he would get this kind of reaction, he might have told her sooner. “Nope,” he said. “It’s been on order for almost two months. And it’s about damned time, if you ask me.” “But how . . . the cost . . . I mean . . .” Guilt hit him again. That lie. It kept tangling and tangling. “Let’s just say that the company I work for pays me a hell of a lot better than Emery ever did.” “Oh, Houston, that’s wonderful,” she said. “What color did you pick out? What’s it like? Is it a—” He managed another smile. “It’s a shiny black extended-cab.” “Does it have air-conditioning?” “Honey, it’s got everything.” She fidgeted with excitement, wishing with everything she had that she could see it and him behind the wheel. “I’m so happy for you, Houston.” He sighed. Another shaft of guilt poked at his conscience. “Thanks, Cherokee.” “It will be heaven.” He grinned and reached for her hand. “Then come on, little angel, let’s go get your wings.” *

*

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“Still no answer,” Sullivan said, and hung up the phone. It was his third time trying to reach Houston Bookout that hour. He checked the number that Rachel Austin’s agent had given him, then tossed his pen on the desk and tilted back in his chair. “You’d think he’d at least have an answering machine,” he muttered. “Maybe it’s just not on,” Gianelli said. “Yeah, I’ll try a bit later,” Sullivan said. “You go on home if you want. I’m going to stick around here for a while. I won’t be able to sleep until I can talk to Rachel Austin about Beatty Andrews.” “You think they were friends?” Gianelli asked. Sullivan snorted beneath his breath. “According to what we know about that man, she probably didn’t realize he existed.” Gianelli nodded. “There sure are a lot of creeps in this world.” “Yeah,” Sullivan said, and then sat up abruptly and reached for the phone. “One more time.” Houston and Rachel were walking in the front door of the house when the phone started to ring. He gave her a quick glance, making sure she was okay. “Be right back,” he told her, and made a dash for the kitchen. “Bookout Ranch,” he said into the phone. “Houston Bookout?” “Yes.” “This is Detective Danny Sullivan. We met at Bellevue during my interview with Miss Austin.” Houston frowned. “Yes, I remember you.” “Is Miss Austin with you? We’ve been trying to reach her.”

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His heart skipped a beat. “Yes, she’s here. What’s up?” Sullivan hesitated. But considering Rachel Austin’s present condition, he suspected this man was in the know about everything that concerned her. “We have new information on the bombing,” he said. “I just needed to ask her a couple of quick questions.” “Hang on a minute,” Houston said. “I’ll go get her.” He made a dash to the living room. She wasn’t there. “Rachel, telephone,” he yelled. She stepped into the hall from her bedroom. “I was just changing.” Houston gritted his teeth, trying to ignore her bare midriff above her shorts and the fact she was carrying her T-shirt instead of wearing it. “It’s that detective in charge of the bombing,” he said. She paled, then yanked her shirt over her head and reached for him. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she’d put the T-shirt on wrong side out. Instead he grabbed her hand and quickly guided her across the hall to his bedroom. “You can take it on this extension,” he said. She sank down on his bed and lifted the receiver to her ear. “This is Rachel Austin.” Sullivan gave an inward sigh of relief. “Miss Austin, I’m glad I finally reached you. How have you been?”

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“Fine. Why have you called? Do you know anything new? Have you caught the person who—” He chuckled. “Hey, I thought I was the one who was supposed to ask the questions.” Rachel took a deep breath and made herself relax. “Sorry.” “That’s okay. I’d be just like you. But back to the reason I called. Do you know a man named Beatty Andrews?” “No.” “You’re sure?” Rachel let out a breath. “Look, Detective, granted I can’t see, but there’s nothing wrong with my mind.” “Point well taken,” Sullivan said. “Now, let me ask this another way. Do you remember the doorman at your apartment building?” Rachel frowned. “There were several. Three, I think, maybe four. Which one do you mean?” This was just as Sullivan had suspected. Whatever fixation Beatty Andrews had had on Rachel Austin had certainly been one-sided. “At any time did any of them ever give you gifts or speak to you in an unseemly fashion?” “No, never,” she said. And then she frowned. “At least, I don’t think so.” “What do you mean?” “Well, after I became so . . . uh . . .” “Famous?” She almost smiled. “Yes, that. After it happened, I used to receive all kinds of stuff. In fact, that’s why I thought nothing of receiving that package. The one that blew up.”

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“I see. But didn’t your gifts ever have cards?” “Oh yes, always . . . at least, nearly always. I think there was a time or two when I found flowers outside my door. They didn’t have any cards, but I didn’t think much of it.” Sullivan was making notes, trying to keep up with what she was telling him. “So it’s possible that you were receiving gifts from Beatty Andrews without ever knowing it.” “I suppose, but even if he’d signed his name, I doubt I would have recognized it.” Then she took a deep breath, needing to ask, at least for her own peace of mind. “Which one?” “I’m sorry?” Sullivan asked. “Which one was he? I need to see him in my mind.” “Oh. Well, according to the picture we got from his apartment, he’s short and pushing forty. Kind of skinny, and has a real high forehead and thinning hair.” Rachel flinched as the man’s face surfaced. “But he used to smile at me,” she whispered. “Did you ever smile back?” Sullivan asked. “Why, yes, of course,” she said. “But I was only being friendly.” “For Beatty, that was enough.” “To try to kill me?” she asked. “We don’t know everything yet. When we find him, we’ll ask.” Rachel stiffened. “You mean you don’t know where he is?” “Not yet, but we’ll pick him up. Don’t worry. He

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has no idea we’re on to him. He’s bound to show up at his apartment soon.” “You’ll let me know when you do?” “You can count on it,” he said. “Will you still be available at this number?” “Yes,” Rachel said. Where else could she go? “Fine, then. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up. Houston took the phone out of Rachel’s hand and put it back. “Rachel?” “They think they know who tried to kill me.” Houston slid onto the bed beside her. “Who, baby? Did you know him?” She shook her head. “They think it was the doorman at my apartment building, but I didn’t even know his name.” “Why did he do it?” She started to shake. “They don’t know. They said they’d ask him when they found him.” “Are you saying he’s gone?” She nodded. “Do they know where?” “No.” “Damn.” “They said they’d call when they picked him up.” She was shaking so hard now that her teeth were chattering. She reached for him. “Houston?” “I’m right here.” “Would you just hold me?” “Hell,” he groaned, and put his arms around her and then rolled until they were both stretched out on his bed. But Rachel couldn’t quit shaking.

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Beatty Andrews. A man named Beatty Andrews had wanted her dead. She closed her eyes, but the image of his face wouldn’t go away. He had tried to kill her once. What if he tried it again?

� eighteen �

Rachel fell asleep in Houston’s arms, while Houston fell in love all over again. Except for her physical appearance, the woman he’d known and loved before was gone. She’d died in the explosion that had robbed her of her sight. The one he was holding had been forged in a fire of pain and despair. She was stronger than before, yet in a strange way also gentler. He lay without moving, staring intently at the separate features of her face. Black winged brows. Eyelashes that lay thick and motionless on her cheeks, and only a few hairline scars on her coffee-toned skin. Her lips were full and sharply defined, and never in his life had he wanted to taste them as badly as he did now. When her eyebrows suddenly knit, he knew she was dreaming—maybe of the explosion. “Don’t go there. Come back to me, Rachel,” he whispered, and had the satisfaction of seeing her relax. He shifted slowly, easing his arm out from beneath her neck, then pulled the bedspread over her legs.

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She sighed and rolled, instinctively following his warmth. When she whispered his name, he frowned. This was all such a farce. What in hell was wrong with him? When she left him, he’d come close to giving up. And now that he had her back, he kept delaying the obvious. It was all a bunch of bull. He loved her. He would always love her. And if he was honest with himself, he would take that love in any form she chose to give it. He rose on one elbow to stare down at her face, then brushed a strand of hair from the side of her cheek. She stirred. He waited. Aching. Wanting. Ready, this time, to accept whatever she had to give. Rachel shifted restlessly. Only moments ago she’d been caught in a terrible memory. Talking to Esther, laughing at something she said. The doorbell ringing. Carrying a gaily wrapped package back into the kitchen. Watching it going over the edge. She’d been waiting for the inevitable conclusion, that horrible moment when her world descended into darkness. But something spared her. Breath moved across her face, warm and sweet. It was the scent of a man—her man. Only he wasn’t her man anymore, she reminded herself. “Cherokee.” The longing in his voice was familiar. She’d heard it so many times before. She let herself slide back to consciousness. Her voice was soft, still heavy with sleep. “Houston?” His fingers splayed across the flat of her belly. She tensed. Oh God, please don’t let this be part of my dream.

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“Yes, baby, it’s me.” He leaned closer, grazing the tender curve of her neck with his lips. Rachel sighed, and it was an exhale of so many pent-up memories, she thought she might cry from the joy. “Am I dreaming?” she whispered, and slid her arms around his neck. “God, I hope not, and if you are, do me a favor and don’t wake up . . . at least not just yet.” “Are you going to make love to me?” There was so much uncertainty in her voice and in her touch that it shamed him. By keeping her at arm’s length, this was what he’d done to them both. It was all he could do to answer. “If you’ll let me.” Rachel began tugging at the snaps on his shirt, taking quiet satisfaction in the distinct pops they made as they came undone. When her hands slid across the breadth of his bare chest, he groaned. She smiled. There were some things that even time couldn’t change. Houston slid his hand beneath her T-shirt. “I’m so afraid I’ll hurt you.” Then Rachel’s whisper stilled his heart. “Houston.” His hand was trembling. Her skin was soft, so soft, and he could feel the race of her pulse against his palm. He groaned. “What, baby?” “Help me take off my clothes.” Outside, the sun beat down on the dry west Texas earth with persistence, fighting the wind for its place. The distant thump of the pump jacks was the only

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sound to break the silence. The gathering clouds on the far horizon held but a promise of what the land needed most. But inside the small, weathered house, promises were a thing of the past. Rachel Austin had come home. Despite the steady flow of cool air from the window unit by Houston’s bed, their bodies were slicked with sweat. Blind to everything but the feel of Houston’s hands on her skin and his mouth on her face, Rachel found herself a slave to the sensations. With nothing to distract her, she hung in the darkness, following the ebb and flow of her blood as Houston drove himself in and out of her body. It had been so long. And then everything changed. What had been pleasure suddenly became a deep, sweet pain, pushing at the boundaries of sanity and begging for relief. She moaned, and Houston heard it. Shirting into that hard, driving frenzy from which there was no turning back, he dug his fingers into her hair, dropped his head, and focused on the hot, wet draw of muscles against his manhood. Her nails dug into the skin on his back. He didn’t feel it. When she wrapped her legs around his waist, he moved deeper. Her breath was little more than catches and gasps against the side of his cheek. He heard her cry out, then heard her beg, then everything inside him gave way. The climax came as suddenly as the explosion that had ended her sight. But for Rachel, it was the first time since the day she’d left him that a light had come back to her world. The misery and guilt that she’d carried from Texas to New York was gone, leav-

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ing her weak and spent, but happier than she’d ever been in her life. She kept raining kisses upon Houston’s face and whispering soft things that only a woman in love would say. And all the while she kept thinking that losing her sight was a small price to pay to get this man back. When Houston could think and breathe at the same time, he rolled, taking her with him so that she was now lying on top. His hands were shaking and his heart was threatening to shatter itself against the wall of his chest. He thought she was crying, or maybe she was laughing. He knew just how she felt. “Are you all right?” he finally managed to ask. A soft moan drifted from between them. “I don’t know yet,” she whispered. “I haven’t tried to stand.” “Hell, darlin’, who said anything about getting up?” Rachel laughed, and the sound carried through the house, finding its way straight into Houston’s heart. She rolled over on her back, threw her arms above her head, and stretched like a cat waking up from a sleep. Houston grinned. He knew that expression on her face. He’d put it there many times before. He rolled until he was facing her, then propped himself up on one elbow so that he could look down at her face. He took her hand. She turned instinctively, laying her cheek against his palm. “Oh, Houston,” she said softly. “I know, baby, I know.” She sighed and shifted close to him again. When he enfolded her in his arms, she said a small silent prayer of thanksgiving.

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“Rachel?” “Hmmm?” “Welcome home.” It was half past six in the evening when Kenny Monday called. Rachel answered, knowing that Houston was still out feeding his horses. When she heard Kenny’s voice, she smiled. He was such a clown. It was no wonder he and Houston had become such good friends. “Hello, beautiful,” Kenny said. “Where’s your ugly friend?” Rachel chuckled. “Feeding the horses, I think.” “Think I have enough time to come out and sweep you off your feet before he gets back?” “I doubt it.” “I was afraid you were going to say that,” he said. “Should I get him for you?” “No need to do that, but as soon as he comes in, have him call me. We’ve got ourselves a little emergency.” “Oh no,” Rachel said. “Don’t worry,” Kenny hastened to add. “It’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before.” She thought of the company Houston claimed to be working for. Only he hadn’t been to work one day since they’d been back. She couldn’t help but wonder how much jeopardy his job might be in. She thought of his new truck and the costly payments owning it must entail. She couldn’t bear to think that he might lose this job because of her. “Kenny, can I ask you something?” she asked. “Sure, sweetheart.”

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“About Houston’s job . . .” Kenny gritted his teeth. Damn that Houston for weaving such an unbelievable lie. “Yes,” he said. “What about it?” “Well, he was gone all that time while I was in the hospital.” “I know,” Kenny said. “We talked almost every day he was in New York City. Did you know that?” “No, I didn’t,” she said. “But I also didn’t bother to ask what sacrifices he had to make just to get there.” “I’m sure they were all worth it to him,” Kenny said. “Yes, well, I don’t know what I would have done without him,” she said. “But what about now? We’ve been back quite a while and he still hasn’t gone to work. Is he going to lose his job over this?” Kenny grinned to himself, taking delight in the fact that he wasn’t actually lying. “Lord, no, Rachel. He and the boss get along famously. In fact, they’re so much alike, you can hardly tell one from the other.” “Well, then, I guess that’s all right,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of causing him more grief.” Kenny’s smile stilled. He sighed. If ever he had a woman to love him like this, he would die a happy man. “We bring grief to ourselves, Rachel.” Rachel leaned against the wall, absorbing the unexpected wisdom from such a lighthearted man. “Yes, so we do,” she finally said. And then she heard footsteps on the back porch and the sound of Houston’s voice as he spoke to his dog. “Houston’s coming inside now. Hang on. I’ll get him.”

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Kenny waited, listening as she called out Houston’s name. He heard a door open, then the murmur of voices. “What’s up?” Houston asked. “Rachel said there was an emergency?” “Yeah. It’s Bookout number five. Looks like we had a little vandalism last night.” “Damn,” Houston muttered. “This is the second time that’s happened.” “I know. I’ve already called the sheriff, although I doubt there’s anything he’s going to find. Personally, I think it’s some kids trying to steal a little drip.” Houston frowned. “Five is a gas well, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Kenny said. All his life Houston had heard his dad talk about the old days when teenagers hard up for gas money would sneak onto property with producing gas wells and steal the unrefined fuel they called drip to use in their cars. But in this day and age it was a little unusual. He glanced at Rachel, debating with himself of the wisdom of taking her with him. If she went, he would have to confess everything now, and on the heels of what had happened between them earlier, it seemed a bit crass—almost as if he’d been waiting for her to put out before he told her about his good fortune. He frowned, wishing he’d never started this stupid lie. “Look, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Houston said. “I’ll be waiting,” Kenny said. “Oh, and tell Rachel I said goodbye.” “Will do,” Houston said, and hung up. Then he looked at Rachel, trying to judge her state of mind. “Kenny says goodbye.”

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Rachel smiled. “I like your friend.” “Yes, so do I,” Houston said. “Look, Rachel, I need to—” She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “Houston, just go. You can’t stand over me for the rest of your life, and God knows I’m not going anywhere. I’ll find something to do.” He took her in his arms, hugging her closer. “Okay. But there’s something we need to discuss, something I haven’t told you.” Rachel frowned. Secrets? It wasn’t like Houston to keep secrets. And then she reminded herself she was keeping a secret herself, and not a small one. Not a minute had gone by since her trip to the doctor’s office that she hadn’t thought of what he’d said. Was there a chance? Had he been right? Could she ever regain her sight? “Take your time,” she said softly. “Your boss has been very understanding about letting you have time off. Obviously they need you, so of course you must go.” Houston kissed her quickly before he changed his mind, and a few minutes later he was on the highway heading west. He glanced at the sky. Thunderheads were still building. It would be wonderful if they finally got some rain. Then he checked his watch. He had at least a couple of hours before dark. That was plenty of time. By the time Houston got to the well, both Jack Bullard, the county sheriff, and a representative from the Environmental Protection Agency were waiting for him. Kenny left soon after to catch a plane, and

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Houston’s afternoon disappeared in a tangle of inquiries and concerns. By the time Bullard was through with his part of the investigation and Houston had satisfied the rep from the EPA, it was well after dark. He headed for home, his nerves on edge. Even though he told himself that Rachel had been taking care of herself for most of her life, he still felt uneasy. At least before, she’d been able to see what was coming. He glanced at his watch, as he had off and on since he started home. It was fifteen minutes after nine. The headlights of his new Chevy truck cut a bright path through the darkness. The hum of the tires on blacktop was almost hypnotic. Houston was so focused on the highway before him that he almost missed his turn. He slammed on his brakes, then made the turn south. Only a couple more miles and he would be home. He imagined the house, shining like a welcome beacon through the blanket of night. Rachel would be wearing something soft and loose after her nighttime bath. She would smell of soap and powder and her hair would be heavy on the backs of his arms as he pulled her close. That image was fast in his mind as he came over the last rise in the road leading to his driveway. Automatically his gaze moved to the right, and he frowned. As far as he could see, the pale yellow glow from the security light out back was the only light visible. His mind blanked out as his heart skipped a beat. When he pulled up in front of the house, Taco was nowhere in sight. He killed the engine and got out of the truck. By the time he reached the porch steps, he was running.

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“Rachel! Rachel! Where are you?” Houston could just see the outline of her figure as she came out of the kitchen with a dishtowel in her hands. “I’m here. What’s wrong?” His heart was hammering so fast that it took him a moment to catch his breath. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Dishes. I opened a can of soup and made a grilled cheese sandwich. Want one?” The adrenaline was receding, leaving Houston weak and shaky. “Jesus, Rachel. In the dark?” And then it hit him. This darkness—this black, empty void—was her constant. “Son of a bitch.” Rachel felt his shock and, in a way, also his pain. “Houston, it’s okay.” “Like hell.” Rachel started toward him. Right now the only thing that she could do for him was hold him. But he couldn’t quit shaking. The reality of her life had just been driven home in a way he never would have imagined. He watched as she came toward him, and as hard as he tried, he could not separate her features from the blackness surrounding her. All he could think was, So this is what she sees. Rachel knew something was wrong. He was too quiet. Too still. “Houston, talk to me.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and found himself swallowing back tears. Rachel paused, uncertain which way to turn. “Houston, please. If you don’t talk, I can’t find you.”

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He went to her instead, pulling her into his arms and holding her close against his chest. He was trembling; she could feel it. She laid her head against his heartbeat and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I love you, Houston, so much. I always have. . . .” He took a deep breath and lifted his head, but the words he knew she was waiting for wouldn’t come. Rachel took a step back and reached toward his face. He flinched but stayed where he stood, and when her fingers felt the first of his tears, she heard a catch in his breath. “Oh, Houston.” His words came slowly, muffled by the intensity of his emotions. “God, Rachel. I don’t think I really understood until now.” “It’s okay,” she said again, softly. And then she pulled his head down, brushing her lips against his mouth and tasting the tears on his face. “Houston, sweetheart . . . don’t you know I can bear anything as long as you’re in this world with me?” Then she took him by the hand. “Where are we going?” he asked. “To bed. The only cure for this kind of pain is more love.” Long after the storm of their lovemaking was over, two different sorts of storm were still brewing. One was full of distant thunder and the occasional flash of lightning, while the other was far away in New York City, swirling around Detective Danny Sullivan. An autopsy on the body in the trunk had revealed

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what they’d already suspected. It was Margaret Andrews. A warrant was out for Beatty’s arrest. They’d mounted a twenty-four-hour stakeout at his apartment, but Andrews was a no-show. Sullivan was starting to worry. Early this morning they’d begun checking to see if Beatty Andrews had left town. So far they’d turned up nothing. His cell phone rang. He downed the last of a cold cup of coffee and then set it on the dash of his car as he reached to answer. “Sullivan.” Gianelli shifted his phone to his other ear as he dug a piece of paper from his pocket. “It’s me,” he said. “I’ve got news.” “Am I going to like it?” Gianelli grimaced. “I didn’t.” “Shit,” Sullivan mumbled. “So talk.” “Day before yesterday, a man answering Beatty Andrews’s description bought a bus ticket to Texas.” Sullivan’s gut drew. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. “My sentiments exactly.” Sullivan combed his hand through his hair and then reached toward the dash for a roll of antacids. “What time is it in Texas?” “Now?” Gianelli asked. “Yes, now. You think the nut who tried to kill her is going to wait until daylight to announce himself?” “It’s almost six A.M. here. I think they’re an hour earlier.” “This is going to be a hell of a way to wake up,” Sullivan muttered. Gianelli frowned. “You really think Andrews went after her?”

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“Remember that room? Why the hell do you think he went to Texas?” Sullivan growled. “He got hungry for barbecue?” “Yeah, you’re right. You got the number?” “Somewhere,” Sullivan said, flipping through his notebook. “Yeah, it’s here. Look, after I call Rachel Austin, I’m calling the captain, then heading for home. This calls for a change of strategy.” “Yeah,” Gianelli said. “Talk to you later.” The line went dead in Sullivan’s ear. He tilted his notebook toward the streetlight, then punched in the number. He had no way of knowing that the storms that had been brewing over west Texas had finally erupted, or that the phones and the power had gone out over an hour ago in Mirage and would be out for the rest of the day. All he knew was that when the busy signal sounded in his ear, he felt sick to his stomach. He took a deep breath and began dialing, repeating the procedure over and over until he finally gave up in disgust and called the local police instead. To his dismay, the same thing occurred. After calling a long-distance operator for assistance and learning that an entire area of west Texas was blacked out and incommunicado, he’d run out of options. There had to be another way to get in touch with the police there. Also, if the power was out, the authorities might not have received the all-points bulletin on Beatty Andrews. He reached for the phone again, only this time to call his captain. It was early. He hoped the man was at least out of bed. Beatty Andrews felt weightless in the vast space of west Texas. He’d gotten off the bus in Odessa, realiz-

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ing as he rechecked his map that he should have stayed on for another two stops. It was midnight, and the rain that was falling was coming down in cold sheets. He pulled his jacket a little closer around his neck and huddled beneath the roof of the bus stop, then took a deep breath, marveling at the smell of fresh, clean air. Even in the dark, this place was like another world. He was almost forty years old, and he’d never been west of the Hudson River until now. He needed to rent a car, and hoped he still remembered how to drive. Although he kept his driver’s license updated, it had been years since he’d been behind the wheel of a car. A strong gust of wind blew rain against his face. He squinted, then shuddered, trying to decide what to do next. “Hey, mister.” Beatty turned. A tall black man wearing a uniform was standing in the doorway. “You talking to me?” Beatty asked. “You see any other fool standing out in the rain?” the man drawled. Beatty flushed. “You need a cab?” Beatty thought. “I suppose that I do.” “I’ll call one for you,” the man said, and disappeared back inside. Beatty leaned back against the building, feeling a bit better about things after all. He had a plan. He would get a room for the rest of the night. In the morning he would rent a car, then find Rachel Austin. It didn’t occur to him that he still had to find Mirage, then the Bookout Ranch, before he could find

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Rachel. His mind was small, accepting only so many problems at a time. A few minutes later a yellow and black car turned a corner and headed his way. He glanced inside the bus station. The black man was staring at him. He waved his thanks, and then made a run for the cab. “Where to?” the cab driver asked. “A motel. I’m not picky. I just need a place to wait out the rain.” The driver took off. Beatty leaned back in the cab and, not for the first time, wished he’d thought to pack a bag. A change of clothes would be nice. Then he shook off the thought. First things first, and comfort was low on his list of priorities. A short while later, fresh from a shower, he crawled between the sheets. As he closed his eyes, he prayed that his sleep would be dreamless. He was so tired of the ghosts.

� nineteen �

Houston had been up for hours, and by the time the brunt of the storm had blown over, he was outside, checking the house and outbuildings for damage. Rachel had gone as far as the front porch steps. She knew that Houston felt easier in his mind when she was somewhere within the range of his voice, and she was tired of being cooped up in the house. Sitting on the steps and absorbing rays of intermittent sunshine was refreshing. Even though the storm had passed, the moisture-laden wind had dampened her hair and her clothes. Taco was lying in the grass near her feet. Every now and then he would get up and touch his nose to her leg, wait for her hand upon his head, and then flop back down with a soft grunt. Rachel didn’t know what it was all about, but she accepted his behavior as concern. Her damp hair felt heavy on her neck. She thought about going into the house for a band to tie it up, but that would mean moving, and she wasn’t ready to budge. Between the storm and making love with Houston, her rest last night had been brief.

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She propped her elbows on her knees and lowered her head, lightly massaging her scalp as she waited for Houston to come back. It was while she was looking down that she saw the flash of light. It disappeared so swiftly that she paid it no mind. She’d had them before: images from her memory that seemed so terribly real. She likened them to a ghost pain, the kind an amputee gets even after his limb is gone. She sighed and lifted her head. The wind was changing. The old house had quaked beneath the force of last night’s wind. As badly as they needed rain, she hated to think of weathering another storm inside the old walls. And then she reminded herself that it had withstood much in its lifetime, and should certainly withstand some more. The wind was getting stronger, whipping her hair into her face. Besides the tangles she would have to deal with, she could only imagine what it must look like. With mental effort, she made herself get up. There was no use putting it off any longer. She needed to braid it, or at least put it up. Taco whined. “Be right back, boy.” As she turned, something moved at the corner of her vision, but this time she paused. Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered the doctor’s prediction. Was this her imagination, too? She covered her eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, then dropped her hands and took another step. It was still there, a light emerging from a sea of darkness. Her focus was so intense that her eyes began to burn. “Rachel. Are you all right?”

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She jumped. “Houston! I didn’t hear you walk up.” He slid a hand up the back of her neck, feeling the weight of her hair. “Baby, your hair is wet, and so are your clothes.” She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout. She wanted to throw her arms around Houston’s neck. She wanted his face to be the first thing she saw. Instead she said nothing for fear it was all a trick of her mind. “I know. I was just going to put it up.” “Need some help?” “No.” She started inside, and then stopped and turned. Again a faint blur of shadows caught her attention; it was like looking through a microscope and watching an amoeba in a constant state of fission. “What’s wrong?” Houston asked. “Uh . . . the storm. I didn’t ask. Is everything all right?” Houston frowned. “There are some loose shingles on the roof and a piece of tin blew off the barn, but other than that, we’re okay. You get some dry clothes on, okay?” She nodded and went inside. But her heart was pounding as she made her way to her room. Long after she had changed her clothes and put up her hair, she sat in a chair by the window, staring into her mind, waiting for a light to come on. Beatty drove down the main street of Mirage with a smile on his face. A map of Texas was unfolded on the seat beside him, and the handwritten instructions to Houston Bookout’s ranch lay on top of that. He

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stopped at a red light, staring curiously at the people he saw on the streets. Never in his life had he seen land so vast and empty, or a town as small as Mirage. Even the mode of dress was different. Except for a man he saw going into a bank, he had yet to see someone in ordinary dress slacks. Of course, he hadn’t really “done” Mirage, only stopped at a convenience store to ask for directions and refuel his car. Once he’d completed his mission, he had no intention of stopping to refuel. He would be headed for the nearest station to catch a bus back home. He’d already made arrangements with the rental car agency that he would call and tell them where to pick it up. Beyond that, he couldn’t think. The light turned green. He accelerated carefully through the intersection, taking care not to draw attention to himself. All of those soldier-of-fortune magazines he’d read were paying off. He was covering his tracks in the best way he knew how. His pulse kicked as he thought of the possible dangers that lay ahead. Yes, he knew where to find the Bookout Ranch, but he didn’t know how many people he would encounter there. He shifted nervously in the seat and took a quick look at the note on the seat beside him. He needed to turn left at the second stop sign past the light. When a police car suddenly pulled out of the alley and proceeded to drive down the street ahead of him, his heart skipped a beat. County sheriff. No big deal, he told himself. There’s no way they can know. There’s no way anyone can know. Then he reminded himself of his ace in the hole: the gun he’d bought early this morning. It had cost him

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plenty to buy it without registering. But from the looks of the man behind the counter of the Odessa Pawn Shop, it wasn’t the first time he’d broken the law. When Beatty had held it in his hands, cradling the blue steel and fingering the empty cylinder of the revolver, he’d been shaken by the power he felt. No more long-distance paybacks for him. He would be face-to-face with Rachel Austin when he finished his mission. He was so consumed by his desire for revenge that he paid no attention to the gathering storm clouds or the darkening sky. And even if he’d noticed, he would have thought nothing more than that rain was imminent. With one more glance at the directions beside him, he headed out of town. Houston pulled his new pickup into the barn just as Kenny Monday parked in front of his house. He’d seen him coming down the driveway but wanted to get the vehicle beneath some kind of shelter before this next storm hit. There was a faint cast of green to the darkening sky that he knew could be a forerunner of hail. He waved to Kenny, who motioned that he was going in the house with Rachel. His friend was smitten by his woman and made no apologies for the fact. Houston grinned as he headed for the house. Poor Kenny. One of these days he was going to fall for a woman and fall hard, and when it happened, Houston hoped he was around to witness it. Then the wind shifted. Houston paused and frowned as he looked up into the gathering clouds. A banging noise suddenly sounded back toward the

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barn. He turned to look. Another piece of tin had come loose. If he didn’t nail it down, this next wave of storms would take it off, too. He headed toward the house, lengthening his stride with each step until he was almost running. Rachel felt antsy, as if there was something important that she’d forgotten to do. When Kenny called out from the door, she was actually glad to hear his voice. “Kenny, come in.” “I’m already in,” he said. “Houston’s in the barn.” “Yeah, I saw him,” he told her. “He’s on his way up.” Rachel hugged herself as the wind whistled around the eaves of the little house. “I think we’re in for another storm. Is the sky very dark?” “Like the inside of a witch’s heart,” Kenny muttered. “On another note, did you know your phone is out?” Rachel nodded. “It’s been out since before daybreak.” “I reported the outage for you,” Kenny said. “Good,” Rachel said. “Although I doubt that they’ll be able to work on anything until the storms have all passed.” Houston’s footsteps sounded on the porch. Kenny turned. “Good, here’s Houston,” he said. “As soon as I deliver my messages, I’m out of here.” “You mean you don’t want to weather this measly little blow with us?” Houston teased as he came inside.

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Kenny grinned. “I don’t want to weather any blow, measly or otherwise, and you know it. I still have nightmares about nearly freezing to death last Christmas Eve.” Then he turned toward Rachel. “Did he tell you that’s how we met?” Rachel shook her head. “No.” Kenny grimaced. “I’ll have to tell you about it, but on a cloudless day. Needless to say, I no longer trust Texas weather.” “So what brings you out?” Houston asked. Kenny glanced at Rachel and raised his eyebrows. “Just some work issues. Got a minute?” Houston nodded. “We can talk on the way back to the barn. Some of the tin has come loose. If I don’t nail it down before the storm hits, it’ll wind up in Dallas in some woman’s fancy backyard.” Rachel tensed. “Is it going to be bad again?” Houston caressed her cheek. “It’s going to blow, that’s for sure. But don’t worry, baby. I’ll be right here beside you. If we have to, we’ll head for the cellar.” Rachel began to relax. “I’d forgotten about that,” she said. “What cellar?” Kenny asked. “I didn’t know there was one on the place.” “It’s below the kitchen,” Houston said. “Actually, the door is underneath the kitchen table.” Rachel shuddered. “Are there spiders, do you think?” Houston hugged her quickly. “No, baby. No spiders. I keep it sprayed and swept. And there’s a flashlight on the shelf to the right that—” He hesitated, but it was too late to take back what he’d already said. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

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Rachel reached for his face, feeling the frown lines across his forehead as well as a muscle jerking in his jaw. “Houston, stop it,” she muttered. “Just because you still exist in a world with light doesn’t mean you have to apologize. Okay?” He sighed. ‘‘Okay.” A quick gust of wind popped the screens in the windows. Houston glanced out. ‘‘I’d better hurry if I’m going to get that tin nailed down. Kenny, you better talk fast or plan on staying here until it’s over.” ‘‘I’ll talk fast,” he said. ‘‘Take off, I’m right behind you.” When Houston went to get his tools, Kenny took Rachel by the hand. ‘‘As always, pretty lady, it’s been a pleasure. Stay low and away from windows.” Rachel smiled. ‘‘I will. Come back when you can stay longer.” ‘‘It’s a deal,” Kenny said, and then bolted out the door, hurrying to catch up with Houston. ‘‘So what’s up?” Houston asked. ‘‘They caught the thief who’s been stealing drip. It wasn’t kids after all, but a man named Orin Thompson.” Houston frowned. ‘‘I know Orin. He’s got a wife and six kids and stays down on his luck.” Kenny nodded. ‘‘That sounds like the man. Anyway, Sheriff Bullard is waiting for you to press charges. As soon as your phone’s working, give him a call.” Houston hesitated. ‘‘Did he say why he did it?”

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Kenny frowned. ‘‘Does it matter?” ‘‘It does to me.” Kenny sighed. ‘‘He said he needed gas to get to work.” ‘‘Where does he work?” ‘‘Unpacking groceries after hours at some supermarket chain in Midland.” Houston’s frown deepened. If he pressed charges, the man would go to jail. Then the wife and six kids would wind up on welfare, worse off than they were now. ‘‘Tell Bullard I said to let him go.” Kenny’s mouth dropped. ‘‘Do what?” ‘‘Then I want you to offer Orin Thompson a job working for me at Cherokee Oil. You told me that Wilson Baker was moving. We’ll be needing a new pumper. If Orin doesn’t know how, get somebody to teach him.” Kenny shook his head. ‘‘Do you think that’s smart business? If word gets around that you give jobs to people who steal from you, we could have a run on the whole field.” But Houston remained firm. ‘‘I don’t know if it’s smart, but I know I’ll sleep better if you do what I say.” Kenny sighed. ‘‘Consider it done. And for what it’s worth, Houston Bookout, you’re a hell of a man.” ‘‘No,” Houston said. ‘‘It’s just that I’ve been where Orin is now.” Surprise etched itself across Kenny’s face. ‘‘You mean you got caught stealing?” ‘‘No, but I’ve been hard up and hurting, too. And I didn’t have a wife and six kids counting on me for their next meal.”

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A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the prairie. Kenny glanced at the sky. ‘‘I’m out of here,” he said quickly. ‘‘I’ll use my cell phone to call Bullard after I’m in the car.” ‘‘And I’d better get that tin nailed down before the wind gets any stronger. Talk to you later.” The two men parted company. Kenny drove away as Houston reached the barn. A few minutes later there was nothing to be heard but the constant blast of wind and the intermittent thud of a hammer on tin. Beatty drove nervously, staying so far to the right side of the paved county road that his wheels were on the verge of dropping off onto the shoulder. Even though he knew he was heading in the right direction, he hated the lack of landmarks. There were no storefronts to guide him, no grocers on the corner where he could ask further directions, only the periodic clumps of thin, scraggly trees and an occasional gathering of cattle. There had been that sign at a crossroads a mile or so back: County 104. He frowned. What kind of address was that? County 104? Out here everything looked alike. If that sign someday disappeared, would everyone who lived here get lost? Could they ever find their way back home? He sighed. Home. He couldn’t wait to get there. He glanced at the directions one last time, watching for a mailbox with the name Bookout on the side. That would be where he turned. A small surge of adrenaline made him fidgety. Then he reminded himself there would be plenty of action, and soon.

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As he topped a small rise, a hard gust of wind hit the side of his car, causing him to swerve. He quickly steered back onto his side of the road, but it had been enough to give him pause. He glanced up at the darkening sky, then shrugged. So what if it rained? You didn’t need sunshine to die. For that matter, you didn’t even need daylight. But Beatty did. Without daylight, he would be lost out here. He pushed on the accelerator, suddenly anxious to get this all over. A short while later he saw a black mailbox and slowed. Sure enough, the name Bookout was there on the side. Although he was the only person for miles in either direction, he clicked on his turn signal and then drove down the drive. About a quarter of a mile later he saw a small cluster of buildings in the distance. He slowed down. A couple of hundred yards after that he stopped and took another of his purchases from the pawn shop out of the glove box: a pair of binoculars. He got out, adjusted the sights to his vision, and then stood in front of his car, watching. Five minutes passed before he saw any sign of movement. And when he did, his heart skipped a beat. It was Rachel, coming out of the house and standing on the porch. A dog stood at her side. A few moments later Beatty saw a man emerging from a large metal building a distance away from the house. He adjusted the binoculars again. It looked like the man in the picture—the man who’d taken Rachel away. He could see the man’s mouth moving. He must be shouting something to Rachel. Beatty scanned back to her. She was going back into the house.

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Beatty smiled in satisfaction and got back into his car. Houston was at the old windmill, opening the drain to the concrete stock tank. More than two inches of water was already in there from the earlier storm, with more to come. And since the old tank was no longer in use, leaving water to stagnate did nothing but provide a breeding ground for mosquitoes. He heard the sound of an approaching car as he was straightening up. His first thought was that Kenny had decided to come back after all. But then he saw it was a stranger, and frowned. Probably someone just needing directions. He walked out from behind the tank, intending to go to the house, but to his surprise, the car kept coming toward him. He waited. In his peripheral vision, he saw Rachel step out on the porch. His focus shifted to her momentarily as he watched her lift her face again to the wind. He glanced up at the sky and then frowned at the lowering cloud wall. When he looked back, the driver was out of the car and walking toward him. It took a few seconds to register the gun in his hand. By the time he did, it was too late. Beatty Andrews’s aim wasn’t good, but at this distance, it didn’t matter. The gun bucked in his hand. He watched with satisfaction as the bullet tore through the big man’s shoulder and knocked him backward into what looked like a very small aboveground pool. The wind was so strong now that it was difficult to stand upright. Beatty glanced back at the house. He

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could see Rachel’s mouth open in a scream, but the wind was blowing her words the other way. There was a tightness in his chest, as if he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs, but he told himself it would be all right as soon as he got out of the storm. He hurried to the edge of the concrete wall and stared down at the man inside. He was lying on his side with one arm outflung and the other crumpled up beneath him. “She belonged to me,” Beatty said, and aimed the gun straight at Houston’s heart. A gray streak came seemingly out of nowhere, hurtling through the air and piercing Beatty’s arm. He screamed in both shock and pain, trying to shake off the dog he’d seen earlier. But the dog’s teeth were firmly embedded in Beatty’s flesh. In a panic, he began beating the gun against the dog’s head and ears, screaming and running backward, trying to shake him off. Still the dog held on. Then something clicked inside Beatty’s mind. He was the one with the gun. That meant he was the one in control. Still screaming obscenities at both God and the dog, Beatty pointed the gun and fired. The dog dropped like a sack of potatoes. Suddenly Beatty was free. He was shaking so hard, he wasn’t sure he could stand, and the pain in his arm was intense. He stared down at the dog for a couple of seconds, then remembered why he’d come. He turned, the gun still dangling from his hand. Rachel was nowhere in sight. But he knew where she was. In this godforsaken place, there was nowhere to hide but the house. He started walking, with the wind pushing at

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his back. By the time he got to the house, he was running. Rachel heard the car, and, like Houston, her first thought was that Kenny had come back and that the storm was getting worse after all. She hurried back through the house, making her way to the front porch to listen. Almost immediately she realized it wasn’t Kenny. This car’s engine ran rougher, and she could hear the squeal of brakes as the driver began slowing down. The wind was stronger now, and there was a pressure to the air that she just didn’t like. She shuddered. In that same moment, shadows began moving before her eyes again, and she held her breath, waiting to see if anything emerged. At first nothing made sense. All she could see was something that looked like black sticks against a dark, muddy brown. But the longer she stared, the more certain she became that she should know what they were. As she waited, she heard the car go past. She frowned, trying to picture where it might go. And then it stopped. Too soon to have gone to the barn. It must have stopped at the well. She blinked, and as she did, she saw a darker image superimposed over the sticks. And then she gasped. The windmill. That was what she was seeing. It wasn’t her imagination. The image wasn’t clear, but she could see what looked like a car, and it had stopped at the windmill. There was movement. She couldn’t see clearly, but it looked as if someone got out. And then she heard one loud pop. She jerked as if she’d been slapped, and grabbed hold of the porch post in disbelief. That couldn’t be a

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gunshot! But when Taco began to growl and suddenly bolted to his feet, Rachel panicked. Something was wrong, she just knew it. She screamed Houston’s name, but the wind was so strong, it blew her words away. Moments later someone started to scream. The high, fear-filled shrieks sent panic racing through her mind. She wrapped her arms around the porch post, desperate for a stability she didn’t have. When the second gunshot came and then there was nothing but the howl of the wind in her ears, she bolted for the door. Running through the rooms with her arms outstretched, she could just make out the larger shapes of Houston’s furniture. Outside, the wind had evolved into a roar. Something shattered in a bedroom down the hall. Without checking, she knew that a window was gone. She remembered Kenny’s warning: Stay low and away from windows. But where could she hide? And what should she hide from? The stranger who’d come unannounced, or the storm that was upon her? And then she remembered. The cellar. She would go to the cellar. She stumbled into the kitchen just as a piece of the roof lifted off the house. Only then did she realize it had started to rain. The kitchen table was old and heavy, but she slid it aside, feeling for the thick metal ring that would allow her to lift the door. When her fingers closed around it, she pulled, struggling against the rain and the wind to gain dominance. It wasn’t until the door was up that she realized she could see the vague outline of steps, as well as the heavy metal chain attached to the underside of the door to pull it shut.

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“Help me, God,” she muttered, and started down the steps, grabbing the chain as she went. At the bottom of the steps she turned and looked back. Above her, the air was filled with flying objects—tools, leafy branches, and pieces of wood. A flash of something silver sailed overhead, and she gasped. Houston’s barn! It was coming undone. And dear God, the sound was like the roar of a loaded freight train, like the wail of a million banshees. It was a tornado. Death was upon them. She screamed out in rage, railing at God for giving her back her sight in time to see everyone die. Then she pulled at the chain, but the door wouldn’t close. She leaned backward, using all of her weight to pull harder, and still it wouldn’t budge. The wind was too strong, too demanding. When it began pulling at her clothes, tearing at her hair, trying to draw her back up the steps and into its maw, she screamed. Determined not to quit, she let go of the chain and crawled to the back wall. As she crouched on her knees, staring up at the chunk of oblong light, a face suddenly appeared in the doorway. She stood, blinking furiously. Someone was there and, by superhuman effort, holding on to the chain she’d let go. She screamed Houston’s name. And then she saw him, his features contorted by the force of the wind and by a rage she never would have believed. The high, balding forehead, the brown, wispy hair. The large, wide-set eyes and a mouth opened in a soundless scream. She knew his face. He’d stood at the doorway of her apartment building in a gold and black uniform and smiled at her as she passed. She shrank back against the wall as

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the rain hammered down around them, mesmerized by his fight with the storm. Their gazes connected. And in that moment Beatty Andrews knew she could see. A fury came over him unlike anything he had ever known. And even as the breath was being sucked out of his lungs by the force of the storm, he was determined to finish what he’d started. But to do that, he would have to loosen his hold on the chain. In the moment of accepting that it meant he would die, he knew he would take her with him. With his last angry breath, he let go, aiming the gun as the wind lifted him off his feet. He was in the air now, and only a second had passed, but he could still see her face, staring up at him in mute horror. He aimed and fired, emptying the gun toward her as a two-by-four cut him in half. Beatty Andrews was gone. God had done what man’s justice could not. But Rachel’s heart was in shreds. There was no justice in being given back her sight at the cost of her man. She lay facedown near the cellar wall, too overwhelmed to cry. It was only later that she realized the storm had passed. The rain was down to a mist, and the wind was almost nil. As she dragged herself to her feet and started up the steps, she began to shake. The silence was more frightening than the storm. Houston had come to just as the rain began to fall. He woke up flat on his back in the old concrete tank, a burning in his shoulder and a pain in his head. A couple of seconds passed as he tried to assimilate the pain he was in with what he could remember.

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And then it hit him. The man! The gun! Christ almighty, he’d been shot! Then his heart nearly stopped. Rachel! What had happened to Rachel? He tried to stand up and got as far as leaning over the edge of the tank. He saw Taco and groaned. Blood was washing out from a wound in his side, and there was a piece of fabric stuck in his teeth. Whatever had happened, Taco had gone down fighting. He looked toward the house. Part of the roof was gone. Panic grabbed him. He kept picturing Rachel, trying to run from a man she couldn’t see. But when he tried to crawl out, he was pushed back into the tank by the force of the wind. His heart sank as he dropped to his knees. “Please, God, don’t let her die.” Then the world above him exploded in a whirlwind of dirt and debris. Clutching the drainpipe with what was left of his strength, he rolled onto his belly and closed his eyes while the storm raged all around him. Once something dropped into the tank, landing on the back of his shoulders with a terrible blow, but before he could react to the injury, it whirled back up into the storm. Overhead, the sound of buckling metal made him quake. He clutched the pipe even tighter and flattened himself even more. Seconds later something crashed above him. The concrete shuddered. Houston felt it give as a great crack appeared in the middle, but to his relief, it held fast. He didn’t have to look to know that the windmill was down. Unable to believe that it would all end like this, he gritted his teeth and then called out God’s name.

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Within moments the great roar was gone, and there was nothing left but the sound of the rain. Tentatively he let go of the pipe, then rolled over and looked up. The sky was still weeping profusely at what it had endured. The steel framework of the windmill had crumpled like tinfoil and lay across the tank and the ground like a tangle of used wire. He took a deep breath and then tried to sit up. When he did, the earth spun around him. He dropped his head between his knees. When it stilled, he moved once again. Grabbing a piece of the windmill, he began to pull himself up, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder. The rain was little more than a mist, and the wind was gone. As he got to his feet, he looked up. His heart stopped. “No,” he muttered, and turned a complete circle, certain that he was only confused. The barn was behind him, right where it was supposed to be. Still standing, although a bit worse for the wear. “God, no,” he whispered, and shook his head like a dog shaking off water. He closed his eyes, then turned back around, telling himself that when he opened them again, this would be nothing but a bad dream. But nothing had changed. The house was gone. Everything was gone. The car that the stranger had driven, the furniture, the walls—there was nothing left but the floors and foundation. Seized with a terrible fear, Houston started to shake. Then he called Rachel’s name. Quietly at first, as if talking to himself. The second time he called her, he was shouting. By the time he had crawled through

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the tangle of steel and out of the tank, he was coming undone. Engulfed by the silence, he screamed Rachel’s name. Rachel heard Houston’s voice almost at the same time she started up the steps. Startled by the sound, she stumbled and fell, and it took several seconds to get back on her feet. She could hear the fear in his voice as he continued to shout. “Here,” she cried. “I’m here.” But the cavernlike quality of the cellar only swallowed the sound. She began to hurry, crawling up the steps on her hands and her feet, like a child learning to climb. She emerged from the hole just as Houston screamed out her name. The pain in his voice was wounding, leaving her mute. Then her breath caught on a sob as reality hit. She was alive, and she could see Houston’s face. “Houston.” He jerked, then turned, staring at the woman who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “Rachel?” Her gaze raked his body, searching the angles and curves of the man she hadn’t seen in over a year. Then she saw the wound in his shoulder and the pinkish red stain on his shirt. “My God,” she moaned. “He shot you.” The ground tilted beneath Houston’s feet. He was in danger of passing out again and he knew it, but it would take more than a bullet to keep him from Rachel. He took a step forward. “Please, God, let her be real.”

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He staggered, and Rachel started to run. She caught him in midstep, then braced him with her body as she guided him gently down to what was left of the floor. All the way there, he kept trying to stay conscious, but her face kept going in and out of focus. Finally he went to his knees. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Too weak.” “Just lie down, love. You’re going to be okay.” He rolled onto his back and looked up. Then it hit him. Rachel was staring back down at his face. He put a hand to her cheek, then her eyes, touching first one eyelid and then the other in disbelief. When she blinked to dodge his fingers, he started to shake. “My God . . . you can see.” “Yes.” Unashamed, he started to cry. “When?” “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It just is. Right now I’ve got to get you some help.” “But how? The phones . . . everything’s gone.” “But the barn is still standing, which means your truck should be there.” Then she leaned down and kissed him, tasting his tears and his joy. “I was so scared. I thought I had lost you for good.” He shook his head, and almost managed a smile. “Cherokee, you couldn’t lose me if you put me in a sack and dropped me in the river.” Joy bubbled within her, and then she rocked back on her heels. “It’s all gone,” she said. “What’s all gone?” he asked. “The house . . . everything.”

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He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but you.” “I know. I feel the same way about you, but I need to tell you something before another second of my life passes.” “After everything that has happened, baby, don’t you think it could wait?” She clutched at the sleeve of his shirt. “No. I need to get this said.” She took a deep breath. “I have money.” He stiffened. “It won’t last forever, but it’s more than enough to rebuild. I’ll get my old job back at the restaurant and gladly, but I’ll never go back to modeling. I don’t want to be famous. I don’t want total strangers obsessed with my face and body ever again.” Houston started to smile. “Rachel, listen . . . you don’t have to—” “Yes, I do,” she said. “We’re young, and thanks to God, we’re alive. We can do this, Houston.” She grabbed at his hand. “Together we can do anything.” “You don’t want to go back to New York?” She shuddered. “No. God, no. There you can’t see sunsets or sunrises. I missed the prairie and the coyotes at dusk. I need that, Houston. It’s a part of who I am.” He closed his eyes as a new wave of weakness swept over him. “Okay, you win,” he whispered. “But when I can think without wanting to sleep, I have something to tell you, too.” Then he closed his eyes. Just for a moment Rachel panicked. Then she pressed her hand against his chest. His heartbeat was

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rapid but steady. She leaned down and whispered in his ear. “I’m leaving now, Houston. But I swear to God, this time I’ll be back.”

� twenty �

By the time Detective Sullivan’s message reached the proper authorities in Mirage, it was all over but the shouting. Houston was in Midland in the hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound. Rachel was afraid to sleep, for fear she would wake up back in darkness. Only after two days had passed with no sign of her blindness recurring did she start to relax. Esther had been notified that they were all still alive, and she’d promised to come out by Thanksgiving and check on them herself. Kenny proved his friendship even further by taking Rachel shopping to replace some of her clothes. By the time they were through, he’d come to the conclusion that Houston was a saint and that he might never get married. And Beatty, well, Beatty took a while to show up. It would have pleased him to know that he’d become the first killer on record to be found and identified in two places at once. But all wasn’t right with their world, and wouldn’t be until Houston came clean about his lie. Only this time he wasn’t taking any chances. Like a typical

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man, he was going to marry her first, then confess all his sins. Houston’s arm was still in a sling. His suit was new and black and western-cut. His new boots were shining. A gray-belly Stetson lay upside down on a nearby chair, and he smiled to himself as Rachel fiddled with the string tie he was determined to wear. Her dress was stunning. The white silk clung to her body just enough to make a man break a sweat. Her arms were bare, as were her shoulders, save for two thin strips of silk. The bodice was fitted, the skirt short and fitted, with a slit at the side that stopped just short of indecent. She was beautiful—and so was her dress. He couldn’t wait to get it off her. “Are you sure you want to do this today?” Rachel said. “You haven’t even been discharged from the hospital.” Houston frowned. “The paperwork is in progress.” “But we don’t have a place to live yet. Shouldn’t we—” “We’ve got your motel room,” he muttered, wincing as she pulled the tie just a little too tight. “Are you trying to back out on me, girl?” Rachel rolled her eyes. She knew he was nervous. But there was a peace within her that money couldn’t buy. No matter what happened, as long as they had each other, they would survive. “Hush,” she muttered. “You’re being silly and you know it.” Houston sighed and gave up the fight. He was nervous, yes, but not for the reason she thought. He still had to confess to some pretty big lies.

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“You look beautiful, Rachel Ann.” Rachel paused, staring up at him in disbelief. Only her mother had ever used her full name. “You never called me that before.” “Then I suppose it’s about time,” he said softly, and brushed his mouth across her lips. She moaned beneath her breath. If nothing else, the tenderness of this man would be her undoing. He must have sensed how torn she was today between joy and regret. Today was the happiest day of her life, and her mother should have been here to share it with her. Moments later Kenny came breezing into Houston’s hospital room carrying a handful of papers. A nurse was right behind him, pushing a wheelchair. “You’re sprung,” Kenny crowed, waving the papers in the air. “Plant your butt, bub. We’re going for a ride.” Houston sat himself down, more than ready to move on with his life. A short while later they walked hand in hand out of the courthouse, while Kenny and a cute little clerk he’d known for exactly ten minutes threw impromptu rice at their heads. Neither Houston or Rachel was upset by the fact that it was actually Cheerios. Kenny thought about explaining that the Honk and Holler across the street had been out of rice and then figured they didn’t give a damn. He and the clerk had torn into the box, pelting them with cereal instead. Toasted O’s crunched beneath Rachel’s feet as she hurried to open the door to the truck. Houston slid inside, slamming the door behind him just in time to block another barrage of cereal. Rachel squealed and

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ran around to the driver’s side, laughing madly as she dodged more cereal and slid into the seat. She turned to Houston, and the look in his eyes wiped the smile off her face. He hit the automatic door lock just as Kenny threw a huge handful onto the windshield. Then he leaned across the seat and pulled Rachel into his arms. “Rachel Bookout?” Rachel sighed. There had been a time when she’d believed she would never bear that name. “Yes?” she whispered. “Do you love me?” She smiled and brushed a kiss across his mouth. “More than life.” Houston grinned. “You gotta promise to remember that.” She recognized that tone of voice. “Houston, what have you done?” “Nothing bad,” he said swiftly. “Then that’s that,” Rachel said, and gave him a wink. “Okay, bub, which motel will it be?” Houston grinned. “Just head back toward Mirage. You’ll find out soon enough.” Rachel groaned. “Lord, Houston. I love you dearly, but couldn’t we spend just one night in a place without mice before we move into the trailer park?” Houston laughed. It was a well-known fact that the rental property at the Mirage trailer park was seedy, and that was the good part. “Do you trust me, Rachel?” She looked at him seriously. “With my life.” Joy swelled inside his chest. It was going to be all right.

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“Then take us home, Rachel Ann.” Confused but willing, she waved at Kenny, who was leaning against his car, eating what was left of the Cheerios out of the box. He grinned and waved back, giving her a big thumbs-up. She gave Houston a considering glance. “Does he know something I don’t?” she asked. Houston grinned. “Pretty much.” “Am I going to be pissed?” she muttered. “Not much, I hope, and surely not for long.” “God help me.” “What did you say?” Houston asked. “Nothing. I was just saying a prayer.” Houston laughed. And so the journey began. In spite of her nervous anticipation, Rachel drove with extra care. Houston seemed pale beneath his smile, and there was a weariness around his eyes that she didn’t like. Instinct told her that he was trying to do too much, but she knew Houston well enough to realize he was going to do it his way or not at all. When they were within a few miles of Mirage, Rachel’s gaze was automatically drawn to the new field of pump jacks that had sprung up while she was gone. “That’s a pretty big field,” she said. “Do they all belong to your boss, too?” “Yep,” Houston said. Rachel’s eyes widened in appreciation. “You were sure lucky to get that job. He must be rolling in money.” He grinned. “I’m one lucky son of a bitch, and that’s a fact.”

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Rachel eyed him nervously. “Don’t you need to take a pain pill or something?” His grin widened. “Cherokee, I’m on a high you wouldn’t believe.” She shrugged. A short while later Houston started to point. “Turn here,” he said. Rachel tapped on the brakes, then took the turn with ease, thankful that Houston’s new pickup had survived the storm. At least she was able to bring him back to Mirage in comfort. “Don’t you think it’s about time you tell me where we’re going?” He pointed. Rachel’s gaze shifted momentarily from the road to the house up ahead. “Wow,” she said softly. Then she saw a sign on the gatepost, and the tone of her voice rose a notch. “Cherokee Oil?” Nervousness set in, shifting Houston’s grin from wide to still hanging in there. “Where are we going?” she asked. “To see the boss.” Suddenly everything became clear. Houston probably needed money. He was going to ask for an advance on his pay. Rachel couldn’t bear to think about him worrying about that at a time like this. “Houston, if you need money, I told you I probably have enough to—” “Don’t, Rachel.” She frowned. “But we’re in this together, remember? If you can’t—” He sighed. “For God’s sake, Rachel, stop now before you shame me completely.”

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She bit her lip but did as he asked and parked. The longer she sat there, though, the more convinced she became that something was wrong. She leaned over the steering wheel, staring toward the house. “Houston, I don’t think anybody’s home.” He opened the door. “They will be,” he said. “Come on.” She got out and met him in front of the truck. When Houston took her hand, she thought she felt it tremble, but when she looked at him and he winked, she decided she’d been imagining things. They got to the door and Rachel started to ring the bell. “Wait,” Houston said, and dug a key from his pocket. To Rachel’s horror, he stuck it in the lock and then opened the door. “What are you doing?” Rachel gasped. “We can’t just go in as if we owned the place.” Houston tossed the key on a nearby table and then gave the room a perfunctory glance before he turned to face her. “Yes, we can, because I do,” he said. Rachel gawked. “Do what?” “Own the place.” Her legs went weak as she stared around at the luxury in disbelief. “You don’t. You can’t.” He tried a grin. “I do. I can.” “But—” He reached for her. She didn’t move. He sighed. “Rachel, you weren’t the only one whose fortunes changed.” Her eyes kept growing wider.

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“Cherokee Oil is mine. I own the company, lock, stock, and barrel.” She dropped into the nearest chair, staring up at him in shock. “But the old house . . . Why did we . . . ?” He shrugged. “Part of me was afraid to tell you about this.” Suddenly she understood, and felt ashamed that she’d given him cause to doubt her. “You don’t have to say any more,” she said. “You had no reason to trust me.” He moved to kneel at her feet. “I suppose you’re right, but only at first. By the time we got off the plane, I was debating with myself about telling you the truth. Then we got to the old house, and I was so ashamed, I started to tell you right then. But you were the one who changed my mind.” “I don’t understand.” “Remember what you said when we walked inside?” She frowned, trying to think back. “You called it a godsend. You said that at least there you could see.” She sighed. “Yes, I remember.” “After that I didn’t know what to do. So I let the lie stay. But not because I didn’t trust you. Not then.” “Even so, it wouldn’t have mattered,” Rachel said. Then she looked around in quiet wonder. “Is there anything else I need to know before I put you to bed?” He watched her face. The hesitancy hurt him, and he knew that he needed to heal what he’d done. “Yes, baby, actually, there is.”

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Rachel tried to smile, but he could tell she was still feeling ashamed. “It means another trip, but this one’s real short.” She nodded. “Whatever it takes, Houston. Whatever it takes.” A few minutes later she pulled back onto the highway, again driving at his direction. “Turn here,” Houston said. As they turned down the old county road, Rachel took a deep breath, telling herself she could do this. Even though it had been over a year since the auction, she still wasn’t ready to accept that this was no longer her home. She saw the rooftop first, and from a distance thought it looked a bit like an old gray hat, shading a weathered face from the west Texas sun. As they drove closer, she could see that a new metal gate had been hung at the head of the drive. She tried to look away, but the pull was too strong. “Oh, Houston.” He reached across the seat and touched her arm. She was trembling. This had gone on long enough. “Pull over,” he said shortly. She hit the brake, then put the truck in park. “It’s yours, Rachel. I bought it with the first oil check I got.” She jerked as if she’d been slapped, and she started to cry. She’d walked out on him and he’d still done this for her. While she’d been chasing rainbows, Houston had been planting her pot of gold. “Why?” she whispered. “After what I did to you, I didn’t deserve it.” “Let’s just call it your wedding present.” He tilted

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her face, making her look at him. “Everyone deserves to have roots, Rachel Ann. This place was yours. It may take a while for them to grow back, but if you trust enough, it will happen.” Then he reached in his pocket and took out another set of keys, keys that would open the gate, the house, and, he hoped, her heart. This time he handed them to her, and pointed to a pair of small white crosses on the hillside beyond the house. “Here, Cherokee. Go say hello to your mama and daddy. They’ve been waiting for you to come home.”

About the Author With fifty books in print, award-winning author SHARON SALA, who also writes as DINAH McCALL, still has to remind herself from time to time that this isn’t a dream. She learned to read at the age of four and has had her nose in a book ever since. Her introduction into romance came at an early age through the stories of Zane Gray, Grace Livingston Hill, and Emily Loring. Her pride in contributing to the genre is echoed by the letters of her fans. She’s a four-time RITA finalist, Winner of the Janet Dailey Award, threetime Career Achievement winner from Romantic Times magazine, fourtime winner of the National Reader’s Choice Award, and five-time winner of the Colorado Romance Writer’s Award of Excellence, as well as numerous other industry awards. Her books are regularly on bestseller lists, such as the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Waldenbooks mass market, and many others. She claims that for her, learning to read was a matter of evolution, but learning to write and then being published were a revolution. It changed her life, her world, and her fate. Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Books by Sharon Sala CHANCE MCCALL CHASE THE MOON DEEP IN THE HEART DIAMOND FINDERS KEEPERS LUCKY QUEEN SECOND CHANCES TOUCHSTONE

Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. TOUCHSTONE. Copyright © 1999 by Sharon Sala. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader March 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-137865-2 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.uk.harpercollinsebooks.com United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com