Dear Reader,

It’s been fifteen years since this book marked my debut as a fiction writer. The Long Road Home was first published in 1995. Reading it again, I was amazed to see the similarities of personal impact between the bank scandals of the nineties and the scandals that have made headlines in the past year. The old adage is true: what goes around comes around. Yet, the struggles and triumphs of the heart remain ageless.

I chose not to revise the novel, rather to let it stand as written. I did, however, change a few anachronisms for this reprint. It was amusing to remove the Walkman cassette and public coin-operated telephones. No matter how much time passes though, this novel will always be special to me. It’s my first novel. I began writing it when I was put on bed rest during the pregnancy of my third child. When I finished writing the story, I had given birth to both a book and a baby. It was an amazing journey, one in which I learned that what is at first perceived as an obstacle can be a serendipitous turning point.

I hope you enjoy reading the timeless message of love and second chances in The Long Road Home.

Mary Alice

The Long Road Home
Mary Alice Monroe

www.mirabooks.co.uk

I dedicate this book to my mother,

Elayne Monogue Cryns.

For he hears the lamb’s innocent call,

And he hears the ewe’s tender reply;

He is watchful while they are in peace,

For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.

—William Blake, “The Shepherd”

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

PROLOGUE

THE DAY HAD BEGUN as so many others. An early arrival at the bank, quick signatures on urgent papers, Mrs. Baldwin presenting the day’s schedule; nothing unusual. Yet outside the Manhattan skyscraper, the weather had turned. Blue skies had grown black, and an arctic wind was blowing in an un-seasonable cold front. It was still early on Wall Street. Lights flickered through the dark morning mist like candles.

On the streets below, a drunk peed on the corner of the bank. Above, the sky did the same, releasing a pelting rain that left angry streaks against the windows and sent the people below scurrying into buildings, ducking under newspapers, or disappearing, shivering, down the pavement.

Charles Walker Blair looked out from his window at the gray sky and the gray-cloaked figures on the pavement and had the singular thought that his whole world had turned gray. It was a rare, trivial thought for the level-headed banker, owner of the Blair Bank.

From the hallway, angry shouts seeped into his office: the low drunken slurs of a man and the shrill opposition of his secretary. His mouth tightened in annoyance. Suddenly, the door flung open and the drunk lurched in.

Charles Blair turned from the window and stared at death in the eyes of Michael MacKenzie.

MacKenzie wobbled at the entry, his arms outstretched in a steadying gesture and his feet spread eighteen inches apart. He was a big man: broad shouldered, wide jawed, and ham fisted. His usually impeccable suit was soiled and had probably been slept in, his customary red tie with the corporate logo had vanished long ago, and his thick ruddy-brown hair was as unkempt as the hair on his cheeks.

“So this is where you’re hiding out, eh, Blair?”

Charles Blair rose from his polished mahogany desk and discreetly indicated for his secretary to leave. Her large frame hovered at the door, looking expectantly at the angry drunk, then she lowered her head in resignation and silently closed the door behind her. Charles knew that she would race to the phone as fast as her arthritic legs could get her there and place a call to security.

Charles eyed the weaving drunk suspiciously. The man reeked of sour booze, and MacKenzie’s sneering face made it clear he was a mean drunk. Charles casually walked around to the front of his desk and lightly tapped a green leather chair with his long fingers.

“I’m not hiding anywhere, Mike. You always know where to find me. Sit down. Let’s talk.”

“Talk!” shouted the other man. MacKenzie staggered forward and grabbed the opposite side of the high-backed chair. “You don’t want to talk to me. Last week, you wouldn’t even see me. Sicced your army of lawyers and execs out to do your dirty work, didn’t ya?”

Charles Blair leaned against his desk in a leisurely stance but kept a wary eye on the other man. MacKenzie had a reputation for being a mean mule with a hard kick. With a will of iron and the genius of a maverick, he had built his financial empire up from a single grocery unit in New Jersey. He was young. A man of action. Which made his drunken state all the more foreboding.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a liar.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t lying, yet MacKenzie was convinced. Every instinct in his body screamed alert. There was too much hatred here for mere confrontation; too much anger for reason. Michael MacKenzie wanted blood.

“Mike, sit down,” Charles tried again, speaking slowly. “It’s obvious you’re upset.”

“Upset?” Mike slapped his knee and laughed till he coughed and spit out upon the oriental carpet. He rubbed the spittle into the wool with his dirty heel.

A muscle twitched in Blair’s cheek, but he neither spoke nor moved. He watched as Mackenzie, with halting steps, paced a muddy trail across his office, eyeing the diplomas, trophies, and personal photographs on the walls.

“Well, look at you,” he slurred. “Got yourself a picture with every president since you were in diapers. Now ain’t that sweet. An’ lookee here.” Mackenzie pointed to a wall of diplomas. “Harvard… Harvard again… A Rhodes scholar? The old-boy network oughta love that.”

Suddenly the young man twisted to face him, a small pistol grasped in his fist. Blair snapped to attention.

“Give me the gun, Mike,” he said, holding out his hand. His voice was low and deliberate. He dared not even blink. “Give it to me, then sit and tell me more.”

MacKenzie waved the gun in front of Blair. The metal shone in the artificial light. MacKenzie’s lips twisted into a sinister grin.

“Why?” Charles asked, realizing the death he saw in MacKenzie’s eyes was his own.

Michael MacKenzie teetered, pointing his free hand toward the diplomas. His voice fell to a flat tone. “When did I get the chances you got, huh? I slaved in the back of a grocery store since I could walk. Chased rats as big as a cat. My dad didn’t hand over a bank. The only thing he handed out was a cuff to the ear.” He winced as though the slap had just now reached his head. “Oh, Ma.” He moaned, and his whole face contorted.

Blair’s muscles relaxed as he watched the burly man bring his hands to his face and release his death grip on the pistol. He no longer saw a dangerous, belligerent drunk. He saw a broken man. Although he did not know what had broken him, he did know that he had refused MacKenzie any loan from his bank. He’d protected his bank from a high risk. Now, for the first time, he questioned whether his prudence was worth the price.

“Look, Mike,” he began. His voice was conciliatory and he took a step forward. His mistake was to reveal pity.

“Get your goddamn filthy hands offa me!” shouted MacKenzie as he swung his shoulder away from Blair’s reach. Blood-red anger rushed to MacKenzie’s face and his eyes bulged, making him look like a bull on the charge. Suddenly he swung around and with amazing speed slammed the pistol against Charles’s face.

Charles saw the blow coming, but not soon enough. He heard the crack of metal against bone, heard a rush of air expel from his own lips, and felt a blackening pain that sent him catapulting against his desk. Blood flowed from his nose and he knew that it was broken.

The force of his swing threw MacKenzie off balance and sent him reeling into a crumpled heap in the corner.

The room was silent except for the muffled, drunken moans from the corner. Charles drew himself up, one hand leaning against his desk, the other holding his nose with a handkerchief. The stale smell of whiskey singed Blair’s raw olfactory nerves, but it was his own bile that made his stomach churn. Staring at the defeated man, the only pain he felt was shame. How many businesses had he crushed, he asked himself? So many he had lost count. They had all been figures in a ledger, pawns on a chessboard. Until now. The human predicament had never figured in his calculations. Until now. And now, the rules of the game had changed.

He was about to tell MacKenzie that he’d get his loan. He was about to reach out a hand to a fellow man. But he was too late.

The world seemed to slow down in those tragic few moments. Blair saw the pistol rise again, but this time it pointed not at his head, but the other man’s. MacKenzie’s eyes rolled up to meet his, red and goggling—like the desperate eyes of a fish on a hook. Blair reached out and lunged forward, his mouth open in a silent scream.

A roar sounded in his ears. Blood spattered across his face, blurring his vision of Mackenzie’s body jerking its lifeblood across the priceless oriental. The red staining the gold silk-papered walls, blotching the gilt-framed portrait, splattering the green leather chairs, and tainting forever the soul of Charles Walker Blair.

1

NORA MACKENZIE SLIPPED a complacent smile on her face. It was a look that she had mastered over the past year. A mask she donned to protect herself from the horde of lawyers, accountants, and other corporate hit men who had invaded her life since Mike’s death. Most of them were here now, assembled around the massive oak conference table in Mike’s office, shuffling papers, murmuring, jotting notes. Their work was done. Like jurors, they were poised to deliver a verdict.

She sat alone at the far end of the table, one against so many. Nora felt the bulk of her dark wool suit, the high blouse collar like a cinch around her neck. She had chosen the respectable outfit deliberately. Despite the gossip, she would show them that Michael MacKenzie’s widow was a lady.

There was a chill in the morning air. No one had offered her coffee. Clasping her hands tight in her lap, Nora peered from behind her mask to study the men and women who would decide her fate. A few had the air of pompous boredom that she long ago discovered hid incompetence. She recognized those that had played the role of her supporter and those that had taken the attack. There were more of them. A few she had talked to daily for almost a year. Today, however, she was universally ignored. Dismissal was clear in their eyes.

Ralph Bellows sat across the length of polished wood, his gray hair flowing from his broad forehead like a periwig. Nora knew he would act as judge. Bellows relished the role. A clearing of his throat served as a gavel, and he called his court to order with a firm “Shall we begin?”

Nora’s shoulders tensed. She had no doubt Mike would be found guilty in the eyes of his peers. He had committed the worst of crimes: bungled his finances, destroyed his businesses, and left them without a profit. Yet the one to serve the sentence would be her.

Straightening in the stiff leather chair, Nora appeared calm and dignified. She offered Bellows a gracious nod.

“Mrs. MacKenzie…well, we are not strangers in this room. We have endured together a long, arduous year. May I address you as Nora?”

His smile revealed teeth the color of ripe bananas. Nora nodded again. They’d endured? Nora clenched her hands in bitterness. She had endured. They’d conducted business as usual. No matter how disastrous her estate, they would be assured their pay before creditors got a dime.

“The untangling of Mike’s business dealings has been more complicated than we originally envisioned,” Bellows began gravely. “Our work is not yet completed.”

A short gasp escaped from Nora’s lips. It had been a year since Mike’s suicide. What more could they need to accomplish before settling the estate?

Reading her frustration, Bellows continued in a conciliatory tone. “No one realizes the futility of further delays more than I. However, to put it bluntly, Michael MacKenzie left behind a mess. No one, least of all family, understood the extent of his holdings. We are doing our best to put together the pieces of his myriad dealings, but some critical bits of information are still missing.”

From under his bushy brows, Bellows’s pale eyes searched hers intently. Nora felt like the prey of an owl. She paled, yet steadfastly returned his gaze with the wide eyes of innocence.

You bet they’re missing, she thought from behind her mask. There wasn’t a man or a woman at this table who hadn’t rifled through every nook and cranny she and Mike possessed. Who hadn’t read every personal letter they could find. Who had bothered to ask her permission. There was a frenzy to their search that raised her suspicions and her ire. Even the break-in at her New York apartment disturbed her less than their blatant disregard. Nothing had been stolen, but Mike’s desk had been ripped apart.

“Don’t trust anyone.” Those were Mike’s final words to her, whispered urgently the night before he died. Nora had heeded his words and hidden every paper she could find on his desk.

Bellows cleared his throat again with a frustrated staccato, glancing at the papers on the table. When he looked up again, his gray eyes were as cold as the rainy sky outside the windows.

“Even without further information the result is clear.” Bellows tapped the report with finality.

Nora leaned forward, focused on his lips.

“The bottom line is, the estate is bankrupt.”

Nora blinked. “You mean his business is bankrupt.”

Bellows screwed up his lips under his red bulbous nose.

“No, I mean you are bankrupt. For all that we loved Mike, he did a stupid thing. He made himself personally liable for his debts.”

Bellows’s voice ended abruptly, leaving everyone to finish his thought: and then blew his brains out before pulling himself out of it.

“What do you mean, personally liable?” Nora asked, reality taking hold. She was fighting to maintain her composure. Suddenly she loathed the alcoholic nose that Bellows peered over.

“Mr. MacKenzie put up his personal estate as collateral for loans,” contributed a young clean-shaven accountant. His voice shook and he fingered his papers nervously. “The family’s seventy-five percent stake in MacCorp., personal property—he pledged it all. Mike was so deep in hock he was unable to make the repayment schedule.”

Nora did not acknowledge him. The family’s stock? What family? There was only her. She had a name. Nora remained rigid in her chair and continued to stare at Bellows.

“Ralph, what does this mean to me?”

Bellows’s features softened as he laced his fingers together and rested them on the stack of papers before him. Nora wasn’t fooled for a moment. Bellows had nothing to lose by offering kindness now.

“What this means, Nora, is that Mike left you with nothing. Worse than nothing, actually. We have paid back as many of the loans as possible, but you still owe a great deal of money. You will have to sell everything—and even then you may still owe.”

“Owe? If everything is gone, how will I pay it?” Her voice was a whisper.

“The company is in receivership. Your goods will be auctioned off in October by a reputable house. Fortunately, your antiques and art collections are quite rare. Properly managed, the auction should bring in a satisfactory amount.”

“Enough to pay off the debts?”

“Hopefully. With enough left over to give you a start. These are estimates,” he said, opening up the collection of papers in front of him. Immediately, the dozen other people opened their packets. With dread, Nora followed suit.

“If you direct your attention to the bottom of page three,” Bellows continued, “you will see the amount I believe we can salvage for you from the estate.”

Nora quickly flipped to the third page and read, then reread the dollar figure they had allotted for her. It was less than she had imagined, and she had imagined a scant amount. Surely there was an error somewhere. She scanned the other fourteen pages of notes carefully, ignoring the impatient sighs and tapping fingers. The report listed, with astonishing accuracy, her personal possessions and their estimated worth: houses, cars, jewels, furniture, art.

“You even list the few personal possessions that I brought to the marriage.” She indicated the report with an exasperated flip of her hand. “My grandmother’s jewelry, for example. It may not be worth much monetarily, but to me—” her voice almost cracked and she swallowed hard “—to me, they are priceless.”

“I’m sorry, Nora.” Bellows shrugged, running his fingers down the columns. “Maybe we could take out a few…less valuable items.” He seemed embarrassed now.

“This is wrong,” Nora said, deeply feeling the injustice.

“It was Mike’s doing.”

A familiar ache gripped Nora’s heart. Her feelings lay somewhere between anguish and anger. They made her breath come short. Calm yourself, she told herself. Get through this last step and you will be free from the lot of them forever.

“I don’t blame Mike,” she lied. “What I don’t understand is how he could appear so successful and suddenly I learn he is bankrupt. How did it get this bad?”

Bellows’s look implied all that he did not say, all that everyone already knew. That she had left Mike. How, their eyes accused, could she expect to know about Mike’s finances after she walked out on him? Left him in his hour of need? Nora knew they saw her as the New York socialite who collected antiques and art. A pretty blonde who couldn’t be bothered with bank balances.

Nora looked at the accusing eyes and despite her vow, shrank inward. Guilt was an unwelcome shroud for a widow to bear. It kept one mourning without resolved grief. Deserved or not, it was a heavy burden. If Mike had died naturally, perhaps she could have escaped it. He had chosen suicide, however, and with that final act he had completed his seven-year campaign of verbal abuse. Nora’s hand moved to rub her brow, but she arrested the gesture in her lap. She tightened her fists and raised her chin.

“He took a new direction in his last year,” Bellows explained.

“This ‘new direction’ is not detailed in the report,” she replied icily.

Bellows raised his brows. “Quite right. The purpose of today’s meeting is only to explain the status of your estate prior to settlement.”

“Since my money seems to have been lost as well, I should think I am entitled to a full disclosure.”

Mumbles sounded at the table. Nora still focused on Bellows. Always work at the top, Mike had said.

She sensed a new appreciation in Bellows’s eyes. Up until now, her encounters with him had been purely social. Despite his gentlemanly facade, his hand always seemed to find a way to her waist. In what might have appeared a mindless motion, the broad expanse of his palm would caress her ribs while his long thumb would nudge upward toward her breast. Beneath his fastidious apparel, Nora always found him dirty.

“I’d be happy to set up a private meeting to outline Mike’s past projects, Nora.” Bellows’s voice projected the cooperating attorney. His rheumy eyes spoke of another project he had in mind, and to emphasize his intent, he presented her with a magnanimous smile. Be good to me, the smile said, and I’ll be good to you.

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied firmly. “A report in the mail should suffice. I plan to leave town as soon as possible.”

Thirteen pairs of brows rose in unison.

“Leave? To where, my dear?” Bellows asked.

Truth was, she didn’t know. Anywhere but here, Nora thought, her gaze traveling across the impassive faces surrounding her. She’d had enough of false friendship. She’d had her fill of dismissal and rejection, of sympathy with strings attached. Somewhere along the line, she’d lost sight of her values. Looking back, she couldn’t remember what it was she had hoped to achieve by thirty.

This was a turning point. Nora wanted to go somewhere she could work hard, earn her own living, and reevaluate her values. Somewhere, she wanted to build a life that mattered.

Nora’s hand stilled in her lap. An entry from the report came to mind with a flash. Such a place existed, she realized, a smile escaping from her rigid control. Excitement bubbled. She knew exactly where that place was.

Leaving Bellows’s question hanging, Nora dove into the report and began flipping quickly through the pages.

“I assure you we went through everything thoroughly,” an attractive woman lawyer commented.

“I’m sure you have,” Nora replied tersely. She remembered the blonde from the “attack” team. Nora ran her finger along the listed property, unconsciously holding her breath. When she spotted what she was looking for, her breath exhaled with a satisfying gasp. The estimated value was fairly low.

“Looking for anything in particular?” asked Bellows, his interest clearly piqued.

“Just one moment, please,” Nora replied without looking up. Grabbing a pencil she made notations, referring back to page three. Always facile with numbers, Nora reviewed the estimated values, made a few more notations, and calculated an alternative plan.

When she looked up again, the twelve lawyers and accountants were slouched in their chairs in exaggerated poses of boredom. Their noses seemed to have grown inches, the way they peered down at her from behind them. Nora coughed back a laugh. Only Bellows viewed her with intense interest.

“I’ll take the Vermont farm instead of the cash,” she announced.

Twelve chairs creaked as the men and women snapped to attention and shuffled through their papers.

Bellows seemed both amused and curious. “The sheep farm? But why, Nora? It is a small operation, risky at best. Its only purpose for Mike was as a tax write-off.”

“All true,” she replied, holding back her excitement.

His eyes narrowed. “I believe the house is unfinished. Have you and Mike ever lived there?”

“No,” she said emphatically. “Never.”

“I see,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. His eyes never left her. “Then why the farm?”

“Why not?” She wasn’t about to confide in Uncle Ralph. “I want it,” she said bluntly, “and according to my calculations, I can have it—plus enough to establish an interest-bearing account of about three hundred thousand dollars. That should give me enough to eke out a living.”

“A meager living, to be sure.”

“I’m not afraid,” she lied again. As he went through her figures, adding a few of his own, Nora maintained her icy composure. She could not let on how much this meant to her.

“I don’t want any surprises,” she said. “Not without a cushion. I assume your calculations are correct?” An indignant harumph sounded from her left as an accountant’s face mottled. Nora focused only on Bellows. This was between the two of them, Mike’s personal lawyer and his widow.

She could sense the growing surprise and antagonism of the men and women around her. These were Mike’s people. She, his wife, was the outsider.

And that was the way she wanted it. Her foot began tapping beneath the heavy table as she put together the pieces of her new, even radical plan. In her mind she could envision the farm the last time she saw it—what was it—three years ago? The verdant lushness of the Vermont mountains, the fat red raspberries hanging ripe on the bush, fields of oxeye daisies, Queen Anne’s lace and clover sprouting up between rocks, dark woods with cool breezes, and the bucolic bleating of the lambs. It could all be hers. She could make something of her life there, she felt sure of it.

A heady kind of enthusiasm raced through her no-longer-complacent veins. An excitement that ran slipshod over her rational constraints, delivering a new confidence. The kind that in the past had inspired her to impulsively buy a piece of furniture, or a painting. Though based on knowledge, the decision was instinct. She was born with what some people called “a knack.”

She had to have the farm, she thought with quiet desperation. It was right. And it was all she had to hold on to.

Bellows cleared his throat, once again bringing his court into session. “Well,” he said with both resignation and mirth. “I see no reason why this can’t be arranged.”

Amid the grumbling of disapproval at the table, Nora beamed.

“Only one more contingency,” he warned.

Nora stiffened.

“Remember that nothing is final until after the auction. That gives you two months to determine if you can make a go of it at this sheep farm of yours. And even if you do, you can still lose it to Mike’s creditors.”

“But that is unlikely. You said yourself the auction should be a success.”

“Should be and will be are worlds apart.” Like a consummate judge, he glared at every man and woman that sat around the table, no one longer than at Nora herself. “The status of the MacKenzie estate is confidential. This is absolute. Should word of MacKenzie’s bankruptcy leak out, the auction will be ruined. Mrs. MacKenzie cannot set a minimum bid. And if the auction doesn’t bring in the bacon—” he paused to close the report with grand effect “—then all of you go home hungry.”

Not a paper rustled.

“That’s it,” Bellows concluded. Instantly the table was covered with expensive leather attaché cases of every color considered understated yet elegant. As papers were shuffled in and people shuffled out, Bellows came around the table and offered his hand to Nora.

She took it warily.

He held her hand for a moment, looking at the lone gold band on her ring finger, then said with surprising sincerity, “Good luck, Mrs. MacKenzie.”

Nora detected none of his earlier lecherousness. A small smile eased across her face. “Thank you, Mr. Bellows. I’m sure I’ll need it.”

Bellows released her hand with a glint of amusement in his eyes. After an urbane nod of his head, he strolled from the room.

Relief flooded her. Good-bye, old boy! she mouthed as she watched his retreating back. Good-bye all of you, she thought, addressing the empty chairs around the table. The images before her changed. Instead of furniture, Nora envisioned mountains. Instead of oak, she saw maple.

I’m going home, she realized, still not believing. Home. The word felt strange upon her lips; distant yet full of promise. It was fall; the farm would be ripening with color. Warm days and cool nights. Harvests coming in. New lambs.

So much new. So much to learn. Instinct would carry her only so far. Could she manage? What did she know about farming or caring for sheep? No one would be there to pull her out of trouble. To casually write the check. Her hand hesitated on her bag as doubt pressed. It would take hard work, tons of it, and daily prayer to pull this off. Was she up to it?

Nora raised her chin defiantly and gave the zipper a firm tug. She’d better be. The farm was all she had left. She was on her own. If she didn’t make it there, she had nowhere else to go. Hoisting her purse, Nora took one farewell look at Mike’s office.

The recessed lights cast small shadows upon the cleared oak table and the empty credenza. It gave off a ghostly sheen. Memories stirred, producing goose bumps along her arms. Nora rubbed them quickly, brushing the memories away.

“Good-bye,” she whispered, taking one last look before turning out the light. The words sounded hollow in the empty room. As she closed the door tight behind her and hurried away, Nora had the ominous feeling that Mike’s ghost was right behind her.

2

DAWN ROSE OVER MANHATTAN. Its reach stretched for miles in reflection against steel and glass. The morning light pressed relentlessly against rows of window shades, curtains, and blinds closed as tight as eyelids. They seemed to squint against the brightness.

Forty-four stories up, Nora stood, arms folded, coffee cup in hand, allowing herself a farewell to her city. She could feel the heat of a new day against the glass. She leaned her cheek against it. How quiet the city was at this hour, she thought. A sleeping giant. Yet Nora could feel the energy awakening beneath her. The sun was stirring the beast, and soon, within the hour, it would be fully awake, belching out the sounds of shouts, honks, and whistles. A hungry city.

She shuddered. This city had always intimidated her. Only her wealth had protected her from the harsh realities of the streets below. Now, she’d lost her cocoon, she thought. She’d been booted out.

Oh well, she decided, gulping her coffee and closing the blinds with a snap. “Sweetie, it’s time to fly.” She said it aloud, encouraged by the sassy tone in her voice. If she wanted to be out of the city today, she had a lot of work to do. The auction house people were due here soon.

At the thought, her stomach churned. This was it. She was really leaving the city. Even though she wanted to go—was eager to go—the leave-taking was hard.

She surveyed her home with a critical eye. The rooms she had hated yesterday were comforting today in the memories they held. The apartment was gracious and inviting; eight rooms full of rare antiques, intricate oriental rugs, and paintings that museums coveted.

Things, she told herself. They’re just things. Trappings of a lifestyle. Yet, she loved them. Over the past several years, each time she walked through these rooms she would get a small thrill of delight at the sight of these beautiful things. Not that she was greedy, or even cared for the dollar value of any of them. No, she simply enjoyed being surrounded by the intrinsic beauty of the pieces. The flair of a Chippendale, the vibrant color of a rug, or the focus of a Satsuma ware pattern. The art touched her, and her life had been so hard the past several years that she sought simple pleasures wherever she could find them. So she had pursued her art and antiques collections with a vengeance, earning for herself a reputation for a keen eye and a handy checkbook.

Nora ran her hand across the French high-gloss finish of a table. Her unpolished nails seemed so mortal against the ageless wood. These things, these precious things, she thought with sadness. Now they were her champions. It was up to them to bring in enough cash to pay back the debts and to keep her going. She had depended upon Mike for so long, and in the end, it would be her own abilities that could save her. How ironic life could be, she thought.

From one room to the next, Nora strolled through memories. In here, she thought, gazing at the Sheraton dining table, at this table she had presided over countless dinners. Seemingly effortless soirees that displayed Mike as the successful financier and herself as the stable dot beneath the exclamation point. Her husband used to smile his approval from across the long damask-covered table. His Irish blue eyes had sparkled beneath his heavy dark brows. He’d seemed so handsome then, so powerful, so hers. In recent years, she remembered with a pang, he had awarded his approving smile to the lovely lady he had selected to sit at his right.

In those Victorian chairs, she thought, entering the morning room, she and Mike would lean back and read the newspapers. In the early days of their marriage they’d blurt out comments and questions that always sparked remarks or laughter. Later, however, only she would persist, making comments that never brought a response.

Her heels clicked upon the polished parquet as she completed her rounds. The coordinating patterns of fabrics, the dominating pieces of art, the soft-hued paint and carpet, and the lemony smell of polish and soap enveloped her in their security. Each room was perfect.

Mike had hated them all. He hated every detail of the small, well-appointed apartment. He wanted a house as big and brawling as he was. Full of unruly children, a basketball hoop in the driveway, and a big hairy dog in the yard. He had expected a family in the suburbs—he had demanded an heir.

“If you spent as much time trying to have a baby as you did buying furniture,” he’d mutter, cutting her to the quick.

Nora paused, the pain as sharp now as it had been when spoken. So many mean comments, so many slurs. She shook her head, loosening pain’s hold. Oh yes, it was time to go.

Nora went directly to her bedroom to gather her suitcase. She had to get out of here. Let the movers fend for themselves. At the door to her bedroom, however, Nora froze. The trip through memories was not yet over. A farewell was due to this room as well. This room, where dreams had been dashed, battles waged, and a marriage lost. Her eyes roaming over the heavy four-poster, Nora wondered for the hundredth time how so much love could have engendered so much hate? Despite her resolve, old questions nagged. When had Mike begun to loathe the sight of her? To find her too repulsive to touch? In how many ways had she failed?

Mike was everywhere. He haunted every room in this place. Still mocking, relentlessly accusing her.

“Please, Mike,” she muttered. “Let me go.”

Nora heard the front door unlatch and after a hasty wipe at her eyes, she checked her watch. It was only 8:00 a.m. Could the movers be arriving so soon? She peeked out from behind the bedroom door. Down the hall she spied a stocky, robust figure impatiently jerking her arm from a too-long coat. With a sigh of relief, Nora flung wide the door.

“Trude, what are you doing here?” Nora walked swiftly down the long hall to take her maid’s hands. “Yesterday was your last day. I thought we said our good-byes.”

Trude puffed herself up. “I no could stand think of you, here in this place, by yourself.” She looked around then jerked her shoulders. “He still here, you know? Bad feeling. You go through too much.” She sniffed loudly. It had never been any secret how Trude felt about Mike. Trude stepped back and surveyed the coffee cup in Nora’s hand. “You have no breakfast, right?”

Nora smiled, knowing it was futile to argue. “I’ve been busy. I’ll catch something on the road.”

Trude took the coffee cup. “I know you. You forget. Look at you. All bones. I go make something.”

“No, really. I couldn’t eat. I’ve got too much on my mind.”

Trude shook her head and Nora read worry rather than irritation on the older woman’s face. In fact, Trude couldn’t be more than forty-five, but she was the type to mother, regardless of who or what age. Nora had been her special project for seven years.

The intercom buzzer rang.

“Oh boy, look out. Here they come now!” Trude called with hand raised. “I go get some coffee going.” Trude’s answer to all problems was a cup of coffee.

The apartment was soon crowded with men and women of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities. Nora could smell the different spices, as well as the common scent of fast food, in the close air of the apartment. There was no more time for sentiment. It was time to pack up and go.

The day sped by as she worked alongside the crew. Some of the men were efficient, others had to be hawked. Nora cataloged her furniture, checking it without emotion against the computer list. She watched, impressed, as the men slipped her heavy glass-front antiques into specially constructed, padded crates as easily as a hand fit into a glove. Trude backed her up, offering fluids and snacks and cleaning floors as soon as they were bared. Room after room was emptied, leaving emptiness behind.

“You wanna check this out?”

Nora bobbed her head up toward Mike’s breakfront desk where a mover was waving her over. “We were lifting this top piece off when this panel here broke open. We didn’t do nothin’.”

Nora stuck her pencil behind her ear and hurried over to the desk, disassembled now for the crate. One side panel, disguised as molding, had popped open to reveal a thin niche. Nora hid her shock. Mike had purchased this desk, and all these years she had never known this hiding place existed. She knelt beside the open panel and, turning her body, reached far in. The wood was raw, unfinished, and dusty. Something was in there, she realized with a sudden intake of breath. Grabbing hold, she eased out a burgundy leather notebook. She stared at the leather volume, worn in spots to a dull luster, and knew with every fiber in her body that this held secrets.

She looked over her shoulder at the two men huddled together, staring in curiosity. “Oh, my goodness. My diary! I forgot all about it.”

She tucked the notebook under her arm, then forced an airy laugh. “Thank God you found it. I’d hate to think of some stranger reading it!”

“Yeah. Bet it’s loaded with good stuff,” one of the men jeered. Nora cast him a wary glance, unsure if he was complimenting or insulting her. Without response she turned heel and immediately hurried to her bedroom and closed the door. The furniture had already been removed and the carpets rolled. Only her suitcase sat square in the middle of the floor, under a brass and crystal light fixture. Nora plopped down Indian-style beside the suitcase and looked long and hard at the notebook. Around her, she could feel Mike’s presence, hear his voice inside her head. “Open it. Read it.” She obeyed.

The notebook was filled with pages and pages of numbers; more a bank ledger than a diary. Notes were scattered here and there in Mike’s distinctive, heavy script. Leafing through the pages, a pattern of desperation emerged. Neat lines and columns filled the early pages. As the pages progressed through the months, the nature of the writing changed. Instead of neatness, quick notes were scribbled in an illegible hand. Crossed-out computations and many underlined words and dashes scrawled across the final pages. An artist, Nora recognized the design of mania.

She closed the book and rested her hand upon it, as though to force quiet memories of the last months of Mike’s life. He had gone through a period of marked deterioration. Although he had once taken a vain interest in his appearance, he became unkempt. In the few weeks before he died, Mike grew argumentative, obsessed, even erratic.

The parallels with his handwriting were too strong. She needed time, away from prying eyes, to decipher the message held here. Time to hear Mike’s final words and time to decide if she should give this notebook to Ralph Bellows. Bellows was Mike’s closest colleague. Executor of the estate. And it was clear he was searching for something.

Three short raps sounded on the door. Nora scrambled to her knees and stuffed the notebook into her suitcase just as a high nasal voice sang out from the doorway.

“Oh, there you are!”

Nora bristled. Whoever it was didn’t have the courtesy to wait to be allowed in. Turning, she saw a tall, emaciated-looking man with pale skin and the brightest, most unnatural shade of red hair she’d ever seen. Another player in today’s circus, she thought with a sigh of resignation.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her tone would, she hoped, give him a clue to her mood.

“I’m from Sotheby’s,” he replied, as though that was enough introduction. “I’m glad we caught you before you left.”

“Caught me?” Something in his tone raised her ire.

“We went over the inventory of your jewelry for the auction and a few things are missing.” His singsong voice implied naughty, naughty.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Nora’s voice was brusque as she rose.

He began flipping through the pages clipped to his board. It was filled with computer entries. Did she really own that much jewelry, she wondered? She hardly ever wore it.

“Here it is. A square-cut diamond. Antique setting.”

“My grandmother’s engagement ring. It’s not to be sold. Didn’t Mr. Bellows notify you?”

“No, he didn’t. Apparently he changed his mind.” The cynicism in his eyes stung. “The ring’s on the list. Sorry, dear. I have to ask you for it.”

Nora choked. “It’s mine. It’s all been arranged.”

“Apparently not.” He tapped the papers a tad too loudly. “It’s on the list.”

Nora’s lips tightened. “How much is it worth? I’ll buy it now.”

“Look, dear. I’m sorry, but no can do. You can talk to Sotheby’s about it, I guess, but I have to collect that ring now—and a few other items.” His voice trailed as he searched the papers.

I’ll bet you’re sorry, Nora thought, steeped in bitterness. So, Bellows didn’t come through for her after all. A simple kindness was beyond him. She couldn’t trust him.

Blind rage colored her thinking. She flipped up the lid of her suitcase and pulled out her zip cloth jewelry bag. Without opening it, she held it out to the nameless man with the red hair and papers.

“Take it.”

“Certainly not all of it,” he moued, his blush making him look like an elongated carrot.

She jerked it toward him. The thin man stepped forward to retrieve the small bag, then stepped back again. He pulled out some Victorian beaded necklaces, a yellowed pearl necklace and earrings, a large cameo pin, and the solitary engagement ring. It was a pitiful show compared to the many-carat diamonds, rubies, and emeralds on the list.

“So much fuss about so little,” she said softly. Her shoulders slumped. “It doesn’t matter. Just take it and get out. Please.”

The man paused, then selected out the pearls and set them delicately upon the suitcase. “I don’t see those on the list,” he muttered as he rushed out the door.

Nora picked up the pearls and rubbed them against her cheek. “Oma, I miss you,” she said. She slipped the pearls around her neck and placed the earrings in her ears.

In the mirror, the burgundy notebook was visible in her bag. In that same bag, beneath wool sweaters, nestled a shirt box. And in that shirt box was a stash of personal letters, memos, and a pocket diary that she’d found on Mike’s desk the day he died. Papers that were scattered next to an empty bottle of bourbon and a loaded ashtray.

Mike had called her to New York from her house in Connecticut, yelling over the wire that it was urgent. So she had come, against her better judgment, only to be ignored once again. Until that night, before he died.

“Don’t trust anyone,” he’d told her, roughly awakening her. He was drunk, again, and the sour smell of bourbon and smoke descended upon her like a winter cloud.

At first she was afraid. Something in his voice had changed; she heard it even in her sleepy stupor. The anger was gone. The arrogance was gone. In its place she heard desperation and fear.

“Don’t trust anyone.” That was all he’d said. That and a firm shake and an intense stare. So intense. Telling her in that gaze that he was leaving. Warning her that she was on her own now. Perhaps, too, that he was sorry. She liked to think that anyway.

Nora closed the suitcase, zipped it, and locked it. Whatever secrets lay hidden in that notebook, she’d uncover them later. On her own. One thing was certain—she would keep her secrets from Ralph Bellows.

“Mrs. MacKenzie?” Trude stood at the door, arms akimbo.

Nora could tell she’d overheard the entire exchange. “Well, I’m all set to go,” said Nora with false enthusiasm.

Trude clenched her lips and nodded. “Well then, let’s get you go.”

Nora walked over and touched Trude’s shoulder. “I wish I could take you with me.”

“I not ask for much,” Trude replied, opening the door once again for an offer.

Nora sighed and shook her head. “I couldn’t pay you. I don’t know how I can take care of myself, let alone anyone else. And what about Roman and the children?”

“They love mountains. Live good. Cheap.”

For a wild second Nora considered it. How good it would be to have them nearby. Friendly faces and support.

“I wish I could,” she replied, looking into Trude’s disappointed face.

Trude nodded. “I know. I had to try, though.”

Nora hugged Trude in a rush. Trude faltered, standing stiff in awkwardness. Nora felt awkward too at this rare show of physical contact. Suddenly, however, Trude responded and Nora felt true affection in the Polish woman’s bear hug.

“You’re the only family I’ve got left,” Nora whispered.

“You take care of yourself, hear?” Trude said, pulling back and revealing a flash of tears. “Here. Piroshki for the car. I make them. You be sure to eat them.”

“I will, I will.” Nora laughed, moving back.

She picked up the suitcase. It was unusually heavy. With his papers and notes, Nora was taking Mike with her.

“I will carry for you,” Trude said.

“No,” Nora replied. “I have to carry this.”

She took one last look at the apartment. The sun was setting now and poured in through the slats of blinds, creating vertical shadows across the parquet. Her luxury apartment never looked more the prison it had been for years.

“Don’t trust anyone.” Mike’s last words to her sounded again in her head.

“I don’t,” she said to the ghost. Nora turned away, her shoulders drooping with the weight of Mike’s message.

“I’ll never trust anyone again.”

3

NORA PAID THE TOLL and asked for a receipt.

Now that she was off the Thruway, she felt New York was truly behind her. In her head, she knew that a place could not make someone happy or unhappy, rather the life one led there. But her heart didn’t buy it. In her heart, she believed she’d be happier once she crossed the Vermont border.

The small white sign with green lettering welcomed her to the Green Mountain State. Speeding by at fifty miles per hour she felt a rush of exhilaration as she crossed the line. “Whoopee!” she called aloud as she rolled down the window and stuck her nose out like any perk-eared dog. Fresh cool air gushed in. She inhaled deeply. Vermont did feel better. The mountains were prettier, the grass was greener, and, hot dog—she was headed home.

The Volvo hummed along on the state highway, past small towns with red general stores and lone gas stations that boasted two pumps. Nora paid attention to all the markers now; it had been a while since she’d traveled these roads. She chewed her lip as she navigated the journey. Did she turn left at this blinking light? Which way did she veer when the road split by the green warehouse?

Following both memory and instinct, she guided the car toward the small mountain she called home. A brook ambled over white rocks along the side of the road, black-and-white cows chewed lazily in the pastures. She passed Ed’s syrup stand, rounded a steep turn, and there it was. She recognized it immediately. Why had she thought she wouldn’t?

Her mountain. The center of the small tree-covered mountain sagged like a saddle on an old horse. A first memory flashed.

“Let’s hike to the saddle,” Mike said. He already had his boots on, a picnic basket packed with crusty bread, strong-smelling cheese, and a cold bottle of white wine, and in his arm he carried a red-and-black wool blanket. His eyes flashed in invitation.

Nora grabbed a sweater and Mike. “Let’s go.”

The saddle was a long hike up, across steep terrain, over marble and granite boulders, and through muddy valleys. But once there the grass was as soft as baby hair. Wild berries flourished and the sun shone freely up where the trees didn’t grow. It was a favorite resting place of deer. A heavenly spot—divine for lovemaking.

Nora tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. “Mike, Mike,” she murmured. She was afraid of her grief and the unexpected turns it took. Was it a good idea to come back here of all places? The one place they had been happy.

The road curved and led into the neighboring town, really just one long road between Victorian farmhouses that were now antiques stores and bed-and-breakfasts, a needlepoint shop, the post office, a hardware store, a pizza parlor, and, busiest of all, the corner grocery. Nora pulled in to pick up some supplies.

The small store was in fact grocery, liquor store, bookstore, and video rental shop all rolled into one confined space. The front four-square windows were plastered with local notices: the firemen were having a water show in Rutland on Saturday, Wild Bird Weekend brought a special seed sale, and a brightly colored banner invited everyone to a contra dance in October. Baskets of apples, squash, and mums bordered the store’s narrow entry. Nora selected two apples and squeezed in past the baskets.

Inside, the small store was dimly lit and the precious floor space was crammed with more baskets filled with corn, potatoes, and onions. In the front of the store, the few shelves were crammed with dry goods, and in the rear of the store stood rows and rows of dusty alcohol bottles. Nora wrinkled her nose as dust tickled it. She wouldn’t find everything she needed here, but she’d find enough to make do. The wooden floors creaked as she crossed them but they were well swept. A plastic mat covered the grayed wooden counter, and on it sat a shiny nickel-plated cash register with the drawer half open.

“Hello,” Nora chirped.

The old woman behind the counter gummed her lips a moment and gave Nora a thorough once-over. “’Lo,” she replied.

The woman was no one Nora had ever seen before. It appeared no more talk was coming, thank heavens. Nora wasn’t up to questions yet. She cut a swath through the store, grabbing quickly. Coffee, eggs, milk, bread, and she was done.

“Thank you. Bye.”

“Yeh-up.”

If she shopped there daily for the next ten years, Nora doubted she’d ever get more of a response than that. Vermonters weren’t a chatty group.

At last she made the final turn by the marshy pond. The car veered off the paved road and rumbled along a dirt town road, not fit for tourists. She stretched out her cramped legs and arms and slowed to a crawl. The meadows were on a higher plain than the road and were separated by a low stone fence bordered by pine, maple, and apple trees. She began searching for something—a barn, a tree, a pond—anything familiar.

She passed the Johnston house, her nearest neighbors. The small cape with pale green asphalt siding appeared to be slipping down. Its sills were sloped, the front porch leaned, and there was chokecherry now where there used to be flowers.

The house was close to the road but she passed without stopping. She was too near her final destination to stop for hellos. The vista opened up and she smiled seeing Skeleton Tree Pond, acres of fresh spring water so cold Mike swore it could stop the heart. She felt the first prickle of excitement along her neck.

The bumpy road curved around the lower barn where sheep stood in small clusters. In the field beyond, fifty, maybe more, lazily chewed in the sun. They raised their white faces as she passed, ears pricked. Nora smiled again, feeling an instant bond with the gentle creatures.

She was on her own land now. Four hundred acres, most of them vertical, all of them green. She was surrounded by green, interspersed now with the oranges, reds, and golds of an early fall. A few yards ahead she spotted the pair of marble monoliths that signaled the foot of her private road. The stones blended in with its surroundings, so only a careful eye could spot the entry. Mike had wanted to build an imposing brick gate, but Nora had persuaded him that, at least in Vermont, nature should prevail.

She made the turn and slowed to a stop. Her road curved gracefully and disappeared behind a small hill, but Nora wasn’t fooled. She knew that beyond that hill the pastoral road made the grand prix seem like child’s play. It turned and twisted sharply and inclined straight up, making it a hair-raising trip in spots where the gravel gave way to dirt.

The unanswered question was: How was the road? Did Seth put down the gravel? Did the rain wash out gullies so deep a tire could get caught? Why hadn’t she stopped at the Johnstons’? Even now she could back up and travel back down the road.

Something inside of her resisted. A new independence told her to handle it herself. She was tired of asking for help. Sooner or later she’d have to deal with this road and sooner came now.

Gear in first, she let the clutch up and pressed the accelerator. On up she went, past the hill, past berry bushes long since picked clean by the birds, around big rocks that had lost hold and fallen to the road. Leaf-laden branches arched low, brushing the windshield as she passed and giving off an eerie squeak. Then the road began to incline steeply and the gravel bed grew thin. Nora pressed the accelerator a tad, scuttled up twenty yards and then felt the wheels slip.

Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Her foot pressed the accelerator, yet her car slid backward down the steep dirt road. Pushing the pedal to the floor, she leaned far forward and whispered, “Go, go.”

The Volvo whined as its wheels dug to dirt, spitting gravel and swinging its rear across the narrow road like a wild bronco. She headed straight for the steep bank. Nora slammed on the brakes.

Nausea swept over her as she shifted her gaze from the steep road ahead to the shallow cliff beside her. Unable to move forward, terrified to slip backward, she was in limbo. “What do I do? What do I do?” she muttered in a litany as she laid her head against the wheel.

There was no reply. She was very alone. In the density of the forest surrounding her she sensed the presence of animals—crouched and watching. Squirrels, deer, porcupines, bears, and scores of others she couldn’t even identify. She heard every snap of a branch in the uneasy quiet. Each call of a wild bird seemed to say, “Go away. You don’t belong here.”

“Damn you, Mike!” she swore as she hit the steering wheel with her fist. A September wind caught the curse and carried it across the Vermont mountains. The echo diminished into a menacing breeze that floated through the car like the whisper of a ghost. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

Why curse Mike? It was childish—and too late. She got out a short laugh. Mike never got stuck here. He had skidded on this same road, but instead of cowering as she was, he’d grind into first gear and will that heap of metal up the mountain. Only once he didn’t make it, and that was when the snow was so deep even the tractor couldn’t get up to the house. Nonetheless, he had sold the car as worthless.

“Well, there’s no Mike now,” she blurted out as she raised her head. “This is it. Nora MacKenzie. Your first test. There’s no turning back. Home is ahead.”

She let out a ragged breath as reason took over. With a thrust of determination, she shifted into first then slowly, with ease, let out the clutch.

“Come on, you hunk o’ junk,” she said. The tires spun, whined, and slipped back a few inches. Nora bit her lip and fought the temptation to hit the gas. Instead, she yanked the wheels away from a dirt patch. With a jerk, the tires caught on the firm roadbed and lurched forward.

“Go, go, go,” she crooned as the metal beast struggled up the steep incline and slowly rounded the final curve.

With the care of a captain in shallow waters, she turned the wheels away from the loose patches of gravel and rode the crest. At last, the high-pitched drone of the engine lowered as the incline flattened and she emerged from the tunnellike foliage into the light of a clearing. She hooted triumphantly.

Ahead, perched high on her mountain overlooking the Vermont mountain ranges, was a sunlit terrace. And standing proudly in its center was her house. Nora’s heart swelled when she spied the peak of the redwood and brick structure looming high above the purple heather. Next appeared the large, angular windows divided by a mammoth beam and lastly, the broad wooden deck that stretched like a smile across the breadth of the house. Nora couldn’t help smiling in return.

Pulling up in front, she danced her fingers along the wheel. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car. She yanked on the brake and scrambled out. The air was cooler that high up and its pine-scented breezes caressed her cheeks. She inhaled deeply, tasting its sweetness. Sporting a triumphant grin, she stretched her arms wide to take into her soul the majestic Vermont mountain range, blanketed now in a homey patchwork quilt of greens, purples, reds, and oranges.

Her hands might be shaky, she thought, and maybe her knees were wobbly. So what if she didn’t know what her next step would be. She felt exultant. She had made it to the top! In an inspired rush, she tugged the gold band off her left finger and threw it with desperate force into the horizon.

“I’m home!” she cried to the mountains, bringing her arms around her chest in a bear hug. The echo bounced back to her, repeating “home, home, home,” in reassuring repetition.

From above came a deep, resonant response.

“Looking for someone?”

To Nora, it was thunder in the mountains. Fear struck her marrow like a lightning bolt. She jerked her head toward the second-story deck where a man, dressed only in a pair of worn, unbuttoned jeans, towered above her. His eyes glared with suspicion from under a towel as he rubbed his wet hair. Across his chest, droplets of water cascaded like a waterfall down a mountainside.

Questions froze in her throat. Suddenly her mountain seemed very small and she felt trapped under the harsh gaze of the man on the deck above her. He was a stranger—an intruder. She was alone and vulnerable. She had to get out and get out fast. Spinning on her heel, Nora lunged for the car door.

“Hey! You! Stop!” shouted the man as he threw off the towel and pounded down the stairs.

A scream caught in her throat as Nora leaped into the Volvo and punched down the door lock just as the man grabbed the handle. He shook the handle, cursing.

“Look, lady,” he shouted, dipping his head to peer in. Water dripped from his dark blond hair down his broken nose. On either side, his eyes blazed. She froze as would a deer in a flash of light. Only when he pressed hands as large as bear paws across her windshield did she bolt upright and insert her keys.

“Let go, mister,” she shouted. He didn’t. Nora started the engine yelling, “I’m warning you.”

“And I’m warning you.”

With shaky hands, Nora rammed the gearshift and roared into reverse, sending the man and gravel flying. Again, she slipped into first, jerked the wheel around and hit the gas. From the corner of her eye she saw him leap out of the way of the moving car, then heard him pound the rear in frustration. Nora cringed but kept her eyes on the winding drive ahead. She knew she was going too fast as she neared the first sharp curve and hit the brakes. They locked, sending the car skidding across the gravel straight toward the steep bank. She corrected the steering wheel, but the wheels had locked. She’d lost control. Her muscles tensed, her mouth opened, and time stood still. Nora was filled with the sickening knowledge that she was going to crash.

She covered her head as she hit the tree.

He heard the crash as he reached the door of the house.

“Aw, damn,” he muttered, swinging wide the door and dashing inside. Within seconds, he had grabbed his keys and jacket and was rushing toward his Jeep, buttoning his pants along the way. The gravel dug into his bare feet, but he ran without pause to the car, hit the accelerator, and sped down the road. After the first curve he spotted the blue Volvo in the ditch and sucked in his breath. The car lay buried under a broken limb and its foliage. He saw again the New York license plates.

With dread, he ran to the driver’s seat and peered in through the broken glass. The woman lay crumpled against the steering wheel. Jiggling the handle of the locked door, he cursed again. The passenger door was blocked by a heavy limb. He’d have to move it but wasn’t sure he could. Focusing on the limb, he grabbed it and heaved the limb away from the door, all the while still cursing the woman for showing up here at all. He yanked open the crumpled door and crawled in beside her.

She was beautiful. It was one of those futile thoughts that pop into one’s mind at the wrong time. Shaking his head, he reached to pick up her wrist. It was thin and fragile, like the wing of a wounded sparrow. He laid his own large, callused fingers upon her pulse. Nothing had ever felt so good as that steady beat. The stranger was now a real person.

“Just hang on, little bird,” he murmured. “I’ll get you out of here.” But how? Advice he had once heard nagged him: Never move an accident victim—something about broken bones. Well, he thought as he shifted his weight, there was only one way to find out. Carefully lifting her head, he cradled her against his shoulder. Her blond hair felt soft against his bare chest, making him uncomfortable touching her. His hands clenched and unclenched in indecision.

“This is ridiculous,” he said aloud. There was nothing to do but be professional and quick. He gingerly lifted her suede jacket and slipped his hand under the fabric. His fingers palpated her neck, shoulders, and traveled down her spine. Then, being exceedingly careful not to touch her breasts, he slipped his hand across her ribs. She really was like a sparrow, all bones and feathers. And as far as he could tell, the bones were unbroken.

His whistle of relief filled the crushed compartment. The rest he could handle. He carried the woman to his Jeep as gently as he would a handful of fresh raspberries. Resting her head on his lap, he frowned when he saw the purple swelling of the bruise on her head. He’d have to get her to a doctor, but her crashed-up Volvo blocked his path down the road. He’d better call Seth.

The Jeep’s gears screamed as he backed up the mountain in reverse, but still she didn’t awaken. He carried the petite woman into the house, thinking as he did that he’d carried sacks of grain that weighed more than she did. Without a second thought, he took her up to the master bedroom. It was quiet, private, and somehow appropriate. Balancing her against his knee, he pushed back the piles of quilts and blankets, releasing a heavy scent of mothballs. Carefully, he laid her upon the clean sheets, then as carefully, removed her fine leather shoes and covered her with a thick down coverlet.

The air was getting crisp as night set in and her hands were cold in his warmer ones. As he dialed the farm’s caretaker, his free hand rubbed hers softly, noting that her delicate fingers were void of the large, vulgar rings he despised. In fact, there was no wedding ring. That struck him as odd. She looked like the type a man would marry. How old could she be, he wondered? Twenty-five, thirty? Probably divorced—then again, maybe not.

He shook the idle thoughts from his head as Seth Johnston answered the phone. In few words the old man agreed to have the Volvo moved and help sent to the house. Talk was cheap and time expensive on the farm, and Seth liked to economize. They both preferred it that way.

After laying down the phone, he covered the woman with another blanket and tucked it under her softly rounded chin. His hand moved to her cheek and patted it, then brushed a few hairs from the purple lump on her forehead.

Staring at her face he was once again struck by her waiflike beauty. Hers was not a voluptuous appeal. Her face and golden hair were delicate, like an angel’s, making the ugly bruise swelling on her forehead menacing. There lay the truth of it, he thought with a frown. Her business here made her more a devil than an angel. A skinny runt of a devil.

The woman’s clothes, though of fine quality, were baggy and hung loose on her bony frame. Her cheeks were gaunt and her skin color was more pale than fair. She looked as if she needed a good meal.

He sighed. He had expected a Philip Marlowe type to track him down. Leave it to Agatha to send a woman.

“Lady, lady, lady,” he whispered. “Just look how your snooping has hurt us both.”

He ran his hand through his hair. The evidence was clear: New York plates, expensive clothes, patrician features. He recognized the style, he could almost give the address. And her money and status made it a sure bet she knew who he was.

“Karma,” he said with resignation. He could only accept it and pack. As soon as she was in good hands, he’d slip away.

From outside, the sound of whining engines and crunching gravel alerted him to Seth’s arrival. He reluctantly left the woman’s side to throw on a sweater and greet his boss.

Seth squeezed his great girth out from behind the wheel of his pickup truck. He looked as weathered by time and mileage as the Ford and about as rusty. In the cab sat two children, grandchildren from a marriage gone bad. Following as usual, his sons drive up in the old green Impala. He expected the whole family. This was exciting business up here in the mountains.

Seth stretched out a well-callused hand. “You be havin’ friends up at the big house now, Charley?” he asked with a grin that revealed many missing teeth.

C.W. knew it was more than a friendly inquiry. Seth shared the flock and used MacKenzie’s land in exchange for keeping an eye on it and the house.

“No, sir, I am not,” he answered firmly. “I’ve never laid eyes on her before. I was in the shower when I heard the car pull up. When I tried to talk to her she sped down the mountain like a demon. Her plates are from New York.”

Seth’s eyes narrowed. “New York, you say?” He turned to his son. “That right, Frank?”

“Yeh-up. The city all right. Saw the plates when we moved the car. Never saw that one before, though. You thinkin’ it might be one of MacKenzie’s?”

“Could be. Come on, Charley, show us where she is. You two young’uns stay out here and out o’ trouble. Frank, Junior, Esther, come on.”

The two tall and lanky men strode with a gait so loose and close their shoulders bumped in a brotherly camaraderie. Even in their mid-twenties, they resembled lion cubs, swiping and jabbing with a youthful exuberance. They approached the house as they did everything—together.

C.W. smiled a brief greeting, then turned to Seth’s eldest daughter. Esther, one of Vermont’s persistent flower children, covered her long, lean body with patched jeans and a flowered shirt. At her side she carried a large straw bag. Knowing Esther, he imagined it carried a practical, well-thought-out first-aid kit.

As she passed, Esther smiled from under her floppy straw hat. As always, C.W. had to search for signs of her twenty-six years. The soft lines at the corners of her eyes accentuated her sharp mind; the thin frown lines at her mouth revealed the degree of her discontent.

He led them to the master bedroom, then stepped aside while Seth and his family filled the room. In a moment he heard them utter as one, “It’s Nora!”

C.W. stood straighter and walked closer. “You know her?”

Seth turned to face him, his eyes serious. “You did right by putting her in here. This be her room…her house.”

C.W.’s eyes widened. She wasn’t an investigator? He looked at the woman again. Mrs. MacKenzie? She seemed too young and innocent to be the flamboyant Michael MacKenzie’s wife. Realization set in.

“I thought you said they never came up here.”

“They don’t. Her not once in three years,” Seth responded.

C.W. held his arms akimbo and his chin low to conceal his shocked expression. The Big Mac’s widow. Here. He felt like he’d been punched. He studied the thin, pitiful-looking woman in the bed and hardened his heart. What the bloody hell?

He searched Nora’s pale white profile. No doubt she was as cold-hearted and fast-fisted as her husband. What other kind of woman would marry Mike MacKenzie?

4

“SHE’S COMING AROUND, PA,” called Esther from Nora’s bedside.

Nora blinked once, lazily, then again as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Through the lifting fog, she saw a woman’s face peer into her own.

“Esther?” Nora asked in a feeble voice.

“That’s me, Mrs. MacKenzie,” Esther replied in the clipped, practical voice that Nora remembered. “You got yourself a nasty bump. Here, let’s put some ice on it.”

Nora winced as a bag of ice was plopped on her head and a thermometer was stuck in her mouth. “Seth? Seth Johnston, is that you?” she asked, removing the thermometer and holding out a hand.

“Yeh-up,” he drawled as he ambled to her bedside with a rocking gait.

Nora was disturbed to see him so fat now that he panted with the effort. The only things thin about Seth were his hair and his clothes, and the latter were faded as well.

“Nice to have you back again, missus,” he said, taking her hand. “Long time.”

“Too long,” she responded with a weak smile.

“Yeh-up.” He nodded, releasing her hand. “Long time.” He nodded again and shifted his eyes.

Stepping forward, Esther returned the thermometer to Nora’s mouth with authority. “What the blazes sent you tearing down the mountain that way?”

“I believe I did,” came a reply from the corner.

Startled, Nora followed the bass voice to the far corner of the room. A tall broad silhouette was outlined in the shadows. She slowly raised herself to her elbows, squinting in the poor light.

“And who are you?” she mumbled with as much authority as she could muster with a thermometer in her mouth.

He slowly straightened, and after a palpable pause, strode into the light. Her hand rose to her throat. It was the stranger from the deck.

“You!” she whispered.

He didn’t respond, but his mouth set in a grim line. He stood before the bed, watching her every reaction in tense silence, before quietly asking, “You don’t know me, Mrs. MacKenzie?”

The question was more of a challenge. She narrowed her eyes and searched the tall man in tight jeans and a plaid shirt. With his dark blond hair and hard, chiseled features, he had the kind of masculine good looks that a woman would remember. Yet standing next to Junior and Frank, he did not emit the conceit or pride that she found so offensive in attractive men. In fact, he appeared distinctly uncomfortable with her study.

“No,” she replied, firmly removing the dread thermometer and returning it to Esther. “I’m quite sure we’ve never met. Should we have?”

He stepped back a pace, shaking his head no. But not before she detected a distinct smile of relief. A shiver of suspicion ran down her spine. Nora quickly straightened, but the room spun, forcing her back on her pillows with a groan.

The man was suddenly at Nora’s side.

“The lady needs to see a doctor. No offense, Es.”

“None taken, C.W. But there’s no doc to call.”

“Well, now,” interrupted Seth. “There’s that New York doctor what stays in Middleton Springs. Comes up every fall for the hunting season. Redman…Red somethin’ or other.”

“Redden,” Nora responded softly behind closed lids. “I know him. His number should be by the phone.”

“A New York doctor?” C.W. asked. “Isn’t there anyone local we can call?”

“No,” Nora said cautiously, surprised by his antagonism. “He’s our physician of choice. He’ll come.” She didn’t add that he’d better come. Mike had given Dr. Redden full rein of their four hundred acres to hunt every fall for years, and it was time to call in a favor.

At a nod from her father, Esther headed out of the room.

“I’ll give him a call, C.W.”

C.W. stood abruptly, his face clouded.

“Do you have objections to calling a New York doctor?” Nora asked. His stance, the authority in his voice, the angle at which he held his head—all held an indefinable air of breeding. Strange in a farmhand, if that was what he was.

“No, why should I?” he replied, his face suddenly impassive. “Call who you like—as long as you call.”

“Better watch how you throw your weight around, Charley,” said Seth, laughing, “now that it’s hunting season. Big bucks are a prime target.”

Nora witnessed the affection in C.W.’s glance at Seth. Who was this man, she wondered, who wore his sophistication as comfortably as his work clothes?

“Just who are you and what is your name, anyway?” she asked. “C.W. or Charley?”

His smile revealed deep dimples that stretched from the corners of his mouth to the curve of his chiseled chin. “Only Seth gets away with calling me Charley.”

“Never could take to calling a man by letters,” Seth muttered.

“Very well, C.W.,” she continued, her smile disappearing. “Would you mind telling me what your full name is and what you were doing showering in my house?”

Rather than being put off by her tone, he seemed pleased by it. He smiled wryly and put his hands on his hips. “My name is Walker, Charles Walker. I work here as an extra hand. Part of my arrangement was to stay in this house. I’m sorry if I frightened you. You see, I didn’t expect you.”

Nora sought confirmation from Seth, who nodded and stepped forward. “That’s right. Hired him back in January to help with the sugaring and the lambing.”

She returned her gaze to the tall man, then self-consciously realized it was he who was covertly assessing her every reaction.

“I’m sorry about the confusion, Mrs. MacKenzie,” C.W. said, looking down at his feet. When he raised his eyes again, they held a teasing light. “I didn’t mean to send you careening down the mountain.”

Nora flushed and her voice rose a note. “Mr. Walker, I’m not accustomed to half-naked men running out of my house and trying to bully me out of my car!”

He made no reply. Now she read remorse, and perhaps even guilt, in his eyes. This fencing was getting her nowhere.

“It wasn’t entirely your fault, Mr. Walker,” she admitted with an exhausted wave of her hand. “I didn’t expect you either. It was a comedy of errors.”

“With a near tragic ending. Nonetheless, I apologize.”

Something in his tone, sincerity perhaps, caused her to look back his way. With his hands in his hip pockets and his head tucked low, she wondered how she’d ever been afraid of him. He almost smiled at her, and she returned a half smile.

“I assume you’ll be staying here for a while,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “I’ll get my things together immediately and find another place to stay.”

“Wait, Mr. Walker. Things are going too fast.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. He saw the wariness slip from her face like a mask removed.

“Such confusion,” she said, letting her hands fall on the bed. “I should have called—I usually do. Things have been a bit…hurried. I didn’t have you down on my guest calendar and assumed the house would be empty.”

“Right peculiar it is,” said Seth. “I wrote them lawyers about it. But I never did hear nothing back from them.” He didn’t bother to conceal his smile as he scratched his belly. “I figure them fellas didn’t put Charley here on that guest calendar of yours.”

Nora sat still in the bed. They were laughing at her, lying there with a ridiculous lump on her head. Ralph Bellows had failed her again. Worse thing was, nothing she could say could alter their opinion. Only actions counted for much up here.

“Seth,” she began, “from now on nothing, absolutely nothing, goes to the lawyers. Everything goes straight to me.” The skepticism in Seth’s eyes hurt.

He ambled up to her bed and removed his green cap with John Deere emblazoned across it. His oil-stained fingerprints were visible on the visor as he held the cap before him.

“You aim to keep the farm?” he asked with characteristic bluntness.

“But of course,” she replied with emphasis. “I plan to live here. Permanently.” She ventured a small smile. “I guess that eliminates my guest calendar.”

No one laughed. Seth shifted his weight and shook his head.

“Don’t know but you’re up to it here alone,” he began slowly. “Snow comes and you’ll get stuck up here for days before we can dig you out. Power quits too, every bad storm.” Rubbing his chin he muttered, “Nope. This house is just too high up for real living. Leastwhiles in Vermont winters.” He snapped his cap back on his head. “You best know what you’re getting into.”

“I agree with Seth,” C.W. added. “This is no place for you to live alone. It’s brutal. Nobody has the time to keep checking up on you.”

“I wasn’t aware that I asked,” she snapped back.

While outwardly she knew she appeared hard-boiled, inwardly she was thin-shelled. With no family to fall back on, Nora was truly alone. Only her optimism and blind faith spurred her hope that she could form new roots here on the farm.

“I’ll manage, Seth,” she said, bolstering herself up on the pillows and forcing a smile. “I know I can count on you for advice on how to winterize this place. And if Frank and Junior need the work, I’d like to hire them and get started right away. And of course, Esther,” she added as Esther returned to the room.

Nora pushed higher in the bed.

“This is no longer a vacation home. It is home. My home.” Nora’s chest swelled. At that moment, she felt she could really do it.

“Well,” Seth answered with a grunt. “It won’t be any vacation, that’s for sure. But it’s plain you got your mind set. The boys and I will look around and see what’s got to get done before snow sets in. But it won’t be cheap. It’s a big house.”

Nora paled. “I understand. But do keep a tight rein on the budget. Nothing fancy.”

C.W. looked at her askance.

Nora turned to face him squarely. “And you, Mr. Walker. What are your plans?” Her voice was as cool as the autumn air.

C.W. shook his head. It seemed to her he would laugh out loud.

“My plan, Mrs. MacKenzie,” he replied in a controlled voice, “is to honor my contract and finish out this lambing. Then I’ll pack and be out of here by October’s end.” He glanced at Seth for confirmation.

C.W.’s eyes took her measure and she felt she had come up lacking.

“My contract does not stipulate that I work on your house for this…urge of yours to live off the fat of the land. If you get a chill, you can always pack up and jet down to Palm Beach.”

Nora dug her nails into her palms. She wanted to scream at him that she wasn’t that type at all. That she was scared out of her mind.

Pride held her tongue. She knew that to them, she was a pitiful figure. To them, a woman without a man was sad enough, but one trying to make a life for herself alone in the mountains was an object of ridicule.

Nora took a long breath and willed her hands to relax at her sides. “I see,” she replied with a patronizing tone. “Whatever is more convenient for you.”

His blue eyes steamed, and by the way he cleared his throat she sensed that he, too, was swallowing his frustration.

“It’s clear I can’t stay in this house,” he continued in a decidedly polite manner. “I’d appreciate being able to sleep in the cabin.”

A sound of disbelief came from the corner. Esther was whispering furiously in her father’s ear. Seth shrugged and looked away.

“There’s not but a potbelly stove in there,” Esther cried. “No water, no facilities. You’ll freeze your you-know-what off.”

“It’ll do,” he replied, still looking at Nora, “if you’ll agree to let me eat breakfast here, do some laundry, and take a shower or two. I’ll be discreet.”

“Yes, I think that would be fine, Mr. Walker. Until October’s end, that is.”

“I think you’re crazy,” said Esther. “Or just muleheaded.” She scowled. “Shoot, I’ll fix up the cabin for you. But when that frost hits, you’ll be checking to see just what Jack nipped.”

Esther blushed as the men snickered.

“You quit it, you guys,” Esther barked.

C.W. reached out and gave her back a friendly pat. “Thanks, Es. I do believe your temper will keep us all warm this fall.”

Nora was quick to notice the commiserating glance Esther offered him. Once again, C.W. caught Nora staring at him, and a veil of distrust cloaked his features.

“I’ll check on the car,” C.W. called over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

Nora watched his retreating back in silence then glanced from the empty doorway to Seth, to Esther, then back to Seth with her eyebrows raised in question.

“That Charley don’t jaw much,” said Seth. “Keeps to himself. But he’s a good man. Best I ever hired.”

“Where’s he from?” Nora asked.

“The east. Got references from some horse farm. Did some managing, not much handling of sheep. He’s a quick learner, though.”

“It’s true. He’s always got his nose in some sheep or farm book,” added Esther. “I like him. So do Frank and Junior. Thought they’d be jealous, the way C.W.’s taking over and all, but I guess it’s all in the way it’s done.” The look she gave Nora spoke plainly of how poor a showing she’d offered so far.

Seth’s persistent nods and occasional “yeh-ups” confirmed that Mr. Charles Walker had passed the stringent acceptance test of Vermonters. Nora was impressed.

“Seth,” Nora began, looking into the caretaker’s wizened face, “I have to get a handle on the finances of this farm right away. Budgets, expenses, and the lot. When can we meet?”

Seth scratched his head. “Any time, as long as you meet with Charley.”

“Mr. Walker?”

“Yep. Charley’s the man for the numbers.” He jawed his gums a moment then added, “Sure helps me out, I can tell you. Truth is, he’s so good I just let him handle the whole job now. And he’s teachin’ my Frank the tricks, too.” He hitched his pants. “If you got any questions about budget, missus, Charley’s the man to ask.”

Nora did not respond. She faced the unpleasant prospect of having to work closely with the stone-faced, dispassionate, opinionated Mr. Walker.

“Nothin’ worth doin’ around here,” Seth concluded, tugging at his visor. “I’ll be joining C.W. at the barn. Esther, you wait till this Doc Redman shows up.”

“Sure, Pa,” Esther muttered.

Seth left, leaving the two women in an awkward silence. Nora had never known Esther very well. Unlike the other Johnstons, she had always kept her distance. Esther was tall, angular, and with her penetrating green eyes, striking. She wasn’t a big woman, just strong boned, and Esther never hunched her shoulders, as so many other tall women did. The effect was one of confidence, and it was imposing. Nora remembered stories about Esther, the way she’d venture off into the mountains alone.

“I’ll go make you some tea,” said Esther in her husky voice. “Don’t fall asleep, now. You might have a concussion or something.”

“No, I won’t.”

Nora viewed the closing door with relief. Her triumphant return had turned into an embarrassing disaster. Instead of charging in and taking over, here she was, lying in bed with a goose egg on her head. Life just wasn’t fair. Tomorrow, she’d try again, Nora vowed, burrowing under the blankets. Tomorrow, she’d do better.

The mountain of blankets formed a barrier between herself and the rest of the world. She sank deeper into their warmth. Nora turned on her side and watched, transfixed, as a spider carefully spun its web in the dusty corner.

To each creature a home, she thought with hope.

5

IN THE LOWER BARN, C.W. was working up a sweat. He loved to throw hay. It was hard, backbreaking work that brought his muscles to the point of pure pain. C.W. threw at a steady pace, humming a soundless tune in his head, beating the rhythm of his pitches with grunts. Poke, lift, pitch. Down, up, and out. Down, up, and out. Over and over. Faster and faster. His biceps began to tremble, and sweat beaded his brow and pooled under his arms. He needed to work hard now. This was the one way he could blot out the questions that haunted him.

Today, however, the questions kept coming. Why was MacKenzie’s widow here now? He’d thought he found the perfect haven in which to hide while he redirected his life. Seth had confirmed that the MacKenzies never came here. What was she up to? And why was MacKenzie’s widow worried about old Seth’s house budget? He was right about her, he realized with distaste. She’d be cheap with good, honest people and end up using them, just like her husband did.

From the corner of his eye he saw a figure move near the barn’s entry. C.W. groaned, threw a final forkful of hay, and stopped to catch his breath. Standing still now, his muscles throbbed so; he could hear the beat of it in his brain. After wiping his brow with his dusty shirtsleeve he looked over his shoulder toward the figure by the door.

Seth was rubbing his jaw as if he had a bad itch, and when he wasn’t rubbing, he was hitching his pants and clearing his throat. C.W. coughed, set down his pitchfork, and met Seth’s gaze. There was no delaying it. Seth wanted to talk.

“Hey, Seth,” he called, slipping easily into the vernacular. He walked directly over to the old man, his long legs crossing the barn quickly.

“Barn looks good,” Seth said. His smile was brief.

C.W. was always stunned to note how many of Seth’s teeth were missing. “Thanks.”

“Yeh-up. Can’t work a farm when the tools are rusted.”

“Nope,” C.W. replied. He enjoyed giving the short rejoinders as much as Seth did hearing them. Seth started at hitching his pants again.

“Something I can do for you, Seth?”

Seth looked off at the ewes awhile. “You were acting strange up there with the missus,” Seth said at last.

Here we go, thought C.W. “How so?”

“Like you knew her.”

C.W. skipped a beat. “Nope. I never met her.”

Seth screwed up his eyes.

Cagey old bird, thought C.W. with affection. He held his tongue, however, knowing his silence could outlast even Seth’s patience.

“Silence is a wonderful thing, son,” Seth said after a spell of watching three hens peck the corn. “But it’s a far cry from secrets.”

C.W. kicked the dirt and stared at his dusty boot. “I never met her,” he said quietly.

Seth nodded, knowing it was the truth.

C.W. ran his hand through his hair with a long sigh.

“Well, I guess I was hard on her for a while there. Skinny New York women have a way of getting on my nerves.” He was relieved to hear Seth chuckle. “From what I know of MacKenzie, she’s going to be a real pain.”

“What you know of MacKenzie?”

Clever man, mused C.W. “I know what I hear. Let’s see, from you I heard he was ornery as a mule and late to pay his bills. From the boys I heard he was short on charm and long on demands, and from Esther…” He paused. “I get mixed messages from Esther. I gather she both hates him and, dare I say, admires him?”

Seth rubbed his jaw again. C.W. sensed an untold story there. Seth looked away for a moment, but when he swung his head back, his face flattened to a deadpan.

C.W. went back to his hay. He hadn’t thrown more than three forkfuls before he heard Seth’s voice again.

“You workin’ up a frenzy today,” Seth said.

“Lot of delays,” he grunted between pitches. “Lot to get done before the sun sets.”

“Lot of thinkin’, seems to me.”

C.W. slowed, stopped, and peered over his shoulder once again. Seth was standing with his hands in his rear pockets and one foot slightly before the other. His eyes were boring into him.

“When a boil starts to fester, it’s time to stop everything and clean it. Else it spreads and ruins you. Makes you mean and ugly and you hurt bad all the time.”

“Just what is it you think I need to clean out, Seth?”

Seth gummed a bit, holding back. “Reckon you know that best, son. But I do know that you’ve been festering for months now and it looks like its comin’ to a head. Might be time to tend to it, that’s all I’m saying.”

A quiet pall settled in the barn. C.W. leaned on his fork while staring at the ewes. They stared right back at him, as though waiting for his response.

C.W. shook his head and dug his fork into the ground. Festering was the word for it. Perhaps it was time to purge. He trusted Seth, both his wisdom and his silence. Running his hand in his hair, he approached Seth.

“I never met Mrs. MacKenzie,” he began slowly. “But I knew Mike.”

Seth’s eyes widened.

“Everyone on Wall Street knew the ‘Big Mac.’ Mac, the big dealer. Mac, the big spender. There was this inside joke, spawned by jealousy: ‘Have you heard today’s Mac Deal?’”

He looked up at Seth. The old man wasn’t smiling.

“MacKenzie was this ruddy, handsome fellow with a loud, confident laugh and a firm handshake,” C.W. continued. “People enjoyed gathering around him and listening to the ribald stories that he told with professional skill. But his eyes were cold and calculating.

“At least he was honest about it,” added C.W., kicking the dirt. “Mike wanted to make money. And boy did he. Some called him a genius. Others called him a shark. He had an instinct for the kill and devoured businesses and swallowed profits in huge gulps. And that was business.” He shrugged. “I saw him as a highly leveraged con artist.”

“I guess I ain’t surprised you’re some kind of money man, the way you handle numbers. Still, it makes me wonder. I know how MacKenzie left. Why’d you leave?” Seth asked.

C.W. flinched, hearing in his mind the revolver’s retort, Mike’s blood blurring his vision again. His nose burned. His breath choked. C.W. wiped a shaky hand across his face, squeezing his eyelids tight. Then, suddenly, the answer came to him. A burst of clarity, after so many months of confusion. C.W. took a great gulp of air before speaking, more to himself than to Seth.

“I don’t want a killer instinct.”

C.W. didn’t move; he stared out of the barn with his hands in his hip pockets, while a muscle twitched in his broad jaw. From across the barn the sound of bleating was a staccato against the quiet dusk. Seth waited, giving C.W. the time he needed to clean out the wound.

After a spell, C.W. blinked, absently stretched his shoulders, and turned toward Seth, a sheepish look on his face.

“I suspect the boil burst.”

“Yeh-up.” Seth shifted his weight. “Speakin’ on MacKenzie. The missus, she ain’t nothing like the mister.”

“Oh? How is she different?”

“She’s a sad one. Used to wonder what made her so. When they first came up here she laughed all the time. Sweet thing, always comin’ down to the house with a gift from town or to buy more syrup from us than she’d ever use. They didn’t always have that big house. Nope. Used to camp up there before the building set up…and during. Some of them nights was cold enough to freeze water in a pail.”

He shook his head and chuckled. “We used to credit it to love. And them being young, ’course. Heard he got pretty rich, real quick. Money can change a man.”

C.W. felt a chill. “So I hear.”

“Not her though. She was sweet as ever. But she started getting that sad look on her face, like a ewe what’s been left behind in the field.”

“Then they just stopped coming up?”

“Yeh-up. No word, no nothin’. Just stopped coming.” He shrugged. “I guess that’s the way it is with rich folks. Maybe they just get bored. Still…” Seth scratched his belly then his head, ending the pause with a slap of his cap against his thigh.

“This still be her place and she’s a nice lady.”

“I understand, Seth.”

“Figured you would. Well, better get down to dinner before Esther starts to calling. Lord, how that woman can holler.”

C.W. walked over to the hay pile and resumed a steady rhythm of throwing hay.

Seth slipped his hat on, paused, then added, “If you feel like jawin’ a bit more, you know where to find me.”

C.W. stopped and faced the old man. His chest swelled.

“Thanks, Seth. I believe I will.”

Seth gummed a bit, then gave a brief wave. Before he left the barn, he threw a final sentence out. It seemed to reach C.W. after Seth had left the barn.

“You’re a good boy.”

The few words touched C.W. in a deep place that no words had reached in a very long time. It had been a very long time since anyone had called him a good boy. Or since he had thought that of himself.

C.W. sat on a bale of hay and rested his head in his hands.

The blue skies outside the great room were turning misty, signaling the end of her first day home in the mountains. Birds skittered in the sky, frantic at being away from home so close to dark. Nora went out on the deck to watch them arc, swoop, and bank turns, understanding how they felt. The warm day was becoming cool night. The sweet day songs had ceased; only the nighthawk, with its long pointed wings, kept up its nasal peent, peent. From the north, a wind was picking up and carrying off the first of an army of leaves. In the air, Nora could taste sweet rain.

She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. She should go in, but the cloud mist on her face refreshed her. So she stood out on the deck awhile longer to stare out at the mountains, dark purple now under lowering clouds. The clouds would soon swallow the house. Thunder rumbled in the valley.

“I’m safe now,” she called back to the nighthawk. “I’m already home.”

Speak them she might, she didn’t feel the words in the red hush of dusk. As she stood alone in her large, unfinished, mountain home, she thought if this were a nest, she’d be wildly searching for twigs, twine, and mud to patch together a safe haven against the incoming storm. But she was a woman, with neither the practical skills nor the money needed to finish the endless projects she’d discovered today.

She had forgotten how much remained to be done. Miles and years had fogged her memory in a romantic vision of country life, leaving unremembered unpleasant details such as unfinished floors and ceilings. Memory was selective, she realized.

Esther, however, had reminded her all too clearly in her forthright manner earlier that afternoon.

They’d been walking up the short flight of stairs to the great room. On this first day, Nora had made overtures to a possible new ally. A friend, a woman friend, would be welcome. So she sought out Esther’s opinions on what she’d do in the house, even though she already had her own plan firmly set in her organized mind.

Esther was not easy to approach. She was definite about her opinions and did not couch them with “I think” or with questions. She could be intimidating.

“I don’t know what you’re going to do all by yourself in this big house,” Esther said bluntly.

“There’ll be no shortage of projects to keep me busy. Besides, I’m used to living alone.”

Esther raised her brows. “Well, it’s going to be pretty lonely up here when you get snowed in. All those windows will make it cold too.”

“I suppose,” Nora replied, scanning the high ceilings and huge plates of glass that surrounded the great room. She’d look into sewing some insulated shades right away.

“All these cement floors,” Esther said in the lower levels, “get icy, and there’s nothing you can do to warm them up till summer—and that don’t come till July.”

Nora’s gaze swept the pitted gray cement floors of the lower floor. This part of the house was low on her priority list of improvements.

“I’ll have to get wood floors put in, someday.” In the meantime, she thought to herself, a row of carpet samples might do.

“You’ll probably want the upstairs john done too, I suspect.”

“Not this year.”

“That means you’ll have to run down three flights of stairs just to pee? Long trip in the middle of the night.” Esther laughed, but at the sight of Nora’s face, she cut it short.

It went on like that as they toured the house, and Nora’s to-do list grew. Esther also pointed out all the fine features of the house, like the redwood beam and deck, the slate roof, the rosy brick, and more copper piping than anyone else in town could dream of putting in.

“Not another house like it in the county,” Esther reported.

Nora would have traded grandeur for economy. All she saw was miles of unfinished floor and ceilings, rafters covered with thick sheets of clear plastic, and trapped under them, the carcasses of hordes of flies, ants, and wasps. There were no doors to the bedrooms, or closets for that matter, and all the walls, from the basement to the top-floor bedroom, were only roughed in. Electrical outlets hung from walls or frames where walls were supposed to be.

Nora’s critical eye took in and calculated what it would cost to complete the five-level six-bedroom house. It was enough to weaken her at the knees.

“I’m just hoping to get done what I need to survive during the winter. And at least a door on the bathroom,” she said, thinking of C.W.’s showers. “I can hold off for a while on the aesthetics.” She didn’t mention that once the house was finished, her taxes would also rise.

Esther stood in the center of the great room and craned her neck to view the vaulted ceilings. “Why don’t you just finish it all up?” she asked. “This house has been sitting up here untended for years. In fact, every year, right about February when we’re feeling pretty tight in our place, we can’t help but wonder what you started this big house for, just for you and Mike and no kids.”

Nora saw from Esther’s expression that she envied the room.

“Why be finicky now?” Esther asked, casting a testy glance Nora’s way. “Mike would finish the job in a hurry. First-class all the way.”

Nora’s back stiffened. “Frankly, I wish he had finished this house. But he didn’t.” Nora’s face was pink with indignation. “Mike left quite a few projects unfinished, and now it’s up to me to tidy up. I will get it done when I can, as I can.” She tightened her arms across her chest and her voice was more sharp than she had intended.

Esther’s eyes narrowed, studying Nora. “You really plan to live here?”

“I do.”

“Why?” She shifted her weight. “Why did you move here anyway?”

Nora expelled a long hiss of air. How often was she going to have to defend this decision? She thought a moment, trying to explain the unexplainable.

“I moved here from New York to find something beautiful again. In me and out there.” She saw Esther’s doubtful expression and coupled her hands in frustration. “I can’t put it into words.”

“When are you gonna move back?”

Esther scored a direct hit that left Nora speechless. Looking at her, Nora saw the peachy skin and sweet features of a country girl—and the brittle cool of a seasoned New York socialite. Nora’s face colored, then flushed as she watched a small smile of victory ease across Esther’s face.

“People like you come and go from New York all the time,” Esther charged. “Dreaming of the good life. Then you learn that life is life, and up here that life is pretty tough. Next thing you pack up and go. Leavin’ us behind.” She sniffed and looked away, squinting. When she turned back, her eyes were hard.

“We don’t take much to people who come and go.”

Nora stared back with eyes wide, affronted by the hostility she did nothing to inspire.

“Speaking of which,” Esther swung on her heel and grabbed her bag off the floor, “I gotta go.”

Nora counted Esther’s steps across the plywood. “It’s not like that,” Nora called to her back.

Esther turned. “We’ll see,” she said, then left.

Nora walked out onto the deck to watch Esther as she backed away in her Impala, turned, then drove out of sight.

She had remained standing on the deck; she stood there still, recalling Esther’s words as the clouds grew heavy in the heavens. Nora gripped the deck rail tightly and fought off the dark, dull cloak of depression.

“Yes, Esther,” she spoke aloud in the autumn hush. “We will see.”

6

MAY JOHNSTON STIRRED UP a potion of baking soda and warm water and set it before Seth, giving it a final spin at the table.

“Drink every drop. You need to burp.”

She stood, one hand on the back of Seth’s chair, the other on her ample hip, hovering like a hen as her brother grunted and slowly reached out for the brew.

“You know I won’t budge till it’s gone.”

Seth looked up at the formidable figure of his sister. Only her stubbornness was bigger than she was.

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. With a sigh of resignation, he took the cup and swallowed it down in three noisy gulps. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he grimaced. Soon after, a loud raucous burp exploded from his girth.

“Good!” exclaimed May. “See, I was right. Nothin’ but indigestion.”

Seth rubbed his sore chest and smiled weakly. “Yeh-up, that’ll be it.” Another smaller burp offered him more relief.

May took the chair opposite Seth and slowly lowered herself into it. She was no stranger to ill health but always seemed to tend to others’ ills more than to her own. Diabetes had made her obese, gum disease had taken a number of her front teeth, varicose veins kept her off her feet, and every spring and fall the flowers that she adored kept her sneezing and tearing.

She cast all that off as “her ailments,” and nothing more. Just crosses to bear, time off purgatory. Nonetheless, her own ailments kept her on the alert for the ailments of others. No flu bug could creep in her family’s house without vitamin C and orange juice being rushed out. If a sore throat stung, a spoonful of honey, some lemon juice, and a splash of whisky flowed.

May had come to Seth’s house soon after his wife took sick. She bathed, fed, dressed, and nursed Liza during the final months the doctors let her stay home. Then, after cancer claimed her sister-in-law, May stayed on awhile longer to help her brother and his five motherless children. She rented a trailer, parked it across the road from Seth’s house, and in typical fashion, rolled up her sleeves and focused on “the babies.”

That was twenty-two years ago. May had long since bought the trailer, planted her beloved perennial bed, and paved a small walkway from her trailer to Seth’s back door. Her “babies” were grown up now, and “her ailments” kept her boxed up in the trailer most of the time. Still, she never let an ailment pass by without speaking on it.

“You sure that doctor came up and checked on Mrs. MacKenzie?” she asked Seth.

“Yeh-up. Saw his car come and go.”

“How big did you say that lump was?”

Seth offered as detailed a description as he could between burps, knowing his sister would settle for nothing less.

“Strange, her coming back here. Thought for sure they’d put that land up for sale once he died. The Vermont Land Trust already made inquiries, you know. Nice piece a land. You sure she ain’t selling?”

“Didn’t sound like it. She wants to live here, so she says.”

“Live in that big, unfinished house all alone? Without help?” Her meaty hand slapped the table. “That’s just crazy.”

“Don’t I know it. Told her so but she’s got her mind set. Me and the boys are gonna work on the house. They can use the work. Lamb prices are down again.”

“I just hope she don’t end up breakin’ up the land into ten-acre parcels and selling them off. Like Widow Nealy’s done.” May made loud clucking noises. “Leaving her kids with nothin’.”

“The widow’s gonna be lonely someday…real lonely.”

“MacKenzie’s got some beauty views. Them out o’ towners like the views.”

“Like I said, she ain’t selling. Not right away anyway. She’s a funny thing. Stick-to kinda person. Remember how she planted all them blueberry bushes on the slope, then came over to get fresh manure?” He chuckled and wiped his mouth.

May laughed and slapped her hand again. “Lord almighty, I do too! I about died when I saw them nylon bags full of manure hangin’ off them tiny little bushes. Bowed them right over.”

“Deer came and ate them bushes anyway.” Seth’s eyes twinkled. “But she went and planted another batch.”

“Yes, she did,” said May, remembering now. “Deer ate them too, though.”

Seth scratched his head. “Yeh-up. Hungry, ain’t they?”

May picked at a muffin, gummed it awhile, then sneaked a quick glance at her brother. He seemed comfortable enough now that the burping stopped. She decided to venture a new topic.

“How’d Esther take Mrs. MacKenzie coming back?”

Seth’s face pinched and he drummed his fingers a moment. Then his eyes met May’s. They spoke in a silent code established early in childhood and nurtured over fifty years of devotion. May interpreted his pain, his worry, and his hesitancy to discuss the subject.

Seth knew she understood. May was a good listener and an even better observer.

“She’s up there now,” Seth finally muttered. “I guess she’s all right.”

“Don’t be so sure, Seth. Esther’s all bark and no bite. She may have a hard time seeing Nora MacKenzie move in next door. She’ll have to work with her every day, too.”

“As ye sow, so shall ye reap.” Seth’s mouth was set in a hard line.

“That’ll be the day I listen to a heathen preach the Bible at me!”

“Who you callin’ a heathen, heathen?”

May cackled loud and hearty. Neither one of them went to church, but they each considered the other the most honest, loving Christian they’d ever known.

“Well then,” May said, pushing back her chair and hoisting her largesse out of it. She, too, panted with the effort and her legs started to throb from sitting still too long. “Ain’t nothing left to do but go up and see the missus for myself. Check on her ailment. Sweet little thing, up in that big house by herself. Just hope she don’t plant no more blueberries. Don’t know I can stand the smell!”

May rolled up the mountain in her burgundy Buick. When May turned fifty, she treated herself to her first luxury, an “almost new” new car. It was plush: wide bodied, a cushy interior, air conditioning—the works. She even got one of those vanity mirrors, though she never used it. Today, eight years later, her beloved auto had spots of rust and a crumpled left fender from when she slid on the ice and bumped a tree. These she considered her car’s mere ailments. Like her, the burgundy Buick ran rough but reliable and only clocked in at 49,241 miles.

She spotted Esther barreling toward her down the back road with dust flying at the wheels. May lay on a honk that brought Esther to a crawl at the fork. She eased to a stop beside the Buick. May made a show of blowing the dust out of her face and offered a cough for emphasis.

“We don’t need no more accidents,” May warned.

“Yes’m,” Esther replied, knowing better than to risk a fiery scolding from her aunt. Nothing Aunt May hated more than back-road speeders.

“You just leaving the MacKenzie place?”

Esther’s face clouded. “Not soon enough.”

May scrutinized Esther’s face. She was right, she decided. This move of Mrs. MacKenzie’s back to the farm was coming hard for Esther. Esther would never let on to anyone how deeply she’d been hurt by Michael MacKenzie; she was too proud, or too ornery, to show it. They all counted on Esther to be the strong one, and she never let them down. In the process, however, she never let her hurt out. May saw it, however. Saw the hurt in the spurts of anger at all the wrong places, in the many lone ventures up to the mountains with her easel. Mostly, she heard it in the way Esther pined to leave the farm but never did.

“Your pa, he wants us to be fair with her. Don’t be casting blame where it don’t belong.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Esther looked ahead out the windshield.

May knew that tight-lipped, squinty-eyed stare. Esther was simmering and ready to blow.

“I’ve got something I want to take care of,” said Esther, abruptly shifting into drive. “You be careful going up that road, hear? It’s full of rough spots. See you.”

Esther’s Impala sailed away on a cloud of dust. May clucked and wagged her head. The devil had that girl’s tail, she thought, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d have the devil to pay. Esther sure had a tongue. May remembered Nora as the kind of girl who kept her thoughts to herself.

“Poor little thing,” she murmured, thinking of what might have transpired between the two young women. That’d be like pitting a cock with a razor against a hen.

She rambled to the MacKenzie road, and remembering it, she took it in first gear all the way. The burgundy Buick had plenty of power and hummed without whining, though May did each time she spotted bare dirt on the steep incline. She veered wide, rounding the final turn, and spied the protruding deck, then the brick and the huge glass windows of the big house. It always looked to her like rock crystal jutting out of the mountain.

Getting closer she spied a slight figure standing on the deck looking out at the view. As she rolled into the drive, the figure came over to the railing and leaned over. May tried to remember how many years it had been since she’d come up here or seen Nora MacKenzie. Sure was nice, though, to see the place again and to catch up with the gossip.

She stilled the engine, took a moment to catch her breath, then pushed herself out of the car.

“Hello,” called Nora. “Can I help you?”

May took a few steps, then paused to look up at the high deck. “Hey there, Mrs. MacKenzie. It’s just me, May Johnston from down the road.”

“May Johnston!” Nora quickly climbed down the stairs and approached May, hand outstretched. “How nice to see you again, May,” she said taking her hand. “How have you been?”

May remembered how much she always liked the missus. A nice girl. Always polite. “I’m fine, except for my ailments, of course.” Her wide, bulging eyes scanned Nora’s face, resting on the purple bruise on her temple. Nora looked much the same as before. Only now she was pitiful skinny. No wider than a cattail.

“I’m here to see how you fare, Mrs. MacKenzie. Heard you took a lump.”

Nora’s hand fled to her head. “Oh, I’m fine, thank you. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health. And please, call me Nora.”

May scrunched up her lips in skepticism. “Doctors, humph. What do they know? Bend your head here and let me take a look. Hmmmm. You listen to me and take it easy for a few days. Call me if you feel at all sick or dizzy. Never can tell with a head injury.”

“I will. Please,” Nora said, extending her hand to the house. “Come in. I don’t have much to offer, but I’m sure I can at least provide a glass of water.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The two women went indoors, May catching every detail of the house as she passed. The house structure seemed pretty sound, considering it’d been neglected for so many years. Few slates missing from the roof, a bit of wood rotted on the stairs. The inside’s condition, however, caught her by surprise.

“My, my, but you have a lot to get done. Frank and Junior will have to work fast to finish it up by the first snow.”

When they finished the quick tour, they stood before the plate glass in the great room, surveying the mountain view.

May found the view as spectacular as she remembered. The grandeur of her beloved mountain range still had the power to take her breath away. She stood beside Nora for a few moments just soaking it in. For her, the sensation was akin to a religious experience.

“The nice thing about getting old,” she said, “is understanding how young we all are compared to nature. Even old May. Looking out at all this, it’s plain I’m less than a twinkle in God’s eye.”

“I understand,” said Nora, coming nearer and looking out. “Everything seems insignificant compared to all that. That’s one of the things I love most about being here. It keeps me in my place.” Sadness flittered across her features. “If this is my place.”

“If it ain’t yours, it ain’t nobody’s.”

Nora’s face lightened.

“I suspect my niece was rude.”

Nora pinkened. It was obvious that straight talk was a Johnston trait. “Not rude, exactly. Maybe just honest.”

“What’d she say?”

“Let’s just say she has her doubts about my sticking around.” Nora looked around the room, and once again May spotted the uncertainty. “You can tell her this for me, though. I’m going to give it my best effort.”

May smiled, remembering the berry bushes.

“Glad to hear it. Well,” she said turning from the windows and taking a step forward. “I’d best be going before it gets too dark.” It took several plodding steps for her to cross the big room and several more to descend the steps to her car. She stopped at the door to catch her breath.

“Come down and visit sometime. I’m that blue-and-white trailer ’cross from Seth’s. We’ll have some coffee and we can plan a garden. Nothing like a garden to make a home permanent, I always say. That pasture up here would be perfect. Get some manure, some hay, throw some black plastic over it and wait till spring. Then we’ll put in the seeds. Put some perennials in, too. Nice showy ones, like hollyhock, rosy daisies, and lilies. They’ll give you pleasure and make you feel more at home way up here.”

Her eyes softened when she saw the eagerness in Nora’s expression. “Come on down, honey, and we’ll talk.”

Their eyes met and searched out what that innocuous invitation might mean to each of them.

To Nora, it meant a mentor. Someone who’d show her the ropes, the tricks of a woman living alone in the mountains. She was also deeply grateful to May for her first real welcome. No warnings, no threats. This invitation was as ingenuous and warm as the woman who extended it.

To May, it meant she’d found a possible ally in her campaign to heal Esther. God works in mysterious ways, she thought. Maybe he sent a MacKenzie to heal a wound a MacKenzie started.

“I will come, soon. I promise.” Nora fairly beamed.

Nora waved good-bye to May and watched the older woman rumble down the mountain out of view.

The nighthawk cried and Nora entered her home just as the sun set and a deep blue blanket covered the mountains.

7

NORA WOKE TO THE persistent cry of a finch outside her window. She yawned wide then allowed a sleepy smile to cross her face as she listened to the chirps. It seemed birds were to be her only friends up here.

Bringing her knees to her chest, she looked out the far window at the morning sky. The sun shone over the fog-laden mountains, the cool green rusting to orange red. On the grass, frost sparkled like diamonds as it caught shards of the morning light. She sighed and stretched her toes against the crisp old cotton sheets. The mountain had worked its magic. Observing the power of the surrounding nature, her problems seemed somehow lessened.

Nora peered at her bedroom. This was her favorite room. Like Heidi’s mountain loft, the ceiling was all angles that pitched dramatically beside long windows. Her big double bed, laden with down, was tucked in under one angle, making it cozy in the vast room. The other three fireplaces in the house were large and angular. Here, the fireplace was small, rosy bricked, and arched. A feminine touch in a masculine house. Everything about this room was charming rather than imposing; more a Swiss chalet in the mountains than a castle in the sky.

She slipped from her warm bed and walked to the window, opening it just a crack to let in the morning. The air was crisp, even cold, and carried the faint scent of pine. How she loved this view of the valley. The Danby mountain range rolled rather than jutted upward, so instead of a majestic feeling, the view was pastoral, calming. Across this valley she could see a red barn and silo, and black-and-white cows grazing in the vertical field. It reminded her of her childhood home in Wisconsin.

How long had it been since she felt this peaceful?

Three years. Yet she remembered, like yesterday, the evening she’d driven up here to surprise Mike, hoping to patch up a particularly nasty quarrel. In the backseat she’d packed a bottle of French brut champagne and a box of Belgian chocolates, very dark. She’d even brought a new nightgown of peach silk, the blatantly sexy kind that Mike liked but embarrassed her.

That warm June night three years ago, Nora had been determined to save her marriage. She had dreamed that maybe on this land that they had walked together, at this house that they had happily designed and worked on together, he’d remember, notice her, perhaps love her once again.

That dream fizzled as abruptly as the uncorked champagne. A surprise was what she had planned, and it was exactly what she got when she found Mike in the arms of another woman. In their home. In their bed.

He never even said hello. She never said good-bye.

Neither had ever returned. It was as though this house represented all that they once had valued and lost—or perhaps thrown away. This house that was filled with their heartiest laughs, their silliest dreams, their most precious confessions, and beloved possessions stood as a barren monument to their failed marriage.

She couldn’t come back—until now. And now she never wanted to leave.

Nora shivered and wrapped her arms tighter across her thin cotton gown. The cool air was moist and laden with dew. She leaned her head against the windowpane. Its touch was icy and seemed to pierce a third eye into the middle of her forehead. Dear God, she prayed as she closed the other two tightly, help me to forget. Help me to get past my anger and let me heal.

From the valley she heard the broken call of sheep, then from the road came the faint sound of crunching gravel. She craned her neck to peer at the winding drive, and soon she saw the figure of C.W. emerge from the tunnel of foliage. He was trudging up the hill at a steady pace. Gasping, she quickly checked the time: nine o’clock already. She wasn’t even dressed—this was hardly the impression she wanted to give.

Nora rushed across the cold plank floor to the antique cherry dresser and pulled open the heavy drawers. They creaked as they revealed their treasure of old sweaters and rolled wool socks. Most of them dated from her college days. She grabbed a pair of faded jeans and an old handknit sweater, scowling at the two small holes in the sleeve. Buy mothballs, she told herself as she pulled it over her head.

On her way to the bathroom, she slipped her feet into worn loafers and peeked out the window. He was almost at the house now. She splashed freezing tap water on her face and ran a brush through her thick hair, wincing when she grazed the purpling bump along her hairline. With a groan of frustration she set down the brush and in minutes, braided her hair with practiced hands. A final check in the mirror reflected an aura of organization.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she told herself as she flicked off the light.

She reached the kitchen as C.W. walked in. His tall frame filled the doorway as he scraped his muddy boots upon the mat. In the morning light, his handsome features were staggering. Perhaps it was the layers of shirts and jacket he wore against the changing fall temperatures that gave him a broad profile. Yet underneath the layers she guessed the muscles were as solid as the mountain. Instinctively her hand went to smooth her hair.

Nora always liked the look of a man in jeans. Men in well-tailored suits evoked an image of an intellectual power. Wealth. Theirs was a seductive lure, the hint of romantic dinners and intimate talk.

Men in jeans evoked the image of a physical power. Raw and earthy. Like the jeans, they were tough, rugged—roughriders. C.W.’s jeans stretched taut from hip to hip, and she could follow the curved line of his thigh muscle up to the groin.

He straightened, stretching his shoulders wide, and met her gaze. Nora blushed and looked down, wildly wondering if he’d caught her perusal.

“Glad to see that you’re on your feet,” he said. “I was worried about you and wanted to be sure you’re all right.” His voice was low and he spoke with deliberate slowness.

“I’m perfectly all right. Thanks for checking on me. I’m fine, really.” She felt ridiculous, stammering like a schoolgirl and rubbing her hands.

In contrast, C.W. seemed relaxed, leaning against the doorframe and barely concealing his amusement. This was her house, she told herself. Why was she on edge? She leaned against the refrigerator to appear equally casual, but immediately felt self-conscious and righted herself.

An awkward silence fell between them. She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. She tapped her foot, looked out the window, felt a blush creeping up her neck. Then, not able to withstand the silence or his watchful gaze any longer, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Thank you for leaving the coffee this morning. At least, I assume it was you.” She laughed, then felt childish.

He straightened and headed for the hot coffee. “It was nothing.” Hand on the pot, he asked, “Mind if I have some?”

“Not at all. It’s your coffee, after all. Oh, and thank you for the fire, too,” she added, walking in its direction. She stuck out her hands and made a show of warming them over the heat. “It was very thoughtful.”

“No problem,” he answered between gulps, watching her over the rim of his cup. “You’ll have to keep that thing stoked up, not only for yourself but so the pipes don’t freeze. That would be a real mess. And expensive.”

Nora made another mental note.

“If you’re cold, why don’t you just turn on the heat up here?”

“Because it costs a fortune to heat this white elephant with electric heat.”

C.W. raised an eyebrow. Why would the expense bother her now, after all these years? MacKenzie should have left her set for life. Well set. What was going on here? His suspicions tingled but he dismissed them. For all he knew, she was one of those tightwads who was always flicking off lights and squeezing a penny, not because they didn’t have one, but because they were terrified of losing one.

C.W. looked over at Nora as she warmed her hands. No, she didn’t look like the penny-pinching type. She was, in fact, his type. Simple, natural; a beauty so assertive it did not require a fashion statement. If she fattened up a bit, she’d fill out those jeans nicely, he thought. She had one of those bodies that looked great in jeans. Her thighs were long and her hips were small and firm. Soft mounds rose and fell under her baggy sweater, and beneath all that wool was the slender form that he had felt the day before. Knowing it was there, beneath all the layers, added to her quiet seductiveness. Even her feet were small and tucked in scuffed loafers. Where had she been all those years in New York? He’d have remembered her.

“Are you settled in?” she asked.

He shifted his gaze away. “More or less.”

“Must be cold in that cabin.”

“A bit.”

“Perhaps you could stay here and—”

“No,” he said emphatically.

Nora blinked hard. “I… It was only a suggestion.”

He paused, then sighed and leaned against the counter. “I realize that,” he said with a milder tone. “Thank you. But it’s better this way.”

She nodded. It would only be a matter of time before the gossips guessed which room he slept in. “I’ll lend a hand fixing up the cabin. In fact, I have to go to town to buy supplies. What do you need?” She paused and put her hand on her forehead. “Come to think of it, I don’t have a car.”

Her eyes met his over the rim of his mug. He didn’t sip, and his hesitancy revealed he anticipated her next question with dread.

“Could you drive me to town? You could pick up what you need for the cabin while I do my own shopping.”

C.W. set down his coffee and tapped his fingers on the counter. A small muscle twitched in his jaw and his tension crossed the room to grab her.

“Is there a problem with that?”

He took a deep breath. He rarely went to town, preferring a hermit’s life in the mountains. Although once an avid reader of the news, these days, he barely even scanned the Rutland Herald.

“I can’t go to town.”

“Can’t?”

“I’m tied up at the barn,” he quickly added. “Besides, I wouldn’t be a very good guide. I’ll check with Frank.”

Nora took in his nervous pacing. “No problem,” she said. “I’ll manage.”

C.W. turned and looked out the window. Then, taking a final gulp of his coffee, he walked over to the sink, rinsed his cup, and set it beside an already rinsed and neatly stacked cup, bowl, plate, and spoon.

Nora watched him with disbelief. “Are you always this neat?”

“I like order. And it would be rude of me to abuse your hospitality.”

“Why, thank you.” An image of Mike’s dishes, clothes, and papers scattered across the house flashed through her mind. He had always assumed someone—she—would pick up after him. “It’s appreciated.”

She tilted her head and sipped her coffee while she furtively studied him. He appeared to be a laborer: his clothes were stained by oil and iodine, his work boots were worn and muddy, and his hands were scraped. Both his hair and skin were a tawny gold, dried and colored by the elements. Yet beneath his weathered exterior Nora saw the spirit of a gentleman. Somebody had taught him manners.

“I understand you worked on some horse farm out east.”

He swung his head around. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From Seth, of course.”

The threat in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come. “That’s right,” he replied in a friendlier tone. “A private estate for leisure farmers.” He tucked the tips of his long fingers into his waistband. “Cattle, sheep, horses, a little of this and that just for their private pleasure or consumption. Not commercial, like this.”

Nora knew the kind of place he meant, and the kind of wealth it required. “I see.”

C.W. was relieved she let it drop. Old Abe, the manager of his family estate in New Jersey, was a trusted friend of his, and his father before him. He’d finagled references for Seth. Abe would keep his mouth shut about his whereabouts, C.W. was sure. But snoopy letters to Agatha about a Charles Walker would set the hounds on his trail. Best to keep Mrs. MacKenzie off track.

Lifting his cup, he remarked, “Nice china.” Then bringing it closer and turning it upside down, he studied its provenance. “Strange to see Meissen ware mixed with Pyrex.”

Nora laughed. “I guess that’s the story of my life.”

They both smiled, yet measured each other like pugilists sizing up an opponent. He seemed as intrigued by her comment as she was that he could identify the rare German china.

She waved her hand toward the heavy mahogany table, chairs covered in needlepoint, and tall chests filled with china. “All this came from Oma’s house—Oma is German for grand mother.” Her eyes softened as she recalled the thin gray-haired woman with the unassuming manner and endless depth of love.

“My happiest childhood memories came from her kitchen. It was among these things here that I learned science, math, and reading. Not from textbooks, mind you, but from baking. The wonder of carbon dioxide from yeast, the fractions of a measuring spoon, and reading endless recipes in both English and German.

“That old oven over there,” she said, indicating an iron industrial oven in the corner, “was always hot and filled with loaves and loaves of dark bread.”

She closed her eyes and sniffed the air, but instead of fresh bread she smelled smoke from the wood stove. When she opened her eyes, she saw C.W. watching her with a strange expression in his eyes. Nora blushed and wiped an imaginary tendril from her brow.

“Anyway, that was how I always wanted my own kitchen to be. Busy and warm. That wouldn’t be a bad description for a person either, would it?” she added.

He gave her a wry smile. “Nope. It sure wouldn’t.”

For a moment their eyes met and revealed their private yearning for a home and a family and a simpler life. Then they both quickly averted their eyes, as though they had both opened a hidden box and exposed their most private secret, before snapping it shut again in fear it would be stolen.

Glancing around, she found reassurance in the familiarity of Oma’s things: lemon squeezers, metal sifters, can openers, paring knives. Near the oven, the shelves overflowed with an odd collection of battered pots and pans, large flour bins, wooden spoons with chipped porcelain handles, and oddshaped bottles and baskets. Yet, it was all surprisingly efficient.

“Function, not aesthetics,” she murmured.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, I was just thinking how this kitchen reflects the code of farm life.”

“Did you live on a farm?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. But I’m originally from Wisconsin. My father was a baker and owned part of a dairy farm. I used to love to go out and visit the cows and hunt for barn kittens. We didn’t go that often, though. Mother found it boring and Oma didn’t drive. So…” She sighed, running her hands across a tall cherry armoire. “No, I love these things because they belonged to Oma. This is her legacy. Each item is more precious to me than a jewel.”

The bittersweet memories of her childhood played upon her features. C.W. watched with fascination, remaining silent, listening. She had no idea of the effect she was having on him as she spoke simply about her childhood. There was no subterfuge, no name-dropping, not a hint of the pretension he was accustomed to. Nor, he suspected, did she have any idea of the sexual magnetism he felt. For under his impassive exterior he was struggling to deny it.

She turned her head away and wrapped her arms around her chest. Her wrists were frail and her long fingers with their short, unpolished, oval nails tapped gently upon her shoulders. As she stood, absently looking over her things, she invoked the image of the child she had just described. An innocent, perhaps even a timid girl. The kind of child who kept treasures in a box under her bed, who sang to the trees, and who knew the name of each of her dolls.

As he watched, mesmerized by her tapping fingers, the child became woman. Her innocence grew sensual, erotic, and he found himself imagining those fingers tapping upon his body. He stepped closer, with nonchalance, and smelled the sweet clean scent of soap. His physical response was immediate, forcing C.W. to reel back and create a distance. God, how long had it been since he’d been with a woman?

Looking up, Nora blinked, as one coming back from far away thoughts. No, he realized. She had no idea at all how she affected him. And he was glad.

Smiling, Nora said, “I had to fight Mike to keep this stuff. He thought it was all worthless junk.”

“You obviously love your grandmother’s legacy—and this place. Why did you stay away so long?”

Her face clouded and she looked away. “I had my reasons.”

Nora ran her palm along the mahogany table. “I knew it was all here waiting for me,” she added, more to herself. “I’d never throw anything out.”

“So, you’re the type that squirrels away old clothes, family photographs, and chipped china.”

She offered a wan smile. “That’s me. I keep it all. Everything holds some memory.”

C.W.’s gaze swept over her old worn jeans and handknit sweater, to her small hand arced over the table. “Then, why did you remove your wedding ring? Isn’t that usually the last vestige of sentiment to go?”

Nora blanched, her hand flying instinctively to her ring finger.

C.W. watched her and cursed himself for his bluntness. It was time to go.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. MacKenzie. That’s none of my business.”

He crossed the room with determined strides and paused only to grab a large crate of empty glass bottles.

“Recycling is going strong in Vermont,” he muttered. “I’ll take these down to the center. I—I left a list of recyclables on the fridge.” He cleared his throat. Work, business, he thought—the great panacea. “Just rinse them out and toss them in here. I’ll take them down to the center for you every Monday.”

“Yes, fine,” she murmured.

She was still rubbing her ring finger and staring out the kitchen window. Seeing this, C.W. gave himself a mental kick. He had hurt her with his careless comment, and he was sorry. All his life his blunt honesty had been praised, feared, even encouraged. It was viewed as a show of power and intelligence. Good for business.

He shook his head and with a firm grip, hoisted the bottles into his arms and left the house.

What a weak excuse for vanity, he berated himself. He knew better now. Sometimes silence and compassion required greater strength.

Nora finished her morning coffee hunched over Mike’s ledger with her heels hooked on the chair’s upper rung. From what little she could gather, the figures involved a bank transaction of some kind, or several transactions, it was hard to tell yet. Mike moved around unbelievable amounts of money. She munched on a piece of toast, careful to brush away the crumbs from the paper. Perhaps if she attacked it differently.

Nora flipped through to the last page. Once again she was struck by the difference in handwriting style as the months passed. In May, she could make out the notations clearly. Yet by September, the writing was erratic, a shorthand of barely legible script. Nora struggled to decipher the ledger for over an hour before she closed it and rubbed her eyes.

She couldn’t glean much, yet she felt certain she could figure out what had driven Mike to suicide from these pages. In all the deals and craziness, however, one name emerged as the villain. She recognized the name; it had been carved into her heart. She had traced the letters in the ledger to be sure she got it right.

Mike may have shot himself, but the man who pulled the psychological trigger was the man who singlehandedly, and with deliberate purpose, had brought Mike to financial ruin.

That man was Charles Blair.

8

ESTHER WALKED THE DUSTY distance from the mailbox to her house. Repeatedly, she glanced back again at the tilting metal box with the red flag up and the three numbers half falling down. Inside was her application for a fellowship at New York University—her whole life in an envelope. Her one shot at a dream she’d held since her third-grade teacher, Mrs. Crawford, in the town’s one-room schoolhouse told her she had real talent as a painter. She’d known, even then, that it was true.

She peered over her shoulder several more times, just to make sure that bent, rusty red flag stayed up. Then the road curved and her view of the box was lost in foliage. Esther sighed and picked up her pace. There was nothing more to do now but wait.

She had walked the distance from her house to the mailbox every day for twenty years. Once in a while the mail brought a glossy magazine or a letter from Uncle Squire in Florida. Most days there was nothing much except for ads, mail-order catalogs, and bills. The dirt road lined with maples, pines, and here and there seasonal wildflowers was repetitive in its sameness, but never boring to Esther. In spring it was black with mud, in summer it was green, in fall it was orange, and in the cold of winter it was as gray as the sky. But the hues and values changed on cloudy or sunny days, or when the raindrops on the leaves glistened or when a bright red newt slithered into an ink black puddle. Esther approached the house as she always did, lost in her world of colorful thoughts.

“Hey, Es. I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

Her hand flew to her heart and she jerked her head toward the far side of the porch where a young man stretched out on the old sofa.

“You scared me, John Henry.” She caught her breath, then asked with irritation, “What are you doing here?”

He was quick to respond, but not before she detected the disappointment on his tanned face. “We’re supposed to go to the movies. Your pa said to wait, you’d be right back. Come on, Red, don’t tell me you forgot?”

She had. Completely. Her face said so.

“We don’t have to go,” John Henry said quickly. “We can just hang around here.”

“No, that’s okay,” she replied in a colorless voice. “I’m sorry. I got all caught up in getting that application in the mail.”

John Henry’s face fell. “So you went and did it.”

“I sure did.” Esther’s face flushed. She didn’t like feeling vulnerable, telling someone that she actually sent out the forms. Win or lose, she didn’t want anyone snickering at her high hopes behind her back.

Esther looked at John Henry. His slightly dazed expression was the same one he’d worn when she beat him in a fight in the first grade. But today John Henry was different. Twenty years of different. And so was she. A lot of time and love had passed between them in those years. A lot of secrets shared. He’d never hurt her or break his word, she was sure.

“Don’t tell anyone about them forms, now, promise?” She had to say it anyway.

“Of course I promise.” He paused, then waved her over. “Com’ere.”

Esther pushed air out through pursed lips. She just wanted to be alone right now. But she went anyway and plopped on the old sofa beside him. The sofa creaked, complaining at the extra weight on its already bowed out legs.

John Henry lay silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “What’s the matter, Red?”

“I dunno.” Then she said in a hushed voice, “I’m scared. What if I don’t make it?”

“What if you don’t? It doesn’t mean you can’t paint anymore. You can do that anywhere. Here.”

Esther didn’t reply. Instead, she tucked her hands tightly between her knees and looked off. How could she tell him that she had to leave here, soon, or she’d be so choked up she’d never paint again. Nora MacKenzie’s return brought back too many memories, vivid recollections that she could not share with John Henry most of all.

It was desperation that had finally made her do what she’d been putting off for months: fill out the application for a fellowship in art at New York University. Her whole being was focused on that little envelope in the mailbox.

She felt John Henry’s hands rubbing her back. Esther knew his touch so well by now that she read in his fervent strokes a plea that she love him. Any talk of her leaving made him nervous. Esther leaned over and pecked his cheek.

He held out his arms and Esther reluctantly slipped into them. He smelled of sweat and the sofa smelled of mildew. Esther lay in his arms long enough to give him a reassuring squeeze. She sensed his need like radar. Wriggling her shoulders, she loosened his hold and quickly sat up.

John Henry grabbed her back, holding her squashed close with arms like bands of steel. His kisses were hungry.

“No,” she said against his lips. “Not here.”

John Henry drew back and swung his leg around, hoisting them both off the sofa. His hands remained around her waist in a possessive grip.

“Come on, then.”

“I can’t. I’ve got things to do.”

“Come on,” he drawled close to her ear, propelling her off the porch toward the barn.

Esther allowed herself to be led off to the dark corner of the barn that they often went to when they wanted to be alone. She didn’t want to make love. She wasn’t in the mood, but John Henry’s persistence was not to be ignored.

And she loved John Henry, in her fashion. His need of her was obvious. He wanted so much from her, more than she felt capable of giving. John Henry was one more person who needed her.

Esther relinquished all resistance by the time they reached the dark recess of the ramshackle barn. She’d give in to him, as she always did when he wanted her. He was a good, kind man—her best friend. It was the best way she knew how to show she cared.

His kisses were urgent and his hands grew rough. He pushed her back against the barn wall, hard, and his hands trembled down to her belt and started unfastening it, squeezing her waist as he jerked the leather free.

So, he was going to be dominant today, she realized. He always was when he felt threatened. That application to New York University must have really set him off.

Esther put her hand gently on his, stilling him. John Henry sighed when he released her belt. Esther quickly finished the task and stepped from her jeans, looking over at John Henry as he fumbled with his buttons.

He was a long sideburn kind of man. With his easy manner and his handsome straight nose, not to mention the dairy farm that would someday be his, most every girl in town had set her sights on John Henry Thompson at one time or another. And he strayed from time to time over the years of their courtship. Yet, Esther always knew that John Henry would find his way back to her, so she never worried or got jealous. Some called her lucky. Others called her a fool.

John Henry looked up, caught her eye, and smiled wide. Even in this dark corner, his bright blue eyes twinkled.

Esther smiled back. She really did care for John Henry. She welcomed him in her arms.

Afterward, when they were putting their clothes back on, an uneasy silence fell upon them. Esther buttoned her shirt back up, watching John Henry thrust one leg into his jeans. His leg was long and covered with fine brown hair the same dark color as the hair that spread across his thin, well-muscled chest and massed upon his head and around his ears. Her hands stilled. How many times had they repeated this scene over the years, she wondered? How many more times till they realized that they could not go on like this forever?

As if he read her mind, John Henry shoved his other leg into his pants and said, “I’m getting pretty tired of pickin’ hay out’a my butt. What do you say we make some decisions? Get ourselves our own bed.”

Esther jerked her head down and her fingers began to fly on her buttons. “Don’t be silly, John Henry. You know I’m waitin’ on this scholarship.”

“You’re always waitin’ on something, Esther. After high school it was junior college. Two years later you wanted to finish college in Burlington. Then your sister up and left her husband and you had to take care of her kids. Then your brother—”

“What does Tom’s death have to do with us?”

John Henry looked contrite. “Nothing Es, only…” He picked up some hay, sorted it a bit, then threw it on the ground. “Only you always have some excuse for why we can’t get married. Now you push this New York stuff in my face and expect me to sit back and wait some more.”

“I’m not asking you to wait.” She whispered it.

“I’m twenty-six years old!” he continued, not listening or hearing. “Tell me, Es. Tell me to my face. What am I waiting for?”

Esther felt more cornered by his words than the two walls she pressed against. She huddled over and hugged her knees.

“Please, John Henry, don’t push me.”

John Henry stood straight, his hands in fists at his side.

“It’s expected that we marry.”

“I’ve never done the expected,” she snapped.

John Henry looked as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Esther instantly regretted her temper. “You know I can’t abide gossips. Oh, John Henry.” She rubbed both hands in her hair with frustration, undoing her elastic and sending the curls flying. When she looked up she appeared as disheveled as she felt.

“Maybe you should start seeing someone else. I’ve said so before.”

“Not this again.”

“I don’t want you waiting for me. I can’t promise my life to you. It’s still mine. Please, don’t ask me to.”

He knelt down before her and tugged gently at her hair.

“That’s just what I’m asking you to do. I know there are other girls, but I don’t want another girl. I want a dreamer who has two feet on the ground. I want someone who speaks her mind, and gives her heart.”

Esther looked at her knees.

“I want you, Esther. Only you.”

Tears filled Esther’s eyes and she reached out for John Henry. Her hand closed around the fabric against his heart.

“I don’t want to make you unhappy,” she got out. “You deserve so much happiness. Please. I can’t marry you.”

His hand quickly covered hers over his heart. He squeezed tight. “I can wait,” he said urgently.

She couldn’t let him do this. He’d waited so long already on the thin hope that she’d come around and marry him after all. Settle down on his dairy farm. He’d told her he liked the bachelor life, had lots of dreams of his own to live out, too. But she knew he was lying. That he’d walk down the aisle in a minute if only she’d walk it with him.

Esther raised her head to his. His eyes were open, pure. If only there was something mean in him, it would make the telling easier. It was hard to be strong for both of them.

“Face-to-face then,” she said. “Don’t wait.”

She saw him pale. “I tell you of my dreams,” she continued steadily, “but you don’t want to see them. I speak my mind but you won’t listen. John Henry, I can’t marry you.”

He dropped her hand and sat back on his haunches. His face was stricken. “Is it someone else? That C.W. fella maybe?”

“No, no, course not. There’s no one else. More like some thing else.”

John Henry rubbed his hands on his thighs and stared at them. So did Esther. He had long, callused hands with short, chipped nails, scrapes and fine crisscrossed cuts. A man’s hands—a farmer’s hands. Esther felt small inside, remembering those hands when they were short, pudgy, and soft. Remembering how, as children, he’d always let her win at jacks.

“It’s this art thing, right?” he said, tapping those man fingers now. John Henry stood up abruptly. His face had never seemed so hard. He waved his arm like a scythe cutting wheat.

“All right. Have it your way. I’m through with waiting.”

He paced three steps, then angrily jutted his finger her way, his face scowling above it. “But you listen to me, Esther Johnston! While I’m off marrying some other girl, mark my words—you’ll still be waiting. Waiting till they tell you they’ve got more than enough artists in New York already. Waiting for me to come ’round again. Waiting till you realize that all you dreamed of was sitting right here in front of you all the time.”

Esther’s heart was near to breaking when she heard John Henry’s voice crack and watched him draw back, slam his hands on his hips and sharply lower his head. “John Henry…don’t.”

He swung around to grab her arm and hoist her up before him. Holding on to her shoulders, his face reddened and his breathing came fast. Esther wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss her or hit her.

“Do you love me?” he whispered, tortured.

“Yes.”

“Marry me,” he said, his eyes pleading.

“No.”

That one word almost killed them both.

He pressed his forehead against hers and they both closed their eyes tight against the pain. Then he quickly released her, almost pushing her away. He turned away with a choked gulp and took several wild, rounding steps across the hay-littered floor, his hand rubbing his forehead.

“John Henry, I’m sorry,” she said, despairing.

He stopped short and his head pulled up. “Don’t you be sorry for me, Esther Johnston! You just be sorry for yourself.”

John Henry turned heel and stomped angrily from the barn.

Esther leaned back against the wall, blood drained and bone weary. From the dark corner, she stared out the empty barn entrance, wishing he’d walk through it. The straw grass waved in the light outside. A few tires tilted beside a pile of scrap wood.

John Henry wouldn’t walk back through that door. Not this time. Esther closed her eyes, forcing back the tears. She’d known this day had to come, but she’d never known how much it would hurt. The pain radiated from some core inside and wouldn’t let up. Esther slumped against the barn wall and brought her knees up to her chest. John Henry’s bitter warnings repeated in her mind. She was terrified that she’d made a mistake. Afraid that she was already feeling sorry for herself.

The bleating of lambs echoed in the valley below. Nora strolled along the road under the noonday sun, passing pastures of brown and gold that were littered with milkweed pods. Some hung fat upon their stalks; others were already bursting forth their feathery seeds, reminding Nora of days she had blown upon the seeds and sent them sailing like a fleet of white ships upon a golden ocean.

She wasn’t headed anywhere specific; she was just getting a sense of where she was. Compared to the confined spaces of the city, everything here seemed expansive: the broad sky, the looming mountains, the vast acres. On her head Nora wore earphones and hummed along. Her pace slowed as she passed a field bordered by a rickety fence. The timber teetered and the wire sagged. Veering from her path, she ran her hand along the fence’s splintered wood and smelled autumn’s ripeness.

Nora imagined how the field must have looked generations ago when the old fence was new. It might have contained a herd of black-and-white cows that grazed on a pasture green with forage. Now the cows had long since vanished from the rocky fields and scores of thistle weed and scrubby pines reclaimed the land.

RRRRRRRRRrrrrrr. The throaty call of a chain saw was audible over her music. Curious, Nora followed the sound, trotting around the grotto called Mike’s Bench. There, standing in the sun, jacket off, plaid flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves and knees bent in a steady stance, a man was cutting away at a damaged maple. He wore goggles and large ear protectors over wild golden hair, but there was no mistaking the powerful visage of C.W. He had already cut and stacked the limbs into neat piles of firewood, but the trunk stooped over a large gaping wound.

She recognized the tree as the one she’d hit. The maple was cracked and bent. A lump formed in her throat as she spied the golden sap oozing from the flesh-colored wood.

Nora watched with fascination as C.W. cut a deep wedge into the mangled trunk. Seeing him doing chores that she could never do made her appreciate how valuable he was as an employee. Logging was hard and dangerous work; the muscles in C.W.’s forearm were rippling as he guided the chewing metal through the wood.

The throaty roar of the chain saw was an exciting sound. To people in the mountains it was the sound of man’s control over the wilderness. The maple trunk began to weave and wobble. The acrid scent of fuel mixed with the sweet scent of freshly cut wood and rose up. A strong, heady odor that drifted her way. She felt the thrill of anticipation.

The chain saw droned again, longer, louder. Then the noise abruptly stopped, leaving her ears ringing in the sudden silence.

C.W. stepped back, setting down the chain saw, and took a last check of the area. She knew the moment he spotted her, for he stiffened, whipped off his goggles and called, “Get out of the way!”

Instantly, she understood her danger and tore off her earphones. Now she heard the tree creak, wood against wood. Looking up, she saw she was standing directly in its line of fall. She had miscalculated the distance. The leaves rustled, the tree groaned, and Nora took three steps back, eyes on the tree. It was shaking, wailing, then it began falling.

Before she could run she felt two muscled arms grab her under her arms and yank her, dragging her feet in the rush, farther down the road. They hit the ground as the tree did—with a graceless thud. Birds cried, squirrels scrambled, and all around her dust and leaves scattered and filled the air. Coughing and rubbing her eyes, she leaned back on her elbows and felt the earth shake around her. When the dust finally settled and she peeked up, she realized it wasn’t the earth shaking, just herself and the thin branches that extended to within inches of her head.

C.W. lay half beside her, half over her, covered with broken twigs and crushed dried leaves. He swatted the debris away with harsh, angry swipes and stood, centered between her bent knees. He stared down at her with a look of controlled anger.

“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly.

She coughed again. “Yes. My God.” She coughed. “I didn’t see it coming.” Her breath was coming fast and her hands were still shaking. “I could have been killed. You saved my life.”

C.W. ran his hand through his hair, then extended it to her. When she placed her small hand in it, he felt it tremble. That was enough to shake away his anger and allow him to see how frightened she really was.

“Don’t mention it.” The lady was turning out to be a nuisance, but he kept Seth’s admonishment in mind.

“And don’t wear that damn thing out here,” he said, pointing at her earphones. “Leave it in the city. Learn to listen to the woods,” he said, placing his free hand on her elbow and helping her up. As she reeled up alongside him, he caught sight of the bruise beneath her hair.

Nora nodded, accepting his words as a given.

“Listen,” he said as she steadied herself on her feet. “What is it with you and this spot? First you run your car into that poor tree, then you stand under it as it falls. If you have a death wish, please let me know and I’ll stop interfering.”

He was smiling and she couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of his words. She laughed, then laughed harder, then suddenly felt herself on the verge of tears, overwhelmed by that sudden switch in emotions that comes when one is uncertain and desperately hiding pain.

He saw the shift of emotion in her expressive eyes. He heard it in her sudden high-pitched hilarity. This was a lady in pain. He recognized pain—knew it well—and felt an immediate empathy for her.

“Come. Sit down and rest,” he said, lowering his voice and guiding her to a marble bench set into the mountain.

Nora crossed over crunching twigs, small flakes of wood and sawdust. When she reached the cool shadows of the bench, she settled herself in a prim and upright manner.

Remembering his rude comment in the kitchen, C.W. thought it was his company that made her so sour. “Perhaps you’d prefer to be alone?”

“No, please, don’t leave me. Not here.”

He raised his brows in question.

Nora scanned the marble grotto, covered now with moss and mud. Then they traveled to the surrounding slopes. Scores of maple saplings had sprouted through the rocks, and uncounted weeds and wild berry bushes bordered them. What was three years ago a hillside of fern was now little more than a wooded jungle.

“Mike built this,” she began slowly. “The house we designed together, but this bench he built himself. Wouldn’t let anyone help him.” She gave a short laugh. “I thought he’d get a hernia lifting this thing,” she added, patting the marble slab under her.

“You must miss him.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Miss him? No. Not at all.”

C.W. didn’t know what answer he expected, but certainly not that one. It left him nonplussed, and that was unusual for him. He kicked his toe in the dirt.

“Must have been something to build that,” he said, gesturing toward the big house. “Quite a place.”

“Yes. The main beam is forty-five feet of solid redwood. Half the county came to watch it go up. Mike climbed this mountain, decided this was where he wanted his house site, and bulldozed it into reality.”

C.W. could envision Mike MacKenzie bulldozing any vision—though he had to admit the result of this one was spectacular. Yet, as he looked at the small frame of Nora sitting prim on the bench, still rubbing her ring finger, he wondered what else the Big Mac had bulldozed. Seeing her empty ring finger focused his attention.

“Oh, I found this on the road,” he said, digging into his pocket. “Could it be yours.”

He handed her the small gold ring he had found glistening in the afternoon sun atop a quartz rock.

Nora stared at the gold band lying in her open palm. Her lips worked but no words came. Was this some sign? The ring, the bench; she felt as though Mike’s ghost were hovering about her. Nora sighed heavily. Memories were not something you could just throw away. They kept turning up.

“Yes, it’s mine,” she said, closing her fingers around the ring.

He noted that she did not bother to thank him for finding it. Stepping back, he said, “If you’re all right, then I’m off to the barn. It’s feeding time and those girls complain when I’m late.”

Nora could hear the insistent bleats from the valley and smiled at the image of a long row of hungry, whining ewes.

“Oh yes, go on ahead.”

Waving his hand, he turned his back to her.

“Oh, Mr. Walker?”

He stopped midstride.

“Would you be able to meet me up at the house when you’re done? I need to get a rough grasp on the finances, and Seth says that you’re the man to talk to.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied in a long drawl. “Four o’clock.” Without another word, he pivoted to leave. “Mr. Walker?”

He stopped again, brows up. “Ma’am?”

“I’d also appreciate your teaching me as much as you can about shepherding. I know there’s a lot to learn, but…” She let her voice trail away.

He paused. “It’s really quick to pick up, if you’ve got the inclination. I’d be pleased to teach you what little I know.”

She nodded, pleased. He turned again.

“Mr. Walker?”

What now, he wondered, scowling.

“Thank you. For everything.”

She smiled, and he felt the radiance of it enter his soul. His senses tingled as he felt some kind of connection with the woman named Nora. What was that Chinese saying? Something about if you save a person’s life, you are responsible for that life forever. Their eyes met and held, and in that moment, he feared that the old proverb would prove true.

The woman’s name was Nora MacKenzie, he reminded himself. The Big Mac’s better half. With a perfunctory nod, he turned, gathered his things, and walked swiftly down the mountain.

Nora watched his retreating figure with confusion. A nice man, she decided, but she sensed layers of complexity behind his eyes. Once or twice they had connected—a special glimmer in the eye, a half smile, before they caught themselves and turned away. She couldn’t deny the attraction, but it was unwelcome. They were just two lonely people.

The wind gusted. Nora shivered and looked around the bench, as though Mike’s ghost haunted it.

“This is crazy,” she said aloud, opening her fist. She picked up the ring with two fingers and stared at it without emotion. Mike was dead. All that was left of her marriage was this band of gold. She was about to slip it automatically back onto her left hand, then thought again. Slipping it onto her right ring finger, she vowed that life went on.

9

NORA KEPT HER VOW to let life go on. Immediately, she tucked in her shirttail, wiped her nose, and headed down the road toward the barn and the sound of bleating ewes. Her heels dug in the gravel as she marched. She caught up with C.W. at the lower bend of the road and waved to flag him down. He turned and, to her surprise, waved and walked up to meet her. C.W. covered the distance in no time, his long legs easily taking the climb, and when his towering form arrived at her side, she felt dwarfed.

“I decided there’s no time like the present,” she announced.

“You’re the boss.”

“Shall we begin lesson one?” She pointed her finger to a small road, actually more a trail, that stretched up the mountain and disappeared in the thick woods.

“Where does that lead to?”

“Seth and the boys use that trail for logging,” he explained, looking up to the road. “Esther uses it for berry picking, and we all use it for sugaring. You might want to hike it, to get a feel for the place again. See? It travels far into the woods to some pretty beautiful spots. Ferns, meadowsweet, wildflowers, all kinds of birds. Maybe even a wild turkey.”

He stood at the ridge of a small hill, one hand around Nora’s shoulder as he guided her gaze across her acres. The gentle hills of the valley curved up to meet the foot of her mountain, cragged and mysterious, and she felt excitement at the prospect of climbing up among the maples to harvest their bounty. As she gazed across its broad vista, an ancient bond to the land rekindled.

Her gaze shifted from the mountain to the man beside her. His broad silhouette mirrored the mountain behind him. From the set of his jaw and the exhilaration in his eyes, she knew that he, too, felt the bond.

“And there,” he called, pointing north, “is the lower barn where we store equipment and tractors.”

In contrast to nature’s archaic beauty, however, man’s creations aged into dilapidation. Her smile slipped to a frown. What had she gotten herself into? How could she and Mike have let this place fall so low? The barn was as gray and stooped as an old man—and twice as old. Gaping holes exposed beaten tools, tangled rope, and rusted tractors, and the whole shebang looked ready to topple over into the lower pasture. Nora chewed her lip. If anything brought to light the precariousness of her sole livelihood, that old weathered barn did.

Seth’s warning played in her mind: This wasn’t any vacation.

“Come on,” C.W. said, giving her shoulder a shake and leading her on down the road. “Come see the new barn.”

That barn was a sight better and Nora heaved a sigh of relief. It was made of new wood, straight and strong, painted dove gray, and its wide swinging doors actually worked. From within came a din of bleats. Drawn to the sheep, she passed an area of fifteen ewes corralled before the barn’s entrance. Nora reached out to open the wire gate and felt C.W. pull her away with a sharp yank. She fumbled flat upon his chest.

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