Dear Reader,

I have to admit, I had an ideal research arrangement during the writing of this “Nine Months Later” story. My daughter was expecting her first baby, which allowed me to become intimately reacquainted with pregnancy and its many joys and woes.

One of those joys was a baby shower that I hosted, an affair my daughter really, really wanted. Not for the presents, she said. She merely wanted a get-together with friends and family to celebrate her pregnancy. She was especially looking forward to the stories women typically swap at showers, about morning sickness and bloated ankles, stretch marks and fifty-hour labors.

I didn’t fully understand until the day of the shower, when thirty women were gathered in my living room. And there in the middle of them was my daughter, enthusiastically swapping stories with the best of them. Entering the sisterhood of motherhood.

It’s difficult to explain my feelings at the time. I just know I was suddenly very glad I’d had the shower and given my daughter her moment.

For as joyous as pregnancy is, it can also be a frightening time. Ready or not, one’s life is about to change, drastically and forever. I can’t imagine going through it without a wide net of support—a loving husband, friends, family. Not only do they minimize the terror of impending motherhood, through their joy they expand one’s own joy, as well.

Writing Three for the Road gave me a new appreciation for the importance of support systems. My pregnant heroine has no one. Not only is Mary Elizabeth unmarried, she’s also leaving home, job and everyone she’s ever known. I found this a most distressing situation! The mother in me wanted to throw a shower for her, surround her with friends and family who’d assure her she was not alone. The writer in me gave her Pete. I hope you approve.

All the best,

Shannon Waverly

Three for the Road
Shannon Waverly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

CHARLES DRUMMOND STARED at his daughter over his reading glasses. “How far along are you?”

Mary Elizabeth swallowed. “Nearly three months.”

“Nearly three months,” he echoed, his long patrician face set in distaste.

“I’m sorry,” she said on a broken whisper.

Removing his glasses and tossing them onto the desk, he got to his feet and began to pace. “How could you do this, Mary Elizabeth?” He didn’t raise his voice. A Drummond never did. “How could you bring such disgrace to this house?”

Above his meticulously groomed gray head hung a family portrait painted seventeen years earlier, one year after he’d been named president of the Deerfield Institution for Savings and two years before his wife’s death. The five Drummonds presented as perfect a family image as ever there was, even to the extent that the artist had inadvertently painted Mary Elizabeth’s eyes blue instead of brown, to match everyone else’s.

“But no one cares about such things anymore.” Mary Elizabeth spread her hands. “Times have changed.”

Charles stopped pacing. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “If you believe that, you’re more a fool than I thought.”

She flinched.

“People talk, Mary Elizabeth, especially about families like ours. And they never forget. Ten years from now, twenty, they’ll still remember you as the Drummond girl who got pregnant before she was married.”

This wasn’t the way she’d envisioned their conversation. She’d entered this library hoping they’d discuss her situation like two rational, enlightened adults. She hadn’t come looking for easy answers; all she’d wanted was his love and support during a difficult time. When would she ever learn?

Charles reseated himself in his leather chair with a long disgruntled sigh. “Have you set a date?”

“For what?”

“A wedding, of course. Have you and Roger set a date?”

Her breath stalled. “No. Roger doesn’t even know.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Are you afraid he’ll refuse to marry you? He won’t. He’s an extraordinarily decent young man.”

“Father, we broke up seven weeks ago. It’s over between us.”

Charles breathed out a bitter laugh. “Apparently not.”

“But I don’t want to marry Roger. We don’t love each other.”

“You made your bed, Mary Elizabeth...or do you think you’re so extraordinary you should be excused from doing what’s morally right?”

“No, of course not, but I don’t see the point of raising a child in a loveless home.”

“You should be grateful to be so lucky. Roger has a good job and a secure future at the bank. He doesn’t have any vices that I can see...well, any other vices.” His hard blue eyes flicked briefly to her waist. “He comes from a pleasant family....”

But Mary Elizabeth was still shaking her head. “Marrying under these circumstances, he’d feel trapped. He’d resent me and the baby. I don’t want that.”

“What do you intend to do, then, have it out of wedlock?”

“I...yes, that’s an option.”

Charles shot her a crippling look. “Over my dead body.”

“But—”

“I don’t care if certain segments of society have relaxed their standards, or that unmarried mothers are as common these days as the married variety. Drummonds do not belong to that vulgar trash.”

Mary Elizabeth glanced at the painting, blinking away tears. It seemed she’d been receiving lectures all her life on how Drummonds did or did not behave. Once again, she didn’t measure up.

“Tell me, what sort of social life do you expect to have, burdened with a child?”

She misunderstood his remark as rising from concern and was about to reassure him when he added, “Who do you think is going to be interested in you now?”

A piercing pain sliced right through her.

“It isn’t merely that you’re pregnant, although Lord knows that’s a formidable enough reason for any man to avoid getting involved with you. After all, who wants to take on another man’s child?”

Mary Elizabeth’s breathing had become so labored it felt as if someone had stuffed a rag down her throat.

“It’s also the fact that you’ve obviously had intimate relations, and by remaining unmarried, you’re all but announcing to the world that those relations were meaningless. From there, I’m afraid, it’s an easy leap for people to see you as indiscriminate and promiscuous. In plain English, Mary Elizabeth, they’ll see you as cheap.”

With each word he leveled at her, Mary Elizabeth felt smaller and dirtier. She sensed she ought to say something in her defense, but her will to act seemed to have deserted her. On a level she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, she knew her father made sense.

“I hope you realize I’m saying these things only because I’m concerned about your future happiness. I want to see you settled, with a family, in your own home. But if you continue to follow this path, I don’t see how that’s possible.” Charles smoothed a palm over the desk blotter, wiping away imaginary dust. “Now, you might argue there are lots of broad-minded men out there who’d be interested in you, but don’t kid yourself, Mary Elizabeth. Most decent men still want to marry a ‘nice’ girl, no matter how liberal they claim to be, and I hate to say this, but the label that’s usually attached to the sort of woman you aspire to being is—” he cleared his throat “—’used goods.’”

In a mature, detached part of her brain, Mary Elizabeth marveled at her father’s ability to manipulate her emotions. Equally astonishing was her inability to stand up to him. But it wasn’t really such a mystery; they’d had a lifetime of this sort of confrontation to perfect the pattern.

Unfortunately, knowing what was happening still didn’t prevent her from being reduced to a helpless bundle of shame and guilt. She could only lower her eyes and hope she didn’t break down before she reached her room.

Charles folded his hands on the desk blotter. “Have you considered terminating the situation?”

Mary Elizabeth blinked, rising out of her pain. “No.”

“And why not?”

She reared back in sheer incredulity. Her father had been a pro-lifer as long as she could remember. But apparently the “morally right thing to do” existed on a sliding scale, depending on how close to home an unpleasant situation struck.

“I just can’t.”

He shook his head. “Ah, Mary Elizabeth. You’ve always been a burden.”

She looked down at the Persian carpet, remembering other times, other lectures, when she’d stood just so. Yes, she’d been a burden to him, not as studious as his two other children, not as well-groomed, never as well-behaved. She’d tried. Lord, how she’d tried. But evidently there was simply something inherently wrong with her.

Charles pinned her with a look of renewed determination. “Tell Roger.”

She shook her head.

“If you don’t, I will.”

Panic engulfed her. “You can’t.”

“I most certainly can. If you insist on having this baby, then, by God, you’ll have it married. You’ll give no one reason to gossip.” Not for a second did he doubt his ability to persuade Roger to marry her. Neither did Mary Elizabeth. Apart from the fact that Roger idolized Charles, he enjoyed his job far too much to cross his employer.

For one brief moment, Mary Elizabeth regained her normal adult perspective and saw her father’s attitude as absurd and archaic. She was twenty-seven years old, for heaven’s sake. She was an educated, accomplished woman in a professional career. He had no business dictating her decisions, especially one that was so important. And that was why, when he offered her one last alternative—the choice to go away, have the child and give it up for adoption, a choice she was already leaning heavily toward herself—she said no.

“No?” Charles jerked his head, as if her impudence had struck him a physical blow.

“No.”

In a most uncharacteristic loss of control, he flung a priceless paperweight across the room. It hit a plaster bust of Winston Churchill, leaving the statesman without a chin. “Damn you, Mary Elizabeth! You’re just like your mother.”

Mary Elizabeth frowned. She didn’t understand his comment and would have let it go—if he just hadn’t turned so red.

“What do you mean, I’m just like my mother?”

He continued to stare at her, saying nothing, but a look came into his eyes, an angry determination she thought she’d seen over the years now and again, a look almost too fleeting for her to be sure it had been there before it moved on, always leaving her trembling and relieved when it did.

“Tell me.” She shot forward, gripping the edge of his desk, challenging him, finally.

This time the look in his eyes didn’t pass. It settled in and focused, like the cross hairs on a rifle.

“Why am I like my mother?” she persisted. “Tell me.”

And he did.

CHAPTER ONE

KEEP MOVING, DRUMMOND. Don’t think. Just pick up the carton and go!

Mary Elizabeth obeyed her own command, ignoring her fatigue and mounting anxiety, and carried the last of her bedroom things down the wide, elegantly turned stairs.

But at the open front door, a surge of sadness blindsided her and caused her to hesitate. Outside, at the top of the circular brick driveway, basking in the golden September sun, was what might appear to be an ordinary eighteen-foot motor home. To Mary Elizabeth, however, it was her future.

Behind her rose the dignified, twelve-room Georgian where she’d lived all her life—her past. Her very definite, no-coming-back past. Her throat tightened and her eyes threatened to well up again.

Fortunately, Mrs. Pidgin chose that moment to come lumbering down the hall from the kitchen. The poor woman was already upset enough and didn’t need to see Mary Elizabeth breaking down, too. She pulled in a fortifying breath and smiled before turning.

The short, sixty-year-old housekeeper was carrying two plastic grocery bags by their straining handles, their weight seeming to tip her blocky form side to side as she walked. Like a windup toy, Mary Elizabeth thought with painfully deep affection. She only hoped the woman didn’t end up like most of those toys, overbalanced and on her side.

“What’s all this?” she asked. They’d already packed the RV with more than enough food to get her through her trip from Maine to Florida.

“Just a little extra. You never know.”

Mary Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Mrs. Pidgin was fussing over her as if she were setting off on a months-long journey in a covered wagon instead of a three-day zip down the interstate.

“Thanks, Mrs. P. But I wish you’d stop worrying. I’m going to be fine.”

“Of course you will. Of course.”

They both looked at the foyer floor, unable to hold each other’s gaze, then hastily headed out to the motor home.

Inside the vehicle, Mary Elizabeth threaded her way through the kitchen, down the short passageway with the bathroom on one side and storage cupboards on the other, to the bedroom at the rear. With a grunt of relief, she dropped the box she was carrying onto one of the two twin beds—already overburdened with her belongings.

The motor home was a marvel of storage compartments, but in her haste she hadn’t packed as efficiently as she could have. She’d do that later, when she had more time. Right now she felt compelled to hurry. Charles had gone to the bank this morning, giving no indication he’d be returning to see her off, but Mary Elizabeth didn’t trust him anymore. She especially didn’t trust him to keep from speaking to Roger.

Although Charles abhorred the idea of her staying in town, pregnant and unmarried, he didn’t like her going away so abruptly, either. People were bound to wonder what had happened here to cause such unseemly behavior, he said. He also worried about her accidentally running into people they knew during her pregnancy. And what if she decided to return with the baby some day? His lack of control over the situation bothered him, and she knew he’d started thinking of telling Roger again. To Charles, marriage was still the best solution to the problem.

Mrs. Pidgin was fitting a package of six single-serving quiches in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator when Mary Elizabeth emerged from the bedroom.

“Here, let me help.” She dipped into the bag, pulled out a deli container of lobster salad and tossed it into the refrigerator.

Mrs. Pidgin closed the freezer. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that’ll make you change your mind.” It was a question, a last-ditch hope. She was the only person other than Charles who knew why Mary Elizabeth was leaving. She was the only person, period, who knew where she was going. Mary Elizabeth had told Charles Chicago, in case he decided to come looking for her, but she didn’t want to drop off the map entirely. She wanted someone here to know where she was if a family emergency arose.

“Change my mind? Afraid not, Mrs. P.”

The housekeeper’s face looked pained. “Well, I can’t really say as I blame you. Your father’s behavior this past week has been unforgivable.”

Mary Elizabeth worked at keeping her expression set. The past week had been difficult, that was for sure. Charles had found a reason to make each day hurtful and exhausting. He’d continued to harp on her pregnancy and denounce her choices, and always he wondered what people would say if they knew. The barbs that especially dug in, though, probably because she was already frightened and insecure, were the ones regarding her ability to survive on her own.

Charles accused her of having no real job skills or practical experience, and said the only reason she’d landed the curatorship at the local museum five years ago was that he had used his influence with the board. She’d never find another position like it, he said, just as she’d never find another man like Roger whom, coincidentally, Charles had also “provided” since he’d arranged their first date.

Mary Elizabeth didn’t know what she would have done without Mrs. Pidgin. The woman had always been an ally and a comfort, but never more so than this past week.

Mrs. Pidgin had accidentally overheard the tail end of the conversation between Mary Elizabeth and Charles in the library, the part about Eliza Drummond’s affair and Mary Elizabeth’s true parentage, and had followed Mary Elizabeth up to her room afterward. There a shattered Mary Elizabeth had broken down, letting the shock of Charles’s revelation give way to grief.

When she’d eventually brought her tears under control, she’d filled Mrs. Pidgin in on the rest of the conversation and the full scope of her dilemma. Mrs. Pidgin had been shaken when she learned of Mary Elizabeth’s pregnancy, but she’d controlled her reaction well, better than Mary Elizabeth had when she learned the housekeeper had known all along about Eliza’s illicit romance. Despite Charles’s order not to tell anyone, Eliza had confided in Mrs. Pidgin. Mary Elizabeth could understand why. In time of trouble, a more loyal and nonjudgmental friend couldn’t be found.

At present, that friend was folding the empty grocery bag with exaggerated care, distracted by her continuing worries.

“I just wish you weren’t taking the camper,” she said, frowning. “Such a big, difficult thing to drive.” She tucked the folded bag into a drawer crammed full of embroidered tea towels and cutwork napkins. “It would be a lot easier if you left it here and let my Alfred sell it for you. You could take a plane then, have a moving truck transport your things. That way you could relax, take more things with you, too.”

With a sigh, Mary Elizabeth reached into the second grocery bag. “I thought you understood, moving vans are expensive. So are plane tickets. Besides, I don’t need any more things.” She wasn’t sure of much these days, but she was certain that taking the RV was the right choice. Not only would it get her and her possessions to Sarasota economically, but it would also become her home once she got there.

Chloe, her old college roommate, lived in Sarasota, and when Mary Elizabeth made the decision to move away from the northeast, she’d immediately called Chloe. Her friend had said she knew of a trailer park a few miles from her house that might take her in. Mary Elizabeth hoped so. She didn’t want to impose on Chloe, who was a newlywed. Neither did she want to encumber herself with the expenses of an apartment until she was secure in a well-paying job, and that might be a while. In addition, things might not work out for her in the Sarasota area, and what better way to move on than to simply turn an ignition key?

With the groceries finally put away, she started for the door, eager to get the last of her belongings and be on her way.

“Stop a minute, will you please?” Mrs. Pidgin grasped Mary Elizabeth’s wrist. “I won’t keep you long, I promise.” The housekeeper tugged her gently toward the front of the RV. Mary Elizabeth took the driver’s seat, swiveling it to face the other.

“All right, so you’re going, then.”

Such a note of finality, Mary Elizabeth thought. She looked down at her clenched hands. A faint band of white skin, left by Roger’s engagement ring, was still discernible against her light tan. “Yes,” she said softly.

Mrs. Pidgin sighed. “You have to promise me you’ll be careful on the road. Florida is so far away, and you haven’t had that much experience driving or being on your own.”

It was useless to remind Mrs. Pidgin that she’d had her license for eleven years and never been in an accident. The woman worried as only a person could who’d never driven or traveled—irrationally.

Besides, there was a grain of truth to what Mrs. Pidgin said. Mary Elizabeth hadn’t traveled much. She’d bought the motor home a full year ago, but since then had taken only four weekend trips, all within New England.

“Please don’t worry. The trip takes only three days, four if I drive very slow, and it’s major highway all the way. What could possibly go wrong?”

The older woman stared deep into her eyes. “A lot,” she said, her voice grave.

“Don’t talk like that,” Mary Elizabeth chided mildly. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good. That’s good. The crime rate being what it is, you should be scared.” The housekeeper tipped to one side so she could slip her hand into the right pocket of her blue cotton housedress. “I have something I want to give you.” She pulled out a small plastic figure and set it on the dash.

“A St. Christopher?” Mary Elizabeth bit off a laugh.

“Ayeh.”

“But he was kicked off the saint roster almost thirty years ago.”

The woman’s look said she didn’t want to hear it. Mary Elizabeth closed her mouth and gave the icon, protector of travelers, a welcoming nod.

Mrs. Pidgin pulled a second item from her pocket, a square blue envelope. “I have something else.”

Mary Elizabeth gazed at the envelope. “What is it?”

“Something from your mother. She gave it to me before she died. She told me I was to give it to you only if Charles did something like he did this week and you found out he wasn’t your real father.”

Mary Elizabeth’s fine-boned jaw hardened. “What makes you think I want anything from her?”

“She was your mother, Mary Elizabeth, and no matter how upset you are with her now, you still love her. I know you do.” Mrs. Pidgin placed the envelope on Mary Elizabeth’s knee. “Here. It isn’t much, but it belongs with you now.”

Giving in to curiosity, Mary Elizabeth opened the envelope and pulled out a yellowed photograph. “Oh.” The sound she made was barely audible.

“Ayeh, that’s him, your real father. A handsome fella, wasn’t he. You have his eyes.”

Mary Elizabeth gazed at the man in the photo with a mixture of fascination and denial. He was slim, good-looking, young. A carpenter’s belt, heavy with tools, hung around his hips. Behind him rose the Drummond house with its sun room under construction.

Swallowing, she slipped the photograph into her open purse on the floor. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Wait. I have something else.” Mrs. Pidgin grunted as she tipped to the right, pushing her hand into her left pocket this time.

Mary Elizabeth’s eyes popped when she saw what the woman pulled out. “Where did you get such a thing?”

“Oh, it isn’t a real gun.”

Mary Elizabeth looked at her skeptically.

“Believe it or not, this is only a toy, a water pistol. My Alfred bought it for our grandson, but Judy wouldn’t allow him to keep it.”

“I can see why. It looks so real.” Mary Elizabeth gazed at the lethal-looking toy. She’d heard such things existed. She’d even read about them being used in robberies, but she’d never actually seen one before. “And you want me to...”

“Yes, take it. Here.” The housekeeper placed the water pistol in Mary Elizabeth’s lap. “I wish I had a real weapon to give you, but—” she shrugged “—this might work if you’re ever in a bind.”

Mary Elizabeth stifled the urge to laugh. She thought Mrs. Pidgin’s fear of traveling had put her over the edge, but she said a polite thank-you, anyway, and slipped the gun into her purse.

Mrs. Pidgin breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Now, another thing...” She dug into the pocket again. Mary Elizabeth was beginning to feel decidedly like a knight in a medieval tale, being given magical gifts before setting off on a quest.

“Here’s my cousin’s phone number in Orlando and my sister’s in Gainesville. If you ever need help, anything whatsoever...”

Mary Elizabeth nodded. “I’ll call. I promise I will.” She took the slip of paper and filed that in her bag, as well.

“You have enough money?”

“Yes, and my credit cards, too. Don’t worry.”

Mrs. Pidgin took Mary Elizabeth’s smooth, slender hands in her plump, work-reddened ones. “I have only one more thing to ask.” Her voice lowered. “If things don’t work out for you, you’ve got to promise me you won’t let pride prevent you from coming back.”

Mary Elizabeth turned her head and gazed out the windshield toward the perfectly sheared shrubs gracing the perfectly manicured lawn that surrounded Charles Drum-mond’s perfectly perfect house.

“I can’t promise that,” she replied hollowly.

“I know it hurts now but—”

“Hurts? Learning you aren’t who you always thought you were doesn’t ‘hurt.’ It’s more like having your entire world turned inside out.” Or maybe, she thought, like discovering that gravity doesn’t work anymore. Your footing is gone and you’re spinning away from everything that’s familiar, out of control, with nothing to hold you safe.

Turning, she saw that the housekeeper’s red-rimmed eyes had filled again.

“But such a big step.”

Mary Elizabeth pulled her hands away and placed them tentatively on the steering wheel. There was nothing tentative about her voice, however, when she said, “I have no choice. I have to go. There’s nothing left for me here. Charlie’s in London doing graduate work, and Susan has her own family to keep her busy. We were never close, anyway. All I have, really, is you.”

Mrs. Pidgin wiped her eyes and rasped a string of curses, all directed at Charles Drummond.

“Don’t be angry with him, Mrs. P. It couldn’t have been easy for him all these years, either. Every time he looked at me, he must’ve been reminded of my mother’s infidelity. Actually, he did more for me than anyone in his position was obligated to do.”

“Ayeh,” Mrs. Pidgin affirmed bitterly. “All those insulting lectures, all that criticism... and the restrictions he imposed! It’s a wonder you didn’t choke on all he did for you.”

Mary Elizabeth shook her head. “He was instilling values, Mrs. P. Punctuality, neatness, frugality. I have no complaints. Just the opposite. I led a privileged life here. Just look at the house where I was raised. I had the best clothes, went to the best schools....”

“Only because he was afraid. If he didn’t give you those things, same as he gave your sister and brother, people might wonder why he’d singled you out. And if there’s one thing your...Charles can’t abide, it’s having folks think anything’s wrong here. He’s the proudest fool I ever met.”

“You’re right. And that’s the reason—one of the reasons—I’m leaving. I don’t want him feeling shamed or unable to hold up his head in town just because I refuse to get married.”

“Just? There’s no ‘just’ about it.”

“Right again. Getting married is hardly a trivial step.” Mary Elizabeth smiled, trying to shift the conversation onto a more cheerful path. “Besides, it’s past time for me to leave the nest. I’m practically ancient, Mrs. P.” But the brightness slid from her voice when she said, “I need my independence. I want to finally be free.”

The two women fell quiet. Outside the motor home, birds chirped noisily in the maples that bordered the property. The foliage looked played out, even a little tired. The calendar might say it was still summer, but the sky was too blue, too dry and clear. Change was in the air.

Finally, the older woman said softly, “You’ll call me when you reach your friend’s, won’t you?”

“Of course. And you won’t tell Charles where I’ve really gone until I tell you it’s safe?”

“Ayeh.” Mrs. Pidgin gazed at her a long, worried moment. “Well, I can’t think of anything else, so maybe we should get on with your packing. Is there much more?”

“Only the rocker from my room and the cat.” Mary Elizabeth rose and the woman followed. But at the door of the RV, Mary Elizabeth turned. “Before I go, I’d like you to know...” She fidgeted self-consciously with the buttons on her jacket. “I mean, what I want to say is...” She swallowed, and then simply wrapped Mrs. Pidgin in a fierce hug. The woman patted her consolingly while tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.

“I know. I love you, too, Mary Elizabeth.”

* * *

EVEN THE PHONE BOOTH brought a smile to Pete Mitchell’s eyes. You just didn’t see those things anymore, only the open half-shells that looked like something out of Star Trek and didn’t exactly encourage a guy to linger or say anything personal.

The glass bi-fold door closed with a familiar squeak-thump, recalling hot summer nights, cheap after-shave, and dialing Sue Ellen Carlisle’s number while friends serenaded him with cat calls and whistles from the drugstore corner.

Pete lifted the receiver, noted the rotary dial and got the urge to call everybody he knew. He called his office.

Outside the booth, morning sunshine glittered over the dewy, deep green lawn in front of the Rest E-Z Motel. Old Adirondack chairs, ignorant of the fact that they had become a hot new item in backyard furniture, dozed under a stand of maples and birches.

Pete lowered himself to the booth’s small metal bench as the call went through. He tried to cross his legs, rest his right ankle over his left knee, but his long limbs kept knocking into things.

He heard a click, and then, “Mitchell Construction.”

“Brad?” he said, surprised to hear his brother’s voice.

“Pete?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey. How ya doin’, man?”

“Great. What are you doing answering the phone?”

“Oh, I thought I’d goof off, sit around and drink coffee. My boss is gone for ten days.”

Pete knew Brad was kidding, at least he hoped he did, but that didn’t stop his stomach from tightening. They were already two weeks behind on the McKenna house.

“Did the shipment of drywall come in?”

“Hey, you’re on vacation. You’re not supposed to be thinking about work. Remember?”

Pete sent a daddy longlegs flying off his boot with a flick of a finger. “So, did the drywall come in?”

His brother chuckled. “No. I just called, though—that’s what I’m doing here at the office—and it’s on its way. Should be here tomorrow.”

“Good. Get the men on it right away, as many as you can spare.”

“I will.” After a short pause Brad said, “So, did you get it?” His voice contained a smile.

As did Pete’s when he replied, “Get what?”

“The measles. Jeez Louise! You know what.”

Pete laughed. “Yeah, I got it.”

Brad whooped. “Oh, man! That’s great. So, tell me about it. Is she as sweet as the ad promised?”

“Sweeter. What a beauty, Brad. I even brought her into my motel room with me last night. Couldn’t get enough of looking at her.”

“Good price?”

“For a mint-condition ‘53 Triumph, the exact same model Brando rode in The Wild One? Yeah, it was a good price. Well, a little steep. The old man knew what he had. But she’s worth it.”

“I can’t wait to see it. Where are you now?”

“Still in New Hampshire, west side of Lake Winnipesukee, about forty miles south of where I bought the bike, although I must’ve put a hundred and forty on it yesterday up in the mountains.” He paused, his sharp builder’s eye sweeping the grounds.

“I wish you could see the motel I stayed in last night, Brad. Separate cabins, each about the size of a garden shed, painted this bright fifties aqua. It’s the genuine article, too, not some fake retro setup with an eye on the nostalgia buck. I’m calling from a phone booth outside the motel office ‘cause there aren’t any phones in the rooms.”

“And you’re having a good time?”

“The best.” He hadn’t taken a vacation like this in so long he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed being on the road, totally alone and freewheeling—how much he needed it. His construction business had thrived this past year, and he’d been working full-tilt all that time, unaware of the wear and tear on his body as well as his spirit. But already he felt better, and he’d been gone from home a mere two days.

“Only you, Pete. Only you.” Brad laughed. “So, are you still going to ride her home?”

“That’s the plan.” That had always been the plan. Pete had flown up from Tampa on a one-way ticket, with only a duffel bag and a certainty of his luck.

“What I’d like to know is,” Brad said, “what are you gonna do with one more antique motorcycle?”

“Love her, cherish her, till the road runs out for either one of us, what else?”

Brad chuckled. “That reminds me, somebody stopped by the apartment yesterday who maybe wishes you’d think about her in those terms.”

Pete was glad his brother couldn’t see his face. He suspected it had fallen to somewhere around his knees. “Sue Ellen?” he asked, trying not to hesitate. Hesitation might give his brother the impression he cared more than he did.

“Uh-huh.”

“What did she want?”

“Came by to hand-deliver her reply to our wedding invitation.”

“Cutting it close, wasn’t she?”

“Sure was. Jill had to call the country club last night with a final count.”

Pete swallowed. “So, is she coming?”

“Of course. She is Jill’s cousin, after all.”

Pete got to his feet and moved around the phone booth like an agitated tiger in a too-small cage. Two teenage girls, walking slowly in his direction and trying to pretend they weren’t checking him out, giggled.

Brad said, “I’m reluctant to give people advice, especially my older and so-much-wiser brother, but now that her divorce is finalized, this might be a good opportunity for you to explore the possibility of getting back with her. She’s a gorgeous lady, Pete, and if you ask me she’s still real interested in you.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“No? Then how come she’s been calling you three times a week? How come she’s been coming by the office?”

“She’s thinking of renovating her house, dummy.”

“A house that was built only six years ago? Come on, Pete, open your eyes.”

Brad was getting a real kick out of this. So were their sisters, Pam and Lindy. They saw it as the ultimate romance, Pete and Sue Ellen, high school sweethearts, getting back together after fifteen years of unfortunate separation.

Pete saw it as a good time to hit the road.

“Listen, kid, I’m not interested in getting back with Sue Ellen, and I don’t want any matchmaking going on at your wedding, hear?”

“Yeah, I hear.”

No, he didn’t. Pete could tell his brother was smirking.

“Look, just because you’re getting married doesn’t mean everybody around you should do the same. Hell, you’re getting as bad as your sisters.”

“It might not be a bad idea to start thinking about settling down, too, Pete. I think I saw a few gray hairs on your head the other day.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my gray hairs and I’ll thank you not to worry about them. Hell, I’m never going that route again. Once was enough for a lifetime. For several lifetimes.”

A few seconds of uneasy silence followed, then Brad said, “Not to change the subject, but when can I expect my best man to get home?” The reminder of Pete’s disastrous marriage had effectively killed the discussion. Pete felt his equanimity return.

“Do you need me sooner than Friday? Not this Friday. The one before the wedding, I mean.”

“Of course I need you. I’m getting as nervous as a turkey in November.”

Grinning, Pete picked at a small tear on the right knee of his jeans. “Well, hell, I’m hardly the guy to have around if what you’re looking for’s support. My advice would be to give up this deranged idea of marriage and come on the road with me.”

“You just haven’t met the right girl yet,” Brad replied righteously. “Wait till you do. You’ll be eating your words.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“And don’t you go sounding so sure of yourself. But to answer your question—no, I don’t need you. Just be here the day before the wedding. We have to pick up our tuxes and go to the rehearsal.”

“Sure enough. How’s the rest of the family holding up?”

“Good. Pam has decided to have the rehearsal dinner at her house.”

“That isn’t necessary. You know I offered to take everybody to The Sand Dollar.”

“You’ve done enough, Pete. Besides, she really wants to do this.”

“Well, in that case... Has Lindy’s husband made it into work this week?”

“So far.”

Pete sniffed. He didn’t like his brother-in-law a helluva lot. The guy had a serious drinking problem. But he was family, and so, when he said he needed a job, Pete gave him a job.

“How are Abby’s tonsils?”

“Pete, will you stop worrying about the family, already!”

Pete almost said he didn’t know how. He’d been at it too long. But that might come out sounding like a complaint, which it wasn’t, so he just shut up.

The two teenage girls were nearly abreast of the phone booth now, walking stiffly, eyes straight ahead. Pete slouched a little—enough to look disreputable, yet not so much that he’d slide off the bench—and sent them his sexiest half smile and a slow nod hello. Their eyes rounded and their faces turned red as thermometers about to pop. As soon as they’d passed, he sat up, laughing to himself.

“So,” Brad said, “what are you going to do with the rest of your vacation?”

Pete felt a warmth like new love melt over him. “I plan to hit the back roads, do my Jack Kerouac thing, look for America in the slow lane.”

“Man, do I envy you.”

“You should. I don’t have to shave or change my socks for the next nine days if I don’t feel like it.”

“Have fun, but do me a favor? Take a shower before crossing the town line, okay? I’m not sure even I could stand you that ripe.”

“I’ll think about it. Take care, Brad.”

“Hey, you will be here by Friday, right?”

“Yes, I’ll be there. Have I ever let you down?”

When Brad answered, his voice held more emotion than Pete had intended to elicit. “Never, big brother. Never.”

“So, okay.” Pete uncoiled from the seat. “Till then, hang tough. Jill is worth it.”

“I know.”

“I hope so.” Pete ran callused fingers over the heart-enclosed initials someone had scratched into the black paint of the phone. “Don’t let this get around, it’ll kill my image, but I’m the one with every reason to be envious.”

Brad was quiet awhile before mumbling, “Thanks, Pete.”

“For what? See you Friday.”

He hung up quickly, but continued to stand there staring at the phone. He’d added that remark about envying Brad merely to bolster his brother’s confidence and get him through the prewedding jitters. But just for a second...

In general, he was happy with his life. He liked his work, enjoyed his freedom, wasn’t looking for any more responsibility than he already had, certainly not the kind you got saddled with in marriage.

But just for a second he thought he’d felt something, like a faint pang of hunger, an intimation there could be more.

He gave his head a little shake. Well, of course he knew there could be more. He always had. That was why he’d asked Sue Ellen to marry him when they were just eighteen. As things turned out, she broke up with him before they quite made it down the aisle, but that didn’t alter his view of marriage or keep him from marrying Cindy Barstow half a year later.

Pete curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against the phone-booth wall. Cindy. The biggest mistake of his life, a classic case of marriage on the rebound. At twenty-one, though, he’d believed he was in love again.

Cindy was cute, sweet and affectionate, and she fell for Pete very hard, very fast. By their second date they were making love and she was saying, “I love you,” which was exactly what his shattered ego had needed then. Three months after that they were married.

Cindy had another endearing trait that had bolstered his self-image, a soft feminine helplessness that made him feel strong, protective and needed. Like a rescuing knight.

But it didn’t take long for her dependence on him to wear thin and for him to see how draining it was. He began to resent her. He wanted a partner, a helpmate, someone who could occasionally nurture him when he was down—not a little girl.

He soon discovered other things about her that were equally annoying. There were her constant small “tests” to prove he loved her—calls in the middle of the day, for instance, to ask him to leave work to pick up something at the market for her, usually when he was most involved in an important project. She also made unreasonable demands, like having him account for all his time. And then there was the way she said “I love you,” with that plaintive little question mark at the end, her way of asking him to reassure her he loved her, too. Constantly. On the phone, during dinner, in the middle of the night.

Only months into their marriage, he knew he’d made a mistake. Cindy was desperate for love, starving for it, and that scared the hell out of him. Although she claimed to love him, all he saw was her fierce need to be loved, a need that soon became a bottomless pit. No matter what he did to reassure her, her emotional needs remained unsated and insatiable.

How they’d lasted two years he’d never know, but finally there came a day he couldn’t take it anymore. The ante in Cindy’s games had risen to the point where, if he didn’t walk out, he felt sure that dark bottomless pit of her insecurity would swallow him up. In the end it almost did, but that was a time in his life he didn’t like to dwell on.

The only solace he derived from looking back on his marriage with Cindy lay in the fact that they’d never had a child. He’d wanted one, but not with her. Lord, not her. He couldn’t imagine a child growing up with that woman.

After that, Pete was pretty well soured on the idea of marriage. Oh, he’d had relationships with other women, some serious, most too casual even to remember. But marriage? No, never again.

Aside from being incurably gun-shy, he simply liked his freedom too much. Single, he could come and go as he pleased, see whom he wanted—or not. He could smoke smelly cigars, eat chili for breakfast, or drop a bundle on a bike that was forty years old. No one would be at home waiting to chew off his head.

So, why was he suddenly feeling twinges of envy for his brother? And why hadn’t he felt those twinges while Sue Ellen was still married? He didn’t want to marry anyone, even her. She might have been his first love, maybe even his best love, but, no, not even her. She’d hurt him too much when she broke up with him to marry that guy she’d met in college, and he still blamed her for the consequences, his marriage to Cindy.

Cindy. Sue Ellen. They were a mess from his past he’d just as soon forget. And that was exactly what he was going to do. Pete pushed away from the phone, opened the bi-fold door and stepped outside. He had nine days until the wedding, nine glorious, freewheeling days before he had to deal with Sue Ellen again and his interfering relatives. In the meantime—he smiled—it was time to get back on the road.

* * *

ALL THE WAY OUT OF TOWN Mary Elizabeth cried. Tears obscured her vision so badly that, turning a corner, she drove over the curb, nearly hitting a mailbox, and a block after that she ran a red light. By the time she reached the highway, the floor around her was littered with tissues, and the fluffy orange cat lying on the seat beside her was eyeing her with aloof disdain. But she couldn’t stop.

She was leaving behind everything she knew—her family, her friends, her job and hometown—and was going to a place that was totally unfamiliar. The climate, the architecture, the landscape, everything in Florida would be different.

But then, everything in Maine felt different now, too. Learning she wasn’t who she’d always thought she was had changed things. Charles wasn’t her father anymore. Susan and Charlie were only half sister, half brother. Aunt Julia wasn’t even her aunt. And her mother? Mary Elizabeth reached for another tissue from the box on the dash.

As had happened innumerable times that week, the moment when Charles had informed her of her true parentage replayed itself in her mind. Again she felt her initial shock, the confusion and numbing incredulity that had prevented his words from really registering for several minutes. It was sort of like watching the demolition of a high-rise building, she thought. Hearing the boom of the explosives, seeing the jolt through the structure—and then that strange moment when the building simply hangs in place, mortally wounded but still appearing sound, right before dropping story by story into a thundering cloud of devastation. That was how she felt every time she recalled the destruction of her world.

She wiped her eyes, but they filled again almost immediately. Oh, this had to stop. She couldn’t afford to dwell on her illegitimacy anymore or wallow in self-pity. Facing a solitary drive down the entire Eastern seaboard, she needed to be alert, defensive and tough, even though in all her life she’d never been any of those things. Growing up affluent in a quiet New England town, she’d never had to be.

But after several minutes of focusing on her trip, her sadness had been replaced by fear, fear of the journey, fear of the unknown. No, that wouldn’t do, either.

“How hard can it be, huh, Monet?” she asked the fat feline riding beside her. “People make this trip all the time—college kids on spring break, retired folks.” She blotted her eyes one last time and pocketed the tissue. “I have Triple A insurance, my route clearly mapped out, even the best campgrounds to stay in each night. I’ve got food, shelter, credit cards, everything I need. And,” she said with added emphasis, “it’s only three days.”

Morning sunshine warmed her left shoulder as she drove down the highway heading south. She relaxed into the warmth, flexing her stiff neck to one side and then the other. “Actually,” she said, addressing the cat again, “the drive isn’t hard at all. I-95 all the way until we reach Daytona. Just one long road. Amazing, isn’t it? Then at Daytona we’ll cut across Florida to a highway that runs down the gulf side of the state straight to Sarasota. The gentleman I talked to at Triple A told me that only New York and Washington might give us trouble, but if we avoid those cities during commuter hours, we’ll be okay. And once we reach Florida everything’s going to be more than okay. It’ll be great. I’ve got a job interview lined up already. My best friend’ll be there. The weather’ll be forever warm....”

The cat gave her a look that said he’d had enough bothersome conversation. He settled his chin on his paws, closed his yellow eyes and went to sleep.

Mary Elizabeth shrugged and turned on the radio, trying to find a classical station. When she had, she settled back.

But a few minutes later her mind had wandered again, away from the music to the countless school concerts Charles had sat through when she was a girl. He’d attended her plays and art exhibits, as well. But he’d usually grumbled beforehand, looked impatient during and been irritable after. At times she’d thought she was merely being overly sensitive, but now she knew better. Now a lot of Charles’s behavior made sense. So did his words. You’ve always been a burden, Mary Elizabeth. A burden. More than she’d ever suspected, apparently.

It must have been terribly difficult raising a child who was the taunting proof of his wife’s infidelity, a child he clearly didn’t want and had hoped Eliza would give up for adoption. And how maddening it must have been when that child, given every advantage, had continually failed to live up to the Drummond name.

Or maybe she had, she thought, but in his pain and resentment Charles had simply refused to acknowledge it.

Mary Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the wheel. She wished she’d seen things in that light when she was younger. Instead, she’d spent her youth trying to win his approval and love, trying, always trying, but growing increasingly certain that in some mysterious way she was inferior and deserved to be treated differently from her brother and sister.

Damn! It shouldn’t have been that way. Her mother should have told her about her illegitimacy instead of keeping it a secret. It would have explained so much. Besides, it was her very identity her mother had withheld. And what if there was some unpleasant surprise lurking in her gene pool such as heart disease or diabetes? It was only right a person be told such a thing, or at least be given the opportunity to find out. The likelihood of that happening now was slim. Mrs. Pidgin had told her that after her biological father left the area, her mother had never heard from him again. No one knew where he was or if he was even still alive.

Mary Elizabeth came to with a start, realizing she’d done it again. She’d fallen into thinking about Charles and her illegitimacy when her mind ought to be on the road. With a determined effort she put them from her thoughts, reached for the radio and turned up the volume.

She stopped at a roadside rest area south of Boston shortly after noon to feed Monet, who thought he was human and insisted on three meals a day. Although anxiety had destroyed Mary Elizabeth’s appetite, she knew that for the baby’s sake she ought to eat, as well.

While she was putting together a lobster salad sandwich, she realized her stomach was knotted with a curious new tension. Her hands trembled with a nervousness she couldn’t quite define.

She was opening a cupboard to look for her copper tea kettle when the thought abruptly hit her: survival. That’s what this nervousness was about—preparing her first solitary meal, in the first home that could truly be called her own. It didn’t matter that she’d prepared innumerable meals before. This one cut through time and all common sense to feelings that were obscure and primitive. The need to survive. The fear that she wouldn’t, just as Charles had predicted.

Conscious of her every move, she found the kettle, set it on the propane stove and turned the knob. Ridiculously, her heart leapt when a flame appeared.

She considered going out to a picnic table with her food, but an eighteen-wheeler was parked nearby, and while the driver was probably just having his lunch, too, she felt it was wiser to stay inside.

She sat instead at the small kitchen table and cranked open the window to catch the fresh September breeze. Gazing outside at her unfamiliar surroundings, her stomach suddenly clenched again. She was alone now, truly disconnected from everything she knew, and she felt alone, felt disconnected.

But there was simply no way she could have stayed in Deerfield. Feeling alone and disconnected wasn’t nearly as bad as having to deal with Charles. Or with Roger, she thought. In a town as small as Deerfield, Roger would have found out about her pregnancy sooner or later.

Mary Elizabeth picked up her sandwich and took a small, tasteless bite. Charles was right; Roger was a decent person, and although he and Mary Elizabeth didn’t love each other, he’d want to marry her. He’d think it was the right thing to do.

It wasn’t. She’d never been more certain about anything in her life. It wasn’t her own happiness she was considering, although she’d always assumed she’d marry a man she was in love with. It was the child’s welfare that concerned her. Roger would feel trapped in a situation he hadn’t planned and didn’t need or want.

Of course she wouldn’t have to marry him, despite her father’s considerable influence on both her and Roger. But even single, Roger was sure to resent the child. Maybe not at first. At first he might ask for visitation rights, maybe even insist on paying child support, but eventually he would feel he’d been dealt an unfair hand, especially when he met a woman he wanted to marry. He’d resent having to explain this embarrassment from the past, this bastard. He’d resent having to justify the drain on his time and his wallet. The child would become an issue between them. His wife might even be jealous and ask him to stop seeing the child altogether.

No, Mary Elizabeth didn’t want any baby she brought into the world to grow up like that, resented and unwanted by its father—the way she’d been raised.

She regretted not being able to tell Roger she was pregnant. Fathers had their rights, and what she was doing to him was morally wrong and probably legally wrong, as well. But whatever guilt she felt was dwarfed by her conviction she was doing the right thing for the baby. And in the end, would it really matter whether Roger knew or not? She planned to give the baby up for adoption, anyway.

Taking a sip of tea, she let her gaze wander the motor home, crammed full of her possessions. She’d brought along most of the necessities to start a new life, but she’d also brought some frills. The Steuben goblets she’d inherited from her grandmother, her Crabtree & Evelyn clothing sachets, nearly twenty years of needlework, even her Salem rocker. She knew personal, homey touches had little to do with survival, but she needed them, anyway. Her soul needed them.

Mary Elizabeth smiled softly, her sense of well-being returning. She might be alone now, detached from home and everyone she knew, but ultimately she’d be okay. She had this RV to comfort her and shelter her from all the wide-open unknowns beyond.

And she had a tiny life growing inside her, she thought, placing her hand on her stomach. As always, that realization intensified her resolve. She would reach Florida, she would make a new life for herself. And she would provide a happy future for the baby. There would be no more talk of abortion, no more pressure to marry a man she didn’t love, no more fear that that man would begrudge and mistreat his own child. The legacy of resentment stopped here.

She finished her lunch, washed her dishes and, with fresh determination and optimism, got back on the road.

Mary Elizabeth’s spirits remained buoyed through most of the afternoon, down the Massachusetts interstate, into Rhode Island and on through Connecticut. She played the radio, listened to a book on tape, and when she got tired of that, simply drifted along with her thoughts.

She pulled into another rest area just before New Rochelle. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper on the opposite side of the highway, commuters leaving New York for their homes in the suburbs. And while this side of the highway was relatively free-flowing, she knew she’d hit similarly clogged arteries once she reached the city and the lanes outbound south.

Instead, she parked the RV and passed the hectic rush hour over a leisurely dinner of quiche, salad and crisp bottled water with a twist of lemon. For dessert she had tea and a slice of Mrs. Pidgin’s spice cake.

Feeling replete, she took to the road again at dusk. With any luck she’d reach the recommended campground in New Jersey around seven-thirty. She smiled, struck by a childlike sense of anticipation.

Everything was going well. The tires were humming, she was humming, the cat had even awakened to keep her company again.

And then she reached the Bronx.

There, highway signs and exit ramps became so confusing that before she knew it she’d gotten off I-95 and entered a labyrinth of streets that seemed to have no way out. It was, by far, the most frightening terrain she’d ever seen, except on “NYPD Blue.” She drove in circles, went down blind alleys and sped past loitering, leather-clad gangs. Occasionally she thought of her St. Christopher riding solemnly along on the dash, but mostly her prayers just went up to anybody who’d listen. She wanted to find her way out, but more than that, she was terrified of breaking down. All along the dark, potholed streets, cars lay stripped of everything but their shells. She didn’t want to think about what had happened to their owners.

Eventually, and for no reason she could discern, she did find the highway again. But by then she was so weak from having adrenaline rushing through her system, she didn’t even care that she was heading in the wrong direction, back toward Connecticut. And when, a few miles later, she realized she wasn’t even on I-95, that didn’t matter, either. She was on a major highway, she was going somewhere, and that somewhere wasn’t New York City.

She took the first exit she came to that displayed the symbol for lodging. It was nearly nine o’clock.

She braked at the end of the exit ramp, peering first to her right, then to her left, wondering which direction to take on the dark two-lane road. Wondering, too, why there weren’t any signs. The billboard on the highway had promised a luxury motel three miles east off the exit, but which way was east? She was so tired she didn’t know up from down anymore.

She slumped over the wheel, dropping her forehead to her knuckles. She didn’t need this. For the last half hour, the only thing keeping her going was the thought of bringing this cumbersome vehicle to a stop and crawling into bed.

Ah, well, she sighed, sitting up. It was only three miles. If she chose the wrong direction, how long could it take to turn around and backtrack? She flexed her shoulders, did a quick eenie-meenie, and went left.

The road was dark and narrow and arched with trees. She passed a cottage set back from the road, a small restaurant and several acres of corn field. After that there was nothing but woods.

She glanced at her odometer several times, and when she was satisfied she’d covered more than the requisite distance without finding the motel—or any other signs of civilization, for that matter—she decided to turn around.

Almost too tired to see anymore, she swung the camper across the road, her headlights cutting a white tunnel into the trees. She shifted and carefully backed up, red brake lights casting an eerie glow over the roadside brush at the rear.

Given the length of her vehicle and the narrowness of the road, however, Mary Elizabeth was forced to go through the maneuver again, cutting across and backing up. Still, the turn wasn’t complete, and she wished she’d waited until she’d come upon a driveway or crossroad.

This time would do it, though, she was certain. Forward. Back. Back a bit more...

Without any warning, the rear end of the motor home dropped with a thud. Mary Elizabeth’s teeth banged together, while somewhere in the nether regions boxes tumbled. “Oh, God!” she whispered as the engine stalled.

With fingers that quivered, she turned the ignition key and pressed her foot to the gas pedal. But even as she was doing so she knew she was wasting her time. The back tires spun futilely, kicking up dirt and pebbles that hit nearby tree trunks like buckshot. The RV didn’t budge. Panic flooded her as she gripped the wheel. Her blood pounded. What was she to do now?

After turning off the engine, she found a flashlight and slipped outside to investigate. Just as she’d suspected, she’d backed the RV right into a roadside ditch. She clutched the top of her head as if it might blow off. How could she be so stupid?

Okay, don’t panic. This isn’t a problem, she assured herself. You’ve got AAA, and they come to the rescue anywhere, any time. Right? Right. All you have to do is find a phone.

She peered up the road one way and down the other. All black. Just cricket chirps and bullfrog noises mixed with the thick, woodsy smell of humus. This was definitely not her idea of New York. Or was she back in Connecticut? Well, it wasn’t her idea of Connecticut, either.

She climbed into the motor home again, brushed her hair, put on lipstick, found her purse, stepped outside, locked the door and, with a shuddery sigh, pocketed the keys.

The solution was easy, she told herself. She’d simply walk back the way she’d come and phone for a tow truck from the restaurant she’d passed just off the exit.

But when she stared down the dark empty road and remembered she’d be on it for more than three miles, her heart grew faint. She reminded herself that every journey, no matter how daunting, begins with a single step. She pulled in a breath and set off.

When she finally reached the restaurant, her legs were ready to give out. But what was worse, now that she’d gotten a good look, she realized it wasn’t the sort of establishment she’d ever walked into before. It wasn’t the sort she ever wanted to walk into, either.

It was low and dark and seedy-looking. The gravel lot surrounding it teemed with pickup trucks and motorcycles glinting lurid neon color from the beer signs flashing in its windows. Over the door a string of multicolored Christmas lights outlined a peeling sign left over from happier or more hopeful days. Starlight Lounge it read. The I was dotted with a star.

Mary Elizabeth looked across the road to the lone cottage huddled beneath a dense grove of pines, pines that made an almost human sighing, and her mind filled with visions straight out of a Stephen King novel.

She glanced from the cottage to the restaurant and back to the cottage again, feeling truly caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. She decided on the restaurant. At least it was a public building.

As soon as she opened the door she was hit with a wall of country music and cigarette smoke. The next moment she realized she’d made a serious mistake.

CHAPTER TWO

PETE GOT A BAD FEELING the moment she opened the door.

He was sitting along the far leg of the U-shaped bar, near the back exit where he could keep an eye on his bike and still watch the room. He was trying to mind his own business, catch a little of the American League play-off, finish his beer and ribs, and be on his way. He still needed to check into that motel he’d seen up the road. His body ached and his eyelids felt like sandpaper despite the protective glasses he’d worn while riding.

Still, it had been a good day. No, make that a great day. He’d traveled some of the prettiest country he’d ever seen, the weather warm and dry and sweet. But even better was the riding itself, the sense of freedom that came from the open road, a motorcycle, and no agenda to meet. Time seemed to peel away from his thirty-six years as he’d ranged the wooded hills out of New Hampshire and down the Berkshires of western Massachusetts. By early evening, when he’d reached Connecticut, he’d felt eighteen again. Had the urge to buy a pack of Lucky Strikes and try out a few lines from Rebel Without a Cause.

Stifling a grin, Pete picked up his thick glass beer mug and took a cool sip.

Over the rim of the mug, his glance returned to the young woman at the door, poised on the threshold, surveying the clientele. His good humor dissolved. Damn! What was she doing here? He lowered the mug and gave serious thought to slipping out the back door.

It wasn’t such a bad place, really. A working-class bar, unapologetically masculine. The patrons seemed to be mostly regulars, guys from the nearby town, here to kick back with a cold brew, watch the game on the big-screen TV and gripe about their jobs to somebody other than “the wife.” Pete felt comfortable enough here; at least he didn’t feel threatened. And the ribs were good, just as the guy at the gas station up the road had said.

But Pete wasn’t about to stick around, either. He’d picked up a sense of the place early on and knew that, with just a touch of the wrong ingredient, it could become trouble.

He was pretty sure the wrong ingredient was standing at the door now.

She didn’t belong here. She was as polished as the chrome on a classic old Bentley. With her smooth-as-water natural blond hair and her peaches-and-cream complexion glowing only with health, she might as well have dropped in from Venus. The few other women in the joint looked thoroughly shellacked and frizzled.

Pete doubted any of them would’ve bought the outfit she was wearing, either. The neatly buttoned, maize-colored jacket and matching knee-skimming shorts, worn with tights and loafers, made her look like a model posing for a back-to-college spread in one of those wholesome fashion magazines his sisters used to read when they were teenagers.

His gaze returned to the young woman’s hair, those soft gleaming waves that fell from a side part to just below her collarbone. It was a timeless look, as in style now as it had been in the forties or would be again in the next century.

He focused on her face, a collection of refined features arranged with perfect balance in a perfectly oval setting. She had a small, straight nose and delicately sculpted cheekbones. Her neck was long and thoroughbred, and her eyebrows arched with just the right amount of hauteur. He couldn’t rightly judge her mouth—at the moment her lips were pressed too tight—but he thought it would be appropriately aristocratic. Yes, he decided, hers was unquestionably a face born of well-tended genes.

Pete watched her with more fascination than he usually allowed her type. She was on the prowl for something. A walk on the wild side? That was usually the case when a princess like her walked into a dive like this.

But Pete didn’t think so. Even from clear across the smoke-filled room, he could see how scared she was. When her large, worried eyes fixed on the phone on the back wall over behind his right shoulder, he put two and two together and came up with car trouble. Probably out of gas, or maybe a flat tire.

Damn! Where was her God-given common sense? There was a service station just a mile up the road. Better yet, why hadn’t she ever learned to change her own tires the way his sisters had?

His gaze swept over her fragile features and regal posture. But of course she wasn’t the type to change tires. Probably never pumped her own gas, either.

Or, he thought on an unexpected wave of sympathy, maybe she didn’t have any older brothers to teach her how. For a moment a picture flashed through his mind of his own sisters caught in a similar situation.

Pete shook his head fractionally. No, she was just a princess. Didn’t pump gas. Didn’t change tires. Thought she could sashay into any ol’ place and not suffer the consequences. No one would dare give her trouble.

From under his lowered lashes, Pete scanned the room and winced. Someone was thinking of daring.

He’d noticed the guy earlier, a muscle-bound, muscle-shirted big-mouth with a taste for Scotch, sitting on the other side of the bar. Pete swore under his breath, glanced over his shoulder at the exit again and began to wipe his hands.

* * *

MARY ELIZABETH SERIOUSLY considered retreat, just backing out the door and fleeing up the road to her RV.

But that would mean walking three miles in the dark again, this time with a stitch in her side. And worse, now there was the added risk she might be followed. A few of the men were giving her some decidedly unsettling looks.

In addition, retreat would solve nothing. Even if she did arrive at her motor home safely, it would still be stuck in a ditch. Besides, on the far side of the dimly lit room, beyond the pool table and drifting veils of smoke, hung the solution to her problem—a public telephone. All she needed was the courage to get there.

She pulled in a long breath, gripped the strap of her shoulder bag, and with eyes trained on the floor, made her way through the nearly all-male clientele. It seemed a gauntlet, but eventually she reached her destination.

With her back to the room, she set her purse on the ledge under the phone and took out her wallet. While conversations rose to their natural volume again, she flipped through her credit cards and various forms of identification, searching for the AAA phone number she knew was in there.

It eluded her. A fine tremor of fear shivered over her skin. She started her search again, aware of a sweat breaking out on her neck. Driver’s license, social security card, Visa, American Express...

Suddenly, the room dimmed to the degree where she couldn’t see the contents of her wallet at all. She turned and, with a jolt, realized it wasn’t the room that had dimmed, but only her particular corner of it. An immense pair of shoulders was blocking the light.

“Hi, how ya doin’?” For someone so big, the man who’d spoken had a remarkably high voice.

Mary Elizabeth could barely catch her breath, so acute was her alarm. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” Her eyes flicked upward to a square red face made even blockier by a flat-topped buzz cut. There seemed to be no demarcation between his head and shoulders except a pale border where the hair had recently been trimmed.

“I never seen you in here before.” The man inched closer, causing her to back up.

He wasn’t really bad-looking. He didn’t wear a leather vest or have sinister tattoos like those bikers playing pool, yet she still found him threatening. Something in his depthless, slitty eyes...and he smelled of hard liquor.

“Excuse me, I just need to make a phone call.” She attempted to turn and resume searching her wallet.

“And I just come over to help,” he said. “This isn’t the sort of place a pretty little lady like yourself ought to be wandering into alone.”

Mary Elizabeth eyed him guardedly, trying to decide if his offer of help was sincere, wondering if she had perhaps misjudged him. “I...uh...it’s car trouble.” Finally, she found the card. “RV trouble, actually. Nothing mechanical. I just need a tow.”

He leaned his beefy shoulder against the wall, hemming her in. The odor of liquor and smoke, combined with too-sweet after-shave, nearly made her gag. “Well, how about that.” He chuckled. “You’re lookin’ at the answer to your prayers, darlin’. I just happen to have a tow rig on the back of my truck.”

She stood in horrified numbness as he lifted one hand and ran his moist fingertips down her cheek. “Excuse me,” she said, shaking him off and stepping aside. In the process, however, the AAA card slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor between them. Swallowing, she bent to retrieve it, but just as she was reaching, his big sneakered foot landed squarely on top.

Heart hammering, she looked up the towering length of him.

With a dry chuckle, he removed his foot, but not until he’d made it clear he was playing a game of cat and mouse, a game he obviously enjoyed and wasn’t about to give up.

She retrieved the card and glanced around the room. A few men were watching them, but they didn’t seem inclined to interfere. The rest were oblivious, playing pool or pinball or watching a baseball game on TV. Mary Elizabeth glanced toward the bar for help, but as luck would have it, the bartender was female.

“How about a drink?” her unwanted companion asked, wrapping his sausagelike fingers around her upper arm. “Let me buy you a drink, huh? I’m in the mood for another myself.”

“Thanks, but I’m not thirsty. All I want is to be left alone so I can call for a tow, then I’ll be on my way. So if you’ll excuse me...”

“Hell, we can have you towed in no time. I told you that already. Come on, relax.” He gave her arm a little shake. “Take a load off.”

Mary Elizabeth tried to stay calm, at least on the surface, but inside she was growing frantic. No way was she going to get in a truck with this gorilla and drive off down a dark, isolated road.

“Excuse me. I...I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

Her friend tilted his thick, squared-off head. “Whatsa matter? Am I bad company?”

She wanted to say yes but had been raised to be impeccably polite. “Excuse me.” Surprisingly, he let her go.

Once she was inside the tiny washroom, she knew why he’d been so agreeable. The window was five feet up the wall and so narrow she doubted even her leg would fit through. Mary Elizabeth sighed aloud and would’ve leaned her weary self against the stall except that it was probably crawling with germs that science hadn’t heard of yet.

What am I going to do? she implored her reflection as she patted a wet paper towel to her flushed cheeks. Inside her open purse, set on the rim of the sink, lay the plastic gun Mrs. Pidgin had given her. Mary Elizabeth smiled wanly. Perhaps she could fill the gun with water and squirt the brute to death.

Ah, well, Mrs. P.’s intentions had been good.

Her newfound friend was waiting outside the washroom door, patient as a puppy. “Missed you.” He grinned. “Hope you like rum and coke.” He held up a glass.

“No, thanks.” Trying to ignore him, she headed for the bar. Another female was sure to sympathize. “Excuse me,” she called, leaning over an unoccupied stool.

“Wait a sec,” the bartender, busy at the cash register, answered distractedly.

“You know,” came the high, now nightmarish voice close at Mary Elizabeth’s side, “if I didn’t have such a sweet, forgiving nature, I’d be mighty ticked off by now. Here I offer to give you a free tow, something worth fifty, sixty bucks...”

The bartender finally headed in Mary Elizabeth’s direction.

“Please, could you do me a favor?” Mary Elizabeth’s voice wobbled noticeably now, but at least she’d been able to fend off tears.

The young woman, who looked to be about her own age, glanced up from the tap where she was filling three glass mugs.

“Would you be so kind as to call Triple A for me? All I need is a tow. Here’s the number....”

The bartender’s left eyebrow arched. “And there’s a pay phone, right there.” She pointed with her chin.

“I know, but...” Mary Elizabeth rolled her eyes toward the man still crowding her, his breath on her neck.

The young woman huffed. “Sonny, leave ‘er alone, huh? You’re being a jerk.” Then she walked away, delivering the three beers to the far end of the bar. It was apparent she didn’t consider him a threat. Also apparent was the fact that she’d be of no help.

Mary Elizabeth slipped onto the stool, planted her elbows on the bar and dropped her head into her hands.

“So, what’s your name?” Her friend, who was evidently named Sonny, placed the rum and coke under her nose.

Too weary even to look up, she said, “Will you please leave me alone? It’s been a very long day.” Now tears did flood her vision. “Damn,” she spat, embarrassed by her weakness. On a spurt of anger she spun off the stool. This was a public place, and that, a public phone. No one had the right to stop her from going about her business.

“Hey, where you runnin’ off to now?” Sonny gripped her arm and gave it a yank. “Here I’m tryin’ to be nice... Whatsa matter? Don’t you like me?”

Something must’ve happened behind her because she noticed Sonny’s slitty eyes shift and refocus. Suddenly he went still, while a calm, deep voice with just a trace of a slow southern drawl said, “Why don’t you give it a rest?”

Mary Elizabeth turned in surprise. A tall, dark-haired man was lounging back in his bar stool, his eyes fixed on the TV screen. He seemed relaxed, but looking at him, she got a sense of tightly coiled alertness.

For the first time since she’d wandered in here, she drew a clear and easy breath. She wasn’t sure why; he certainly didn’t look like anybody a woman ought to be breathing easily over.

Sonny released her arm and stepped aside. His eyes narrowed even further. “What did you say?”

“Leave her alone. Let her make her call.” The stranger calmly took a sip of his beer and continued to watch the game.

Sonny shifted his considerable weight, one foot to the other. “And who’s gonna make me?”

Slowly, the man at the bar set down his mug and carefully got to his feet.

Mary Elizabeth couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was over six feet tall and powerfully built. Tough as the road he’d traveled in on, too, she’d bet. He had wind-tossed black hair, steely blue eyes, weathered skin and a jaw that was unrelenting. Dust burnished his black boots, and the edges of his pale denim jacket were frayed. Beneath the jacket, tucked into low-slung, well-worn jeans, he wore a plain black T-shirt.

But the thing about this man that mesmerized her so wasn’t his clothing or eyes or build. She didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t physical...although his physical aspect was certainly impressive, too.

Mary Elizabeth bit her lower lip while her eyes traveled over him, up, down, up and down again. In all her life she’d never met anyone quite like him. He was like a new, unexplored land, and though her stomach jumped with something akin to fright when she gazed at him, she didn’t want to miss a single mile.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he said with easy composure, raising his hands like a gunslinger showing he was unarmed.

Sonny snickered.

“But if you start it, I’ll guarantee I won’t run away.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sonny replied with all the cleverness of a block of cement.

Mary Elizabeth’s skin crawled with deepening dread. She’d never witnessed a fight before, but this situation seemed to have all the signs of one brewing.

“Go make your phone call, miss.”

With a start, she realized the tall stranger was talking to her. The bright animal darkness of his eyes made her breath catch. She nodded.

But Sonny responded, “I already told her that isn’t necessary.”

The blue-eyed man impaled Sonny with an immobilizing stare. Then, still holding him in his sights, he took Mary Elizabeth by the arm. “Come on.”

Relief flooded her as he began to escort her to the phone.

No sooner had he turned his back, however, than Sonny gave him a hard shove, sending him stumbling forward.

With a plummeting heart, Mary Elizabeth realized that the fight had not been averted, but rather it had just begun.

The stranger who’d come to her aid rebounded quickly and shoved Sonny in return. “Back off,” he warned, blue eyes blazing.

“Go to hell,” Sonny replied.

And then fists did fly. Mary Elizabeth let out a faint “Yi,” the only sound she was capable of, as the two men crashed into bar stools and people retreated.

“I don’t believe this!” she whispered, retreating with them.

A table went over, glasses sliding and smashing to the floor. The room resounded with the smack of fists, with grunts and fabric ripping, and like in a movie, it was all set to music—”Welcome to Earth, Third Rock from the Sun”—thumping from the jukebox.

At least they seemed evenly matched, Mary Elizabeth thought, watching them go at it—though she did sense a quickness in the taller man that Sonny lacked.

What Sonny had was a mean streak. She watched in horrified silence as he grabbed a beer bottle off the bar, smashed it against the brass rail and lunged at her tall dark stranger.

“Get out of here,” he called to her just before the jagged bottle came down on the side of his forehead. Immediately blood beaded along the gash.

Rather than rattle him, the cut seemed to deepen his anger and resolve. He picked up a chair and slammed it against Sonny’s arm, dislodging the broken bottle from his grip. Then he pushed Sonny against the bar where he kept him pinned until Sonny looked ready to give up.

Mary Elizabeth had no idea where the third guy came from, but suddenly there he was, gripping the dark stranger’s shoulder, swinging him around and landing a blow to his midsection that made her nauseated.

Logic told her she should use the diversion to slip away. Nobody was interested in her anymore. Yet she couldn’t leave. It was clear that the man who’d come to her aid was as much a stranger in this bar as she was, while Sonny was a local, and if she abandoned him, he’d probably get pulverized by Sonny’s friends.

She shouldn’t care, she told herself. She didn’t know this man, she’d never see him again, and if he was in a bar like this he was probably accustomed to fighting, anyway. Besides, she had a responsibility to the tiny life inside her. That especially had her concerned.

But if she slunk away now, what sort of person would that make her? How would she ever face herself in a mirror?

Without another second’s thought, she dug into her purse for the plastic gun. Tossing her bag onto a nearby table, she gripped the gun in two hands and flexed her knees. “All right, everybody freeze!” she called out.

Nobody heard. The debacle continued.

“Hey!” she hollered, affronted. This time a few onlookers turned. She heard someone say, “She’s got a gun,” and was pleased that the person sounded at least somewhat alarmed.

Within seconds the word passed. Attention turned on her like a tide. Those nearby backed away. A few people slipped out the door.

“Stop fighting,” she shouted. “Stop!” To her utter amazement, they did. The three men turned and looked at her, then each of them swore, different epithets, but all at the same time.

“Now...get against the wall there,” she ordered as she searched her memory for anything else she could borrow from the police movies she’d seen.

The three men moved, amazing her once again. A hush had fallen over the place. Even the jukebox had obediently shut down.

“Good.” She straightened, feeling a heady sense of power. “Now, you...” She waved the gun at the bartender. “I want you to call the police, and this time don’t tell me there’s a pay phone.”

In the dead silence, Mary Elizabeth became aware of sirens wailing in the distance. Confused, she glanced at the young woman behind the bar who made a face that said, What do you think I am, an idiot?

In no time flat, blue-and-red lights were throbbing against the windows, dueling with the neon. The doors banged open and six uniformed officers hurried in, straight to the heart of the fray.

“Thank God you got here so fast,” Mary Elizabeth said, but the officers coming toward her didn’t return her smile. In fact, every one of them had drawn his weapon.

“Drop the gun,” one of them ordered.

She looked at each of the six faces, at each of the six guns pointed her way. “What...?” All at once, she realized what was happening. “Oh. You think...”

But before she could explain the gun was only a toy, three of the policemen had cocked their pistols. She dropped the gun.

A policewoman immediately lunged forward, grasped Mary Elizabeth’s right wrist and twisted her arm up behind her back. Another officer, a serious young man with a dedicated, boyish face, carefully picked up the fallen gun.

After that, events swam together in a dreamlike sequence: across the room, the bartender talking excitedly, pointing this way and that; the odious Sonny saying, “But...but he...but...”; and the tall dark stranger scowling at her, Mary Elizabeth, where a moment ago he’d been duking it out on her behalf.

“Sonny, Sonny,” a craggy-faced sergeant scolded, shaking his head. “It isn’t even Saturday night.”

Sonny returned a sheepish grin.

“Okay, let’s go,” the sergeant said. It was then that Mary Elizabeth noticed the handcuffs glinting on the three men’s wrists. No, that’s a mistake, she wanted to cry out. The tall one is a good guy. But just then she heard the officer who’d picked up her gun reading her her rights. At the same time something cold and metallic encircled her own wrists.

Mary Elizabeth’s face drained of color. “You’re handcuffing me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But there’s obviously been a misunderstanding.”

“We’ll straighten it out at the station. Do you have a purse?”

“Uh, yes.” Mary Elizabeth indicated a nearby table.

The officer picked up her bag and said, “Come with me, please.”

Mary Elizabeth was led through the gawking crowd, close on the heels of her tall, dark stranger. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, her eyes hot with humiliation.

“Why the hell not?” he snarled over his shoulder. “Acting as stupid as you just did, you must land in messes like this all the time.” His hard lips curled as he muttered something that sounded to her like “Liverpool.” She frowned in confusion until she reasoned he’d said “Little fool.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“You should be.”

Outside, she was led to a cruiser, while the three men were taken to a rescue van where medics waited to patch up their injuries.

She was just slipping into the back seat of the cruiser when it occurred to her that she hadn’t gotten her hero’s name. She peered up at the serious young officer, and with a giggle that rose from hysteria, asked, “Who was that masked man?”

He frowned, staring at her oddly, then shut the door.

She sat back and surveyed her surroundings with combined interest and dread. “Oh, Lord, I’m riding in a cage!” she moaned. The next moment, the full significance of what was happening to her hit home, and two hot tears trickled down her cheeks.

After that, events really blurred. She was taken to the station and booked, only vaguely aware that the three men involved in the fight had been brought in, as well. Her possessions got handed over; she was escorted down a corridor to a cell; handcuffs came off, toilet facilities were pointed out, and then, with a sound that cut right through her, the iron-barred door clanged shut.

And so ended Mary Elizabeth Drummond’s first day of independence.

CHAPTER THREE

THE FIRST THING on Pete’s mind when he opened his eyes the next morning was his bike. Where the hell was it, and if it had even one scratch, how did the fool who’d scratched it want to die?

The second thing he thought about was Mary Elizabeth Drummond, that preppy little pain in the butt who was trying to wreck his vacation—and doing a pretty good job of it, too. He’d never met anyone so fly-brained in his life, and why he’d stuck his neck out for her was still a mystery.

Pete eased onto his back and scowled at the water-stained ceiling of his cell, recalling the previous night. If she just hadn’t walked into that bar, none of this would’ve happened. He was familiar with places like that, knew the type of guy who frequented them. For the most part, just your ordinary, law-abiding Joe. But add a woman to the equation—an unattached woman, he amended, thinking of the few who’d been there with their husbands or boyfriends—and your ordinary Joe suddenly transmuted into King Kong. She should have known that, too—although, to be fair, he doubted she’d spent much time in bars.

Pete’s mouth tightened in a rueful grimace. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...

Last night after being brought in, they’d sat at adjacent desks while being booked. That’s when he’d first heard her name. Mary Elizabeth Drummond. Even in his thoughts he put a spin of mockery on it. He wasn’t sure why, except that the name struck him as sort of stuffy and tedious. It had no...give.

Sitting where he was, he’d been able to hear the reluctance in her voice when the officer asked her name, a reluctance that had deepened when she was asked her address, birth date and social security number. Pete got the feeling she didn’t want the police to know who she was. For a while, in fact, she’d actually refused to give her address. Said she was in transit, moving from one state to another, and at present didn’t really have an address. Pete had noted her amazement and dismay when all her vital statistics came up on the computer screen, anyway, just on the cue of her social security number.

What really roused Pete’s curiosity, though, was the anxiety he’d detected when she’d been asked if there was anyone she wanted to call. No, there was no one, she’d said, an answer that had compelled him to turn and take a new, harder look at her. A princess like that, you’d think she’d be on the phone right away, a dozen people she wanted to complain to.

Another thing about her that didn’t jibe was her voice. It was husky and deep-throated, a Scotch-and-soda voice that belonged more to a torch singer in a smoky piano bar than to someone wearing Bass Weeguns loafers.

Pete winced reflexively when he remembered the turnaround in her attitude after she was asked to explain what had happened at the Starlight Lounge. Suddenly she was a fountain of information. A damn Niagara Falls of information. And she was angry.

Well, maybe indignant was a more appropriate word. She didn’t seem capable of really ripping loose. He’d noticed that about her last night, first with Sonny and then at the station. Terminally polite, that was her problem.

But Pete knew she’d been angry inside. Her cheeks had been a feverish pink, her sentences rushed and tumbled, and her slender frame never really stopped shaking. She reminded him of a bottle of carbonated soda, shaken to a froth, but all sealed up.

She was convinced her arrest was a mistake, even after the officer patiently explained the charge against her for the third time. She seemed to think that if she kept yapping, eventually he’d see the error in his logic.

She kept repeating that the gun was only a toy. Couldn’t quite grasp the concept that wielding even a toy in a public place was a serious, arrestable offense if that toy was perceived as real and dangerous by those it was pointed at.

Pete and the other two men were booked and on their way to their cells, and she was still sitting there yapping.

Pete swung his feet off the lumpy cot. Get the broad out of your head, he told himself. You’ve got problems enough of your own. He rubbed his eyes. “Augh,” he said aloud, grimacing under a sudden pain. “Mean left hook you’ve got there, man,” he grumbled to one of two snoring hulks in the cell across the aisle.

Pete watched with deepening disgust. He didn’t like bullies. Never had. And if Sonny was anything, it was a bully. That was why he’d stuck his neck out for Mary Elizabeth Drummond.

Relieved that he’d finally found an acceptable rationale for his behavior, Pete got up stiffly and studied his face in the mirror over the small white sink. “Great,” he said flatly. The area around his right eye had turned brownish purple overnight and his upper lip was puffed.

Ordinarily he wouldn’t have cared. It wasn’t the first fight he’d been in, or the worst, but he had his brother’s wedding coming up in a week. He’d hoped to look at least halfway decent.

Peeling away the tape that held a gauze pad in place, Pete examined the two-inch gash that Sonny had carved into the side of his forehead. It could’ve been worse, he thought. He’d seen the swing coming in enough time to pull back and just be grazed.

That was seconds before Sonny’s buddy had jumped into the fight. Could’ve been a lot worse, Pete thought, the lines of his face falling into a study of pensive concentration as he remembered—Mary Elizabeth Drummond pulling that gun from her purse. Fly-brained she might be, but she also had courage. He’d seen the gun shaking in her hands from twelve feet away, yet she’d stood her ground and gone out on a limb...for him?

Pete shook his head to knock away the nonsense and reached for the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face and, straightening, let it trickle down his neck. He couldn’t start developing a soft spot for Ms. Drummond now. Because of her he’d been arrested. Because of her he’d spent the night on a cot that felt like a cobblestone road. Because of her he would be wasting a whole morning in court, when what he’d planned was to be riding his new bike.

He heard footsteps in the hall. Pete dried his face on a thin, scratchy towel. A young officer, new with the morning shift, banged on the bars of Sonny’s cell, then unlocked Pete’s cell and brought in breakfast.

“‘Morning. Sleep okay?”

Pete nodded. He might be mad as hell, but the local constabulary would be the last to know it.

The young man set the tray down on the end of the cot. “Half an hour till we go over to the courthouse.”

“I’ll be ready.” Pete reached for his coffee.

The officer paused. “We brought your bike in.”

“What?”

“Your motorcycle. Last night you asked if we could remove it from the parking lot of the Starlight Lounge. I thought you’d like to know that we did and it’s safe over at Bernie’s Garage. That’s on Third Street. You can pick it up after your court appearance.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. How much for moving it?”

“Thirty dollars.”

Pete nodded agreeably. “I don’t suppose you could tell me what the going rate is for a bar fight in this town?” He smiled—amiably he hoped.

“About a hundred, if you get any judge other than Collins. With Collins, oh, anywhere between one-fifty and three.”

Careful to show no reaction, Pete took a sip of coffee. It was hot and surprisingly good, but didn’t do much to lessen his irritation.

“How’s the girl?” He wasn’t sure why he asked, except that she was the source of that irritation.

The policeman grimaced. “Not too happy. Friend of yours?”

Pete cocked an eyebrow.

The officer laughed. “Didn’t think so. She asked for tea this morning. Earl Gray, to be exact. With honey and lemon. That was after she insisted someone go feed her cat.”

Pete shook his head, lips pressed tight to show he commiserated with the young man.

“Were you able to tow her RV?”

“Yep. It’s at Bernie’s, too.”

“Is it going to be laid up long?” Somehow, the thought of her spending any significant time in this town, with Sonny on the loose, made Pete uneasy.

“Naw. Nothing wrong with it. She just got it stuck in a ditch.”

Pete sipped his coffee, keeping his eyes down and his thoughts to himself. They weren’t kind. They weren’t too politically correct, either.

“Well, you go ahead and finish eating. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

The young officer was closing the door when Pete said, “So, did you get it for her? The Earl Gray, I mean?”

The officer’s mouth twitched. “What do you think?”

“I think... I’m glad I won’t be seeing her after today.”

The lock slid shut to the sound of the officer’s laughter. Then he said, “Hey, Sonny, rise and shine. Billy, get up, let’s go.”

* * *

THE DISTRICT COURTHOUSE was a three-minute cruiser ride from the police station. Mary Elizabeth was sitting with her police escort in the second row of folding chairs, chewing on her lower lip and wondering how her cat was, when the stranger from the night before walked in. Her whole body seemed to rise a little when he did.

She’d been waiting for him to make an appearance. The previous night, lying sleepless in her cell, she’d thought a lot about what he’d done for her, coming to her defense the way he had. It was enough to make the most hardened cynic have faith in mankind again. Yet she hadn’t even had a chance to thank him.

She was reluctant to admit it, but there was another reason she’d been keeping an eye out for his arrival. She just wanted to get another look at him. Even last night, under the most stressful conditions, his looks had been distracting enough for her to take notice.

He walked with his police attendant down the aisle that divided the seats. When he got to Mary Elizabeth’s row, he paused, his steely blue eyes meeting hers as if perhaps he’d been curious about her, too, this person he’d risked life and limb for. He didn’t look any happier now than he had last night.

She knew she looked awful. She was frightened and embarrassed, and had been that way all night. Now her eyes were bleary and her skin was dull. Her clothes had seen better times, too. Instinctively, she ran her shackled hands along her linen walking shorts in a futile attempt to iron out the wrinkles.

But if she looked bad, the dark-haired stranger looked even worse. Noticing his bruises, her expression crumpled. I’m sorry, she wanted to say, and hoped her eyes conveyed the message.

If they did, her apology fell on stone. He merely scowled and turned his head.

Another time, another place, perhaps she wouldn’t have minded. But here, today, it would’ve been nice to have a friend. She felt rather out of her element. Never having been arrested before, she didn’t know what she was doing.

She’d thought of hiring a lawyer but had been told it wasn’t necessary; her case was too small. Which was just as well since she couldn’t afford a lawyer, anyway. Still, she felt vulnerable without defense, helpless without someone to negotiate this unfamiliar system with her.

What if she was found guilty? She’d have a criminal record then. What would that do to her future? To her chances of getting a job? Decent housing? And what if Charles found out? He’d never let her live it down.

With hands that shook visibly, she pressed at the wrinkled linen again as if doing so would iron away those problems. When her hands reached her knees, she surreptitiously tugged up her saggy tights. Just as surreptitiously, she glanced at the tall, loose-limbed stranger, slouched in his chair across the aisle.

He looked so calm, so capable and impregnable to injustice. She’d bet he would never allow anyone to pin a guilty verdict on him if he was innocent. Maybe she should take her cue from him. Maybe the time had come for her to accept that she was truly on her own and no one was going to watch out for her but herself.

Pulling in a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and waited for her case to be called.

“Who’s the judge today?” Pete asked the policeman sitting beside him.

“Gertrude Collins.”

“Collins,” Pete repeated. He sank lower in his seat, giving Mary Elizabeth a dark sidelong look. Nothing had gone right since running into that woman.

She was called first. Pete watched her walk up to the bench, her spine straight as a poker, her mouth tight with righteous indignation. Her charges were read and then the judge asked how she pleaded.

Lifting her chin, but not so high that her invisible crown slipped off her head, she said, “Not guilty.” Pete exhaled a long breath through his teeth.

He watched the judge confer with her and the police prosecutor—explaining the options, he guessed. Cases as small as theirs were usually taken care of immediately and on the spot. Court dockets were too overloaded to make a production out of every case that came through. Besides, she was obviously guilty—they all were—and six policemen and a bar full of witnesses could testify to that fact.

But after a long deliberation, she still insisted she wanted to fight the charges. Pete heard the officer beside him sigh. He saw the judge sigh. Three people in front of him looked at their watches.

“Could I have the other defendants in this case?” The judge motioned for Mary Elizabeth to stay.

Pete was escorted up to the front of the courtroom, with Sonny and Billy close behind. Sonny and Billy were greatly subdued this morning. They stood before the judge as docile as lambs, like Pete, knowing that cooperation was the name of the game here, the key to getting out quickly.

Their charges were read: property damage, public intoxication, and assault and battery with dangerous weapons—the weapons being the broken bottle Sonny had wielded and the chair used by Pete. After spending a few minutes plea bargaining with the police prosecutor, who in turn conferred with the judge, they were each found guilty of simple assault and fined one hundred and fifty dollars. They paid their fines, along with the towing charges for their vehicles, and were told they were free to go.

The judge then looked at Mary Elizabeth, her expression seeming to say, Got the picture?

Mary Elizabeth swallowed.

Sonny and his buddy took off as soon as their fines were paid. Pete was pocketing his wallet and thinking of doing the same when Mary Elizabeth turned her eyes on him. He’d noticed they were an unusual shade of warm coffee-brown, and right now they were very large and very lost.

He tried to look away. He didn’t like her kind, he told himself. He’d dated a few princesses in his day and found them dull and patronizing. The dull part he could excuse...

Still, there was a bruised look in those eyes that appeared too real, a vulnerability he never would’ve associated with her.

He caught himself up short, just as he was sliding into sympathy. Aw, no. He wasn’t going to fall for that trap again. That’s the way things had started with Cindy. He gave his shoulders a flexing roll and set off for the door.

But halfway there he paused. Behind him, Mary Elizabeth was asking the judge to clarify the trial process she’d have to face if she contested the charges. Pete didn’t really care what happened, but he was curious enough to want to listen in. He made his way to the side of the courtroom and stood against the wall.

Mary Elizabeth spoke quietly. He couldn’t hear everything she said, but he got the sense of it. Capitulation.

The judge sighed in relief. She found Mary Elizabeth not guilty, but fined her two-hundred-and-fifty dollars.

It was a reasonable sum, but Pete could see—could almost feel—Mary Elizabeth’s indignation picking up a new head of steam. Why was her fine higher than the men’s? she wanted to know. Pete squinched his eyes shut. The men, she said as her handcuffs came off, had smacked each other black and blue while she had done nothing except stop the fight, which you’d think she’d be commended for instead of punished. Furthermore, why was she being fined at all if she was innocent?

Before he could think, Pete cleared his throat, loudly. She glanced over and he shook his head, hoping she understood.

She was breathing hard, conflicting emotions warring in her eyes. Something in their depths made him think that maybe her reaction to her fine wasn’t really indignation at all, but fear. Fear of what, he didn’t know.

Finally he saw her give in—a slow exhalation of breath, a slumping of her shoulders.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” she mumbled, and reached into her bag for her wallet.

Pete stood away from the wall and once again turned to leave. He didn’t like what just happened, that small communication between him and her.

He was halfway to the door again when something caught in his peripheral vision: Mary Elizabeth searching through her purse. Dread crawled over him.

“It’s not here,” she said, no longer speaking in that Scotch-and-soda voice that so intrigued him. She was practically squeaking now. “I...I can’t find my wallet.” She searched again, taking several items out. Her face had gone crimson.

“Are you sure it was in your bag?” the judge inquired.

“Positive. I had it last night at the bar.” She kept rummaging through the purse, swallowing, turning redder. Finally she looked up, her eyes slightly wild. “I think it was stolen.”

“Stolen?” the judge repeated.

Mary Elizabeth nodded. “At the Starlight. After I pulled out the water pistol, I threw my purse onto a table. I don’t even remember doing it. I just remember that’s where I found it when I left. While it was lying there, somebody must’ve helped himself to the contents.”

“I see.” The judge dragged a hand down her face. “Officer Wilson,” she called, addressing the policewoman who’d been part of the arresting team at the Starlight, “as soon as Ms. Drummond’s business with the court is concluded, take the information regarding her wallet.”

The policewoman gave a short nod.

Mary Elizabeth looked up at the judge, dazed. “Your Honor? How am I supposed to pay my fine?”

“Did your wallet contain all your money?”

Coffee-brown eyes shimmered with tears. She nodded. “Seven hundred and twenty dollars.”

The judge cast her a stern look. “It isn’t wise to carry so much money on your person, Ms. Drummond, especially when you’re traveling. Better to divide it and put it away in several locations.”

Mary Elizabeth lowered her eyes and said nothing, all her uppity self-righteousness gone. Pete was beginning to think it hadn’t been very real to begin with.

“Well, I suggest you call your bank and have the money wired to you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Your Honor. I closed all my accounts before I set out on this trip.”

Standing a few feet away, Pete scowled. Closed all her accounts? And she had only seven hundred bucks? Mary Elizabeth was becoming more of a puzzle every minute.

Then it hit. That was why she’d reacted to her fine. She’d been worried about the amount of money she’d have to hand over.

The judge said, “Then I suggest you contact a relative or a friend.”

Again, Mary Elizabeth shook her head. “I...I can’t do that, either.”

The judge was growing impatient. “Unless you want to work out an alternative, I think you had better, young lady.”

“May I ask what the alternative is?” Mary Elizabeth inquired, squeezing and twisting the strap of her purse.

“Fifteen days in the county jail.”

Mary Elizabeth’s eyes went a few degrees wilder.

Pete clasped the nape of his neck. Don’t do it, Mitchell. Get yourself the hell out of here, he thought, even as he stepped forward and said, “Your Honor, I’ll loan Ms. Drummond the money. That way you can get this train moving again.” He could’ve sworn the formidable woman on the bench mouthed the words “Thank you.” He didn’t say “You’re welcome.” He was angry at her for assuming Mary Elizabeth had money readily available, an assumption based on the style of her hair and the quality of her clothes.

Mary Elizabeth turned in surprise. Her gaze traveled over him in quick assessment, taking in his black eye, two-day-old beard, faded jacket and jeans whose knee had finally popped a tear.

“That’s very generous of you, but I couldn’t possibly accept your money.”

Instantly he rued his generosity, not knowing whether to laugh at her mistaken assumptions about him or shove her condescension down her throat.

“Fifteen days,” he reminded her, half hoping she’d go for the time.

“But...are you sure you can spare it?” she asked.

“For you? Anything.” He winked, but there was no mistaking his sarcasm.

She looked confused. “I’ll repay you. Just as soon as I reach where I’m going.”

“Of course you will. I didn’t say it was a gift.”

The judge asked, “Are you willing to pay her tow charge as well?”

“Yes. How much?”

“Sixty-five dollars.”

Mary Elizabeth’s face dropped. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, but only loud enough for Pete to hear. He nudged her with his elbow, using restraint to just nudge and not ram. Her muttering ceased.

Pete handed over the cash, making a mental note to stop at the first ATM he came to.

“That’s it? I’m free to go?” Mary Elizabeth asked, a conflicted mixture of incredulity and relief.

“Yes. Next case,” the judge said quickly.

Mary Elizabeth couldn’t shake the feeling she was caught in a nightmare. She felt almost sick from exhaustion and fear, and knew, as she walked away from the bench, her steps were weavy. All she wanted to do was crawl under a rock somewhere and sleep. Instead, Officer Wilson was waiting for her, pad and pen poised.

“The wallet’s beige, cowhide, monogrammed in gold with my initials,” Mary Elizabeth said.

“Credit cards?”

“Yes. Three.” She fought off a tightening in her throat. “And a gasoline card, and four department store cards.” Her sense of being caught in a dream world deepened. What was she to do now? No money, no plastic...

“Where would you like us to send the wallet, if it turns up?”

“Oh.” Mary Elizabeth passed an unsteady hand over her brow. “My friend’s in Sarasota. Yes, definitely my friend’s.” If it ever went back to Charles, she’d die of humiliation. She could almost hear him saying it now, “I told you you’d never make it on your own.”

Unexpectedly, thoughts of home rushed over her, and with them came remembrance of her mother’s affair, her shock at learning she was illegitimate, her distress over her pregnancy...so many problems that had somehow gotten relegated to a back burner since last evening.

Having procured all the necessary information, the officer pocketed her pen, wished Mary Elizabeth well, and walked off, leaving her standing alone with the weight of her remembered troubles. Feeling vague and quite disoriented, she turned to go. “Oh,” she said in surprise. Peter Mitchell, whose name she’d learned just this hour, was still in the courtroom, standing right behind her.

He had the clearest blue eyes she’d ever seen. The fact that one of them was bruised didn’t detract from their impact one bit. Right now those eyes were narrowed under a lowered brow, studying her. She guessed she looked pretty bewildered.

“Yes?” she asked uncertainly.

“Do you want to take my address?”

She blinked, uncomprehending.

“So you’ll know where to send the money I lent you.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She opened her purse and withdrew a pen and a small notebook. He took them from her and began to write. He had nice hands, she thought distractedly. Strong, broad hands that were cut and callused yet imbued with a certain masculine grace.

He wrote his address on the top sheet of paper, along with the amount she owed him. Then he flipped to the next sheet and wrote out an IOU, to which Mary Elizabeth added her signature and Chloe’s address.

“That should do it,” Pete said, pocketing the IOU.

“Yes.” She glanced down at the address he’d written in a surprisingly neat but firm hand and felt a kick of adrenaline. “You live in Tampa?”

But he had already turned and was heading for the exit. She hurried to catch up. Her head had cleared remarkably. Moreover, her spirits were lifting, probably because it had just begun to sink in that she’d been found not guilty. She would have no criminal record, no impediments standing in the way of establishing herself in a new location.

“This is really a coincidence. I’m going to Florida myself.”

Peter opened the courtroom door and made his way through the crowded corridor, his eyes fixed on the exit ahead.

“I’m going to Sarasota,” she persisted, following. “That’s on the Gulf Coast too, not very far from Tampa, right?”

“No,” he said, hurrying on. “It’s miles away. Many, many miles.”

Mary Elizabeth would’ve contested his claim, but just then she spotted the policeman with the sincere, youthful face who’d arrested her the previous night. He was standing by the main door, just ending a conversation with someone who looked like a lawyer.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you know if there’s a phone at the garage where my RV was taken?”

“Yes, ma’am, there is.”

“Great. Thanks.” She’d call the credit card companies from there to notify them that her cards had been stolen. She continued out the door, Peter Mitchell a few brisk paces ahead of her. She’d thought perhaps they’d walk to the garage together or maybe take a cab, but apparently he wanted to go his own way, alone. She drooped with mild disappointment.

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