“Two years ago Sheriff Moreno called.”

Ian’s gaze was fixed on the wall behind her left ear. As if he was there, but wasn’t there. He continued, “Asked if I’d noticed Daisy was getting forgetful. He’d found her car, still idling, stuck in a desert wash ten miles outside of town.” He shifted, cleared his throat. “I hadn’t seen her for a while. I should have figured it out, not Vince.”

A twinge of remorse nagged at her. She’d done this. She’d made this guy worry more than he already did. He didn’t deserve it, any more than she did.

But the touchy-feely confidences had to stop. Because if they didn’t, then she’d have to reciprocate, tell him something deep, dark, revealing. And if she started, where would she end?

“Okay, I get the gist. Prodigal son is racked with guilt, throws away a promising career to care for his mother. Very commendable. More than I’d do in the same situation.”

“I don’t want sympathy. You asked what happened—I told you.”

“Good. I’m not the sympathetic type.”

He crossed his arms. “That’s probably what makes you so successful, Ms. Davis. Personally, I’d hate to make a living off other people’s misfortunes.”

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t create the system. I’m just damn good at what I do.”

Dear Reader,

The imagination is a weird and wonderful thing. Ian and Vi’s story began with a small article I read in a newsmagazine about Alzheimer’s service dogs. Soon my daydreams produced Annabelle, a dedicated, loving service dog. My mind wouldn’t rest until I gave Annabelle a challenging assignment and a family to go with it.

Annabelle’s people aren’t perfect. Ian, Vi and Daisy struggle and make mistakes. They laugh, they cry, they love. They are the family of my nightmares or my fondest dreams, depending on the day.

I feel very fortunate to share their story with you, especially as my first Harlequin Superromance novel. The Road to Echo Point will always have a special place in my heart. I hope it touches your heart, as well.

Yours truly,

Carrie Weaver

P.S. Echo Point exists only in my mind. Please excuse any liberties I took with the geography of Arizona and the Superstition Mountains.

The Road to Echo Point
Carrie Weaver

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGMENT:

I would like to thank Pat Putnam of Okada Specialty Guide Dogs for speaking with me about Alzheimer’s service dogs. Pat was gracious in sharing her extensive knowledge and enthusiasm with me.

For more information on Alzheimer’s service dogs:

Okada Specialty Guide Dogs

7509 E. Saviors Path

Floral City, FL 34436

www.okadadogs.com

DEDICATION:

For Luke and Michael, who have always believed

in my dreams. I love you bunches.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

IT WAS A SHOCK, the effect of gravel on rubber. One minute tires gripped the road, bouncing over raised ribs of clay, the next they slid sideways.

Dust billowed, Vi’s pulse pounded, short puffs of air kept her going. It was like a scene investigation gone bad. The result of excessive speed on a dirt road. What a laugh. Except it was anything but funny.

She made it around the corner, somehow keeping the car on the road.

No trees. Thank God.

Her pulse rate dropped, her breathing eased. The company car wouldn’t end up a twisted wreck, along with her career.

“Good going, Davis,” she muttered under her breath. Instinct had her foot pumping the brake. The car started to obey.

A brown blur appeared near her right front fender.

The sound was sickening. It was dense and dull, the thud of live flesh meeting unforgiving metal.

Her ankle ached as she jammed on the brake. The car listed to a stop.

More dust. Everywhere tan plumes of the stuff rose around the car, like a dirty version of dry ice.

That was when the shaking started, from the throb in her ankle, snaking its way up her thighs. In seconds, her hands contracted on the steering wheel.

What had she done?

She had to get out. Had to go look.

Somehow Vi managed to make her hands cooperate and grasp the door handle. Her knees buckled as she got out.

This wasn’t like her. Not anymore. She was strong and in charge. But she had never been on the wrong side of a loaded shotgun, until today.

She hadn’t believed old Mr. Johnson would really shoot her. But one niggling doubt was enough to make her relive another place and time. A time when the threat was more real, though fists were the weapon of choice. A time when safety was a gift to be treasured. And survival was the name of the game.

Mr. Johnson and his rusty old shotgun had been enough to rattle her, big time. Enough to send her speeding down a dirt road, trying to outrun her past.

And now this.

Grasping the door for support, she squinted to block out the late afternoon rays. She didn’t see anything unusual past the expanse of white hood. Nothing.

Her chest stung as she sucked in more air. She willed the trembling to stop.

One step at a time. That’s all it would take. Like one day at a time.

How ironic that the twelve-step mantra came back to haunt her now. Wouldn’t her dad be proud? The way he was still able to control her life, so many years and miles away.

Anger stiffened her spine. She’d use it, just like so many times before. Just like when she’d left home and never looked back.

Placing one foot in front of the other, Vi refused to lean on the car. She didn’t need to lean on anything or anyone.

She rounded the fender and stared at the lump. It was bad. Brown eyes glazed in pain, begging her, blaming her.

But it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It could have been the first catastrophic injury claim she’d handled all over again. Where a toddler darted out in front of a car and ended up a quadriplegic.

Vi shook her head to erase the images of the file photographs she carried around in her head. She was on edge and she knew it. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she assessed the situation.

“Only a dog,” she whispered. But she couldn’t dismiss it that easily.

She’d had a dog once. Chubby and playful and a bundle of energy. Until he came home…

This wounded animal whined, snapping her back to the here and now. She crouched next to it. Her hand shook as she reached out to stroke the silky head. The other one had been beyond her help…maybe this one would be different.

Her hand hovered just inches away from the fur. Her fingers itched to caress, to comfort.

But the memories wouldn’t let her. She tried to push them away, back to that little corner of her mind where the unspeakable stuff lived.

The animal whimpered. She let her fingertips graze its forehead. The whimpers stopped, the grip on her stomach relaxed.

Blinking away tears, she whispered, “Sorry, fella.”

A loud crash of underbrush came from the opposite side of the road. Her heart hammered. Stupid, stupid Vi. She’d let down her guard. But not for long.

She turned to face the loud, crashing beast.

A man broke through the scrub brush, legs pumping, Arizona Cardinals football shirt stretched tight across his heaving chest. Meaty arms swung in time with his sprint. And his eyes. There was a desperation to him—a man with nothing left to lose.

She’d seen that look. So many years ago, right before—

“What the hell have you done?”

Run.

Vi turned toward the dog, hesitated. The animal struggled to its feet. Three legs supported it. This dog would live, unlike the one in her memory. The one her father had killed in a fit of rage.

Stones skittered behind her.

Vi spun around. The man was almost on her.

Instinct had her muscles moving before any conscious thought. Blood hummed in her ears as she jumped to her feet. Her pumps slid on the gravel for a terrifying second before she dug in her toes for traction. Panic propelled her toward the car.

Door locks, ignition, reverse, gas. This time, she used the gravel to her advantage, sliding into a tight U-turn.

A look in the rearview mirror didn’t show her a thing. Just a big cloud of dust and her wide brown eyes, pupils the size of nickels.

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING,” Vi sputtered.

Surely the man wasn’t serious? He looked more like a cowboy than an officer of the court. All western, what she could see of him, from the cotton shirt with the mother-of-pearl snaps to the bola tie at his scrawny, weathered neck.

Trying to regain her composure, Vi glanced around the Echo Point courtroom. The imitation-wood paneled walls were decorated with the usual framed copies of the Arizona and U.S. constitutions. Old black-and-white photos of copper mines and cattle ranches reflected the history of the small town.

Scattered through the photos were color lithographs of dogs. Sporting dogs. Dogs with limp birds in their mouths, dogs pointing at unseen prey. And one color, eight-by-ten of a muscular yellow dog at the side of a man clutching a rifle. Thick black plastic framed the man’s glasses, a turquoise ’68 Ford Camper Special stood proudly in the background. All clues that this was one of Judge Tanner’s favorite photos from his younger days.

Vi swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d heard horror stories about skewed rural justice.

Judge Tanner looked over the rims of his reading glasses. “I don’t kid when it comes to adjudicating a case. Just because my robe’s at the cleaners, doesn’t mean this is a bunch of funny business. I take my rulings very seriously. Says here, you left the scene of an accident. Hit-’n-run.”

“I didn’t mean to imply I take the proceedings lightly. It’s just that…well, I did stop.”

“You didn’t stay to render aid or give insurance information. Hit-and-run. I can revoke your license.”

Vi bit her lip before a succinct curse could slip out. He had every right, and she had nobody to blame but herself. A hit-and-run violation, combined with a few past speeding infractions, could mean a suspended license.

Dread turned her into a one-woman perspiration factory. The lining of her blazer stuck to her back, moisture trickled in places she’d rather not think about.

She gulped. “I could lose my job….”

“Should have thought of that before.”

“I wasn’t thinking—”

“No. You weren’t. You weren’t considering that a child could just as easily have been in that road.”

The thought of maiming a child scared her as much now as at the scene. Maybe more. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It was an accident. Just a dog…”

Vi glanced at the photos on the wall. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Stepping closer, she murmured, “I—I’m not sure what happened to me. I’ve been under a lot of stress, my appointment was, uh, unusual. And when the guy with the dog charged at me, I guess I snapped.”

That was as much of the truth as she intended to reveal. There was no way she would describe the flashback, or the man she’d really thought was charging at her. The judge would have her in a straitjacket and pronto.

“I admit I made a mistake. I take full responsibility. The dog is recovering. I’ve offered to pay the vet bill…make things right.”

The judge addressed the dog’s owner, slumped in the front row. “Ian, will paying the vet bill make things right?”

“No. Not even close.”

Vi could feel her cheeks flush. “That’s not being reasonable.”

“Life isn’t reasonable,” the man named Ian commented.

She turned to get a better look at him. What she saw confused her. He could have been a WWF wrestler on a downhill slide. Stubble covered his chin, dark circles ringed his eyes. Exhaustion was etched in the lines around his mouth. And yet, the judge seemed to value his opinion. Maybe her knee-jerk reaction on that dirt road had been rash, but the man still intended to ruin her life.

She swiped her tongue across her dry, cracked lips. “Look, I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. But you can’t hold me responsible for the fact that the dog wasn’t leashed. And you’ve got to understand. I was afraid for my life.”

Judge Tanner leaned forward. “A. There’s no leash law in the county area outside Echo Point. B. It’s your responsibility as a driver to be prepared for the unexpected. C. While Arizona is a comparative negligence state, that applies only to civil litigation, not criminal. You can’t parcel out the blame. And finally D. Ian wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

Vi gulped. The judge might not look like the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he apparently was no slouch in the law department. Appealing to his sympathy was her best bet. “I didn’t know that…um…Ian was harmless. He looked dangerous. Put yourself in my place. A woman, alone, out in the middle of nowhere…suddenly a large, angry man comes running at me, yelling.”

The judge opened a slim manila folder and adjusted his glasses. “Ah, yes. Claims Manager it says here. Don’t imagine you intimidate too easily. Tell me about this ‘unusual’ appointment of yours. Who’d you meet? For what purpose?”

He was right. She normally didn’t intimidate easily. At least not anymore. She prayed that it had been the unique set of circumstances and not an indication she was losing all the ground she’d gained in the past ten years. She couldn’t go back to being that scared girl who jumped at her own shadow. The girl who thought black eyes and bruises were an everyday event. That all daddies drank themselves into a rage.

Drawing on her strength, her training, she tried to appeal to the judge’s professionalism. “Sir, I drove up from Phoenix to settle an auto injury claim with an elderly gentleman named Bob Johnson. He’s going in for surgery next week, and we wanted to get his accident claim settled first.” She leaned forward. “As I’m sure you are aware, if he dies before settling his claim, his relatives will no longer be entitled to compensation for pain and suffering.”

“So, out of the goodness of your heart, you came all the way up here to make sure old Bob’s grandchildren get a chunk of change, even if he croaks on the operating table?”

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”

It sounded so cold. In her circle, it was considered more a mission of mercy. Besides, she liked old Mr. Johnson. That’s why she’d hung on to his file after her promotion from adjuster to unit supervisor.

“I’m surprised old Bob didn’t fill your behind full of buckshot,” the judge said.

“But he did, I mean, he tried. He chased me off with a rusty old rifle. The stuff sprayed all over the tree next to me. So, you see, I was rattled.”

A smile twitched at the corners of the old man’s thin lips, then vanished. “Be that as it may, it’s not an excuse for making a poor decision. Since you see the results of accidents every day, I’m sure you can understand how serious this is.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“With your speeding tickets and this latest stunt, you deserve to lose your license….” The judge brought up his reading glasses, glancing through a thin file. “Violet.”

Violet. The little girl cowering in a corner, trying to make herself disappear.

Another trip down memory lane. It was almost as bad as going home, something she never intended to do again.

“Please, call me Vi.”

“Well, Vi, we have a decision here…”

“I’d appreciate any leeway you could give…sir.”

Judge Tanner leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his hands. “Maybe we can find a solution. Hit-and-run means you lose your license. But, there could be another way.”

“Speed too fast for conditions,” she supplied. A mere point or two on her license. Her insurance rates would skyrocket, but she’d save her job.

The judge’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. From the looks of your traffic violations, you always drive with your foot in the carburetor. Seems to me you could use some cooling off time. I’ll give you a break. Community service, restitution.”

Relief washed over her. A couple weekends at the local soup kitchen, maybe picking up trash in the town square. How bad could it be?

“Yes, community service. I’d appreciate the second chance, sir.”

She ignored the perspiration pooling at the waistband of her skirt. “I do feel bad about Mr….ah, about his dog.” She gestured vaguely in the madman’s direction. “I’d be happy to replace it for him.”

“So ruled. Community service, replacement of the dog.” The gavel echoed through the small courtroom. “I’ll give you a day to collect your things and move in.”

The judge glanced toward the front row. “You’ve got a spare room, don’t you Ian?”

“Uh-huh,” the big guy grunted.

“Move in?” Vi squeaked.

“Sure. You can’t watch over Daisy properly unless you stay the night.”

She choked back a laugh. “You mean I’m supposed to watch over a dog?”

“No, ma’am. You’ll replace the dog. Take her place.” Judge Tanner turned to the man. “Now, Ian, how long did Doc Woodworth say Annabelle’d be laid up?”

“A month. Six weeks if there’re complications.”

“Who is Annabelle and what does she have to do with this?” she demanded.

“Annabelle is the dog you practically killed. She’s an important member of my family and a certified service dog.”

The mountain of a man spoke to her directly for the first time since he’d come charging out of the brush.

“Wha…? There was no vest on that dog—”

“She was off duty. We weren’t out in public. Even a dog needs R&R, especially a service dog. Fetch is her stress-buster.”

“What about my job? I’ve got responsibilities, a good shot at District Claims Manager.”

The judge waved his hand as if to shoo a pesky fly, telling her exactly what he thought of her job. “You should’ve thought of that before you went speeding down a dirt road. You’ve got till four tomorrow afternoon to show up at Daisy’s place. Ian’ll give you directions.”

“But that’s not fair.” Vi stormed the bench, her heels clicking emphatically. “You can’t do that. I’ll get an attorney.”

“Attorney’d be a waste of time and money.” He gestured toward the man. “Ian, I’ll have Sheriff Moreno stop by for a report now and then. That’ll give old Joe a chance to chat with Daisy and make sure Ms. Lead Foot here keeps her end of the deal.”

“Thanks, Ralph. I’m about beat.”

“Think you can hold out till tomorrow?” His prune face relaxed into a sympathetic smile.

The man swiped a hand across his face. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it now.”

Fumbling through a daily planner, he found a blank page and ripped it out. He scribbled furiously, then handed the sheet to her. “See you at four tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute. Who’s Daisy? And why the heck do you need me?”

“Daisy’s my mother. Annabelle’s her service dog. You’ll keep an eye on Mom at night while I sleep.”

Vi shook her head. She was having a hard time relating a service dog to a woman who needed to be watched while she was asleep. Seizures maybe? She’d read about dogs trained to sense the onset of human seizures.

“Oh, and bring some comfortable clothes.” He eyed her up and down. His lips curled into a smirk as he took in every detail of her gray silk suit. “You won’t be needing those.”

He gestured in her general direction. By those, she assumed he meant designer clothes, or maybe it was her three-inch heels.

“I need to know what I’m getting into. Why exactly does your mother need a service dog?”

“Alzheimer’s. She has Alzheimer’s.”

VI CAREFULLY NEGOTIATED the curve, keeping her speed down to a crawl. Impatience had got her into this mess, thinking on her feet would get her out.

Mentally reviewing her options, Vi figured her week’s vacation would keep the rumble of discontent at Transglobal Insurance down to a dull roar. After that, they’d start talking leave of absence, a death knell to her goals.

She patted the laptop next to her. A large box of files rested on the back seat. Black leather was hell on the thighs during the scorching summer, but it sure looked good. The Mustang was her pride and joy. New, sleek and powerful. Not bad for a girl from East L.A.

Peering ahead, she saw where the scrub brush parted for a bit and a rutted path jogged off to the right. That had to be it. It was the only private drive for miles. She followed the narrow dirt road for several hundred yards and parked on a circular drive.

Letting out a low whistle, she admired the view. It was an adobe—low, squat and brown. Perfectly framed by the backdrop of lush, undisturbed desert, the Superstition Mountains rising in the distance. It looked like a small piece of heaven.

Vi got out of the car and approached the veranda, her gaze lighting on new and wonderful discoveries. Wild flowers in big terra-cotta pots. Two antique branding irons, crossed like swords, anchored to the wall.

She laid a palm against the adobe, absorbing the warmth of reflected fall sunshine, admiring the coarse texture. The weathered mud brick looked like it had been there for years. And would probably last for many, many more. It was stable, unchanging, safe.

Patrick would have loved it. He had loved all things western. Probably because of the old cowboy movies he’d watched when they were kids. Where the good guys always won, and the bad guys were easily spotted in their black hats.

Vi swallowed hard. She would not cry. It didn’t accomplish anything. And it wasn’t what Patrick would have wanted.

Laughter and joy were what he had brought to her life. And at the first sign of trouble, he’d whisk her off to their special fort and tell her jokes until she’d forgotten her fear.

God, how she missed his smile. The mischievous twinkle in his eye. The absolute goodness in his heart. The bravery he shrugged off as brotherly duty.

Vi fingered the heavy wooden door. Splinters nipped at her, but the core was solid. The bulky expanse was attached to the hand-hewn door frame with cast iron fittings. It might be old, but it looked strong enough to hold off an army. Or one really pissed-off SOB.

Yes, Patrick would have loved it.

Someday, she’d have a place like this. If she worked harder and smarter than everyone else.

Vi slipped into her favorite daydream. The one where she possessed the security only money could buy.

What would she change if the adobe house were hers? Definitely not the massive mesquite tree shading the flat roof, its gnarled black branches stretching protectively toward the house. And not the prickly pear cacti that lined the gravel drive. The ocotillo would stay, too. It looked almost like an upside-down octopus as it reached for the sky, the long, skinny stems undulating with the slightest breeze. The blooms added just the right touch of orange, breaking up all the tans and sages of the desert.

It was quiet, hushed almost. Except for the occasional call of some sort of bird, a dove maybe. What did someone do with all this quiet? No sirens, no neighbors, just quiet.

Vi shook herself out of her reverie. She didn’t avoid challenges anymore, she took them head-on.

Her knuckles stung as she rapped on the striated surface of the door. Her efforts hardly made a sound. She pounded with her fist the second time and was rewarded with a dull thud.

She swore under her breath as she blew on her bruised hand.

The door swung open instantly, silently. Plenty of oil on those old fittings.

“You’re here. Good.”

The Ian guy stood in the doorway, his massive arms folded over his chest.

Vi took in his scruffy, stubbled jaw. She raised an eyebrow at his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair—short, dark-blond spikes here, mashed flat to his head there. And to think she’d envied guys with their wash-and-go cropped hair. Apparently, the “wash” part was critical to the whole ’do. He looked like a shower and a dab of shampoo might work wonders.

The view improved once her gaze got past the stubbled jaw. His Phoenix Coyotes hockey jersey, though badly wrinkled, outlined a very nice set of pecs, then hinted at a muscled stomach before neatly disappearing in to his jeans. No doubt about it, he was devoted to his hometown teams. The teal and purple presumably brought out the green in his eyes, but today they were just too bloodshot.

It had to be one hell of a hangover, judging from the way his hand shook where he gripped the wrought iron door handle.

Wariness twisted her stomach. This was more than she’d bargained for. Vi let her suitcase down with a thunk. The laptop case remained firmly on her shoulder.

She stuck out a hand. His grip was strong, but with a tremor she could have named in seconds.

“Too much partying?” It was more of an observation than a question.

Ian scowled in response. His shoulders straightened. He had to be six-three or six-four. No wonder he’d scared the hell out of her.

“Look, lady, I don’t know where you think you’ve landed, but there isn’t too much to celebrate around here.”

Vi shot him a glare. “I know a hangover when I see one.”

“You do, huh? How about sleep deprivation, you familiar with that?”

She raised her chin a fraction. “I’ve read a bit. And my secretary has a colicky baby. She says that’s why she’s always late.”

He looked her up and down, his gaze attacking her neatly pressed khakis, polished loafers, cotton sweater set. He shook his head. “No, you’ve never missed a moment’s sleep. Your poor secretary.”

The laptop strap bit into her shoulder. His words bit into her pride. She was a good boss, dammit. She’d come up the hard way—won a scholarship for inner city teens. She knew what it was like to struggle, to fight.

Vi took a deep breath and reminded herself that getting along with the guy might mean all the difference. “Look, we got off to a bad start. Why don’t we try again? You could begin by inviting me in.”

He grunted in reply, shoving away from the wall. He turned without a word, leaving her to follow like a helpless child.

She grabbed her tweed suitcase and trotted behind him. And she never trotted behind anyone. One or two steps ahead at the very least.

“I’d like to get unpacked right away. Get my computer set up….” Her mind was off and running, calculating how she would keep her finger on the pulse of the office, while stuck out here in the boonies. She shuddered to think that Echo Point was the closest outpost of civilization. It was a good twelve miles away.

“Yeah, we better get moving. The witching hour is almost here,” he muttered.

She barely heard him. “What was that…witching hour?” she mumbled, still mulling over office politics.

VI JUMPED at the sound of an insistent knock at her door.

She shoved her socks and underwear into the top drawer of the distressed pine dresser and slammed it shut.

“Vi?” came the deep voice.

“Just a minute,” she called, stowing her luggage under the bed. As she stood, she adjusted the pile of pillows, smoothed the lovely chenille bedspread. Unbleached cotton, maybe even organic. It felt heavenly, soft, under her fingers. It’d taken years to educate herself about the finer things in life. And soon, she’d be able to afford them. Even with the big chunk of her paycheck she sent to L.A. each month.

Another knock. This time louder. Desperate almost.

Hurrying to the door, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She pasted on a confident smile.

“Ready…lead the way,” she said as she opened the door. She was talking to a hulking back moving down the hallway. Vi jogged to catch up with him.

The Mexican tile blurred beneath her feet—the stark white walls glowing in contrast. Migraine-inducing bright. But at least it lightened up all the colonial Mexican stuff.

Just when she thought she might go blind from the glare, the hallway opened into a great room. Large, low-ceilinged, with a big screen TV in the corner. Spare, to the point of being scary. No homey pile of magazines. Just a remote and a TV magazine—

Vi frowned. Was the remote actually chained to the coffee table?

It was.

“Mom, this is Vi.”

Ian nudged her forward until they reached a leather sofa. The high gloss and buttery tones promised soft calfskin. A colorful Indian blanket was draped across the back, right behind an old woman. Slender arms, soft, silvery-gold hair worn in a chin-length bob and cornflower blue eyes that sparkled.

“Vi, this is my mother, Daisy.”

“Hello.” She extended her hand.

The woman grasped Vi’s hand in her own. Pat-pat went the ringed fingers. Her hands were cool, her scent divine. There was a grace to her movements, a regal quality in her posture. This woman hadn’t slouched a day in her life.

“I’m Daisy. Welcome.”

The woman stood, and her petite frame surprised Vi—her head didn’t reach much higher than Vi’s shoulder. Without warning, the tiny thing enfolded her in a hug.

Vi stiffened. Glancing over the golden head to the giant, she pleaded with her eyes.

Save me.

There would be no rescue from that corner. The exhaustion had cleared from Ian’s face and his eyes were alight with affection.

She awkwardly patted the woman’s straight back, then disengaged herself.

“Mom, Vi’s going to join us for dinner.”

“Who’s Vi?” she asked, a frown pulling at her brow.

“I’m Vi.”

“Oh, yes, yes of course, dear. But who’s joining us for dinner?”

Vi turned helplessly to Ian. This threatened to become a bad game of “Who’s on First?” She’d had only a brief opportunity to research Alzheimer’s and didn’t quite know what to expect.

“Mom, why don’t you show our guest your paintings while I get dinner.”

“What a lovely idea, dear.” The old woman took Vi’s arm and gently led her through an arch and down a long corridor.

Vi couldn’t help but notice the strange wallpapering technique they’d employed. There was some sort of border on the wall, about elbow height. It looked like metallic tape. Reflective tape?

She opened her mouth to ask about it, but never got a break in the conversation. The older woman chattered as they strolled, commenting on the weather, the ballet she’d just seen, the latest scandal involving President Nixon.

Other than forgetting the current president, she seemed remarkably in charge of all her faculties. This job might just be easier than Vi had anticipated.

“Here’s my studio,” Daisy commented, as they reached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. She threw open the doors to reveal a breathtaking view. There were windows from floor to ceiling along one wall, framed by the gray and purple of the Superstition Mountains in the distance. Below, a lush meadow meandered to a stand of cottonwood trees, with a few scrub oak sprinkled in. Mostly green, but with an occasional burnt orange leaf here and there. Gorgeous.

And the supplies. She’d never seen so many wonderful paints in one place, short of an art store. Her fingers itched to hold a brush, to try the pastels she’d experimented with years ago, given to her by a kind teacher. But no, the colors were all wrong. A bolder, more brilliant medium was needed. One that would bring out all the contrasts and textures.

“It’s wonderful,” she breathed.

“I knew you’d like it. You have artistic hands.”

The gnarled hands picked up hers, tracing the length of her fingers, pressing gently on her palm, as if assessing her strength.

“Mine were very much like this once.” The old lady sighed and dropped her hand. She turned away from Vi, but couldn’t hide the regret in her voice.

“Once?”

Daisy wandered toward the window, lost in thought. “Can’t hold a paintbrush.”

Back she came, her movements stiff, disjointed.

“Can’t dance, either. Knees won’t work right.”

To the window and back, faster and faster.

“Everyone knows. Hold a brush properly. First lesson.”

She moved to the workbench and grabbed a coffee can full of paintbrushes. “Can’t do it.” She stalked toward Vi. “Can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it,” she chanted, louder with each refrain. Crimson splotched her wrinkled cheeks. The rest of her face was deathly pale, almost gray.

Oh, God, she’s going to have a stroke.

“It’s okay,” Vi soothed. Her stomach knotted with helplessness. How was she supposed to handle this woman?

“Can’t do it, can’t do it. Can’t do it!” She was directly in front of Vi. Droplets of saliva showered her face. The old hands clawed at her.

“Can’t do it!” she shrieked. The woman turned and with surprising strength, hurled the can, brushes and all, at the window.

The glass shattered. Large jagged cracks radiated from the spot where the can had connected.

Vi panicked. What in the heck was she supposed to do?

Surely Ian had heard the commotion. Surely he’d fling open the doors and take care of this…this situation. She strained her ears, willing his heavy footsteps.

Nothing. No sound of the cavalry coming to her rescue.

Daisy, surprisingly nimble now, raced toward the window.

Vi made a split-second decision and sprinted after her. She caught the woman from behind in a big bear hug. Daisy thrashed and screamed, batting at Vi’s arms. Vi held on tightly, gasping for air. She wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let this sick woman throw herself through the glass.

The tiny figure twisted and wrenched in her arms. Every movement forced Vi’s arm upward. She could strangle the old woman if she didn’t let go. But Daisy could die if she did. It wasn’t much of a choice.

CHAPTER TWO

VI SPUN HER BODY to the left, taking Daisy with her. Enraged shrieks beat against her ears. Her arm inched higher, over the lady’s chin.

Then everything went red. Vi howled with outrage. The old woman was biting her.

Teeth ground down, never releasing. No dentures here.

The door flung open. Ian’s gaze swept over her and his mother.

“Help me!” Vi screamed. The jaws clenched harder. Pain shot up her arm, radiating along her shoulder. Flashes of light erupted behind her eyes. Heat rushed over her in waves, her knees threatened to buckle.

Ian strolled toward them.

Couldn’t the man see she was dying?

“Hurry,” she yelled.

Teeth. Pain.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You calm down, she’ll calm down.” His tone was conversational, as if they discussed the weather.

The vice on her arm eased a fraction.

“Good.” He continued to saunter toward them, his voice low.

Vi tried for a fair imitation of his Mr. Roger’s cheerful croon. Through clenched teeth, she sang, “She’s killing my freaking arm.”

“It’s not your freaking arm I’m worried about.”

“It worries me,” she barked.

The vise tightened again.

“Mom, dinner’s ready.” He held out his hand to the woman. “We don’t want it to get cold.”

Vi cautiously relaxed her grip on the woman.

The jaws unclenched.

Vi backed away, ever so slowly. She didn’t dare breathe until she was out of biting distance.

“Why isn’t this woman in the hospital?”

“Because hospitals won’t take her. This is a chronic problem, not acute. And this is her home. She belongs here.”

The tiny woman faced her. Sweat dripped down her cheek. Saliva pooled at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, dulled by confusion.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Vi. Remember?”

“I don’t know a Vi,” she stated. Turning to Ian, her voice shaky, she asked, “Do I?”

He stepped over to his mother’s side. “This is Vi, Mom. She’s our guest for dinner.”

A radiant smile broke over the woman’s face. She must have been quite beautiful at one time. “Of course, dear. Our guest.”

“I WON’T STAY,” Vi hissed. “I’m not qualified for this.”

“Sure you’re qualified. You think on your feet. And you know a mean half nelson.” Ian gave her a lopsided grin.

His poor attempt to distract her with humor almost worked. The fact that he had a sense of humor came as a complete surprise to Vi.

“That woman is a danger. To herself. To me. She needs professional help. Wh-what would have happened if she’d thrown herself through that window?”

His grin faded.

“She didn’t. And you were there. You handled it. Once you understand her a little better, you’ll do great.”

“Look, I can’t take care of a houseplant. Or pets. You’ve obviously overestimated my capabilities.”

Ian scratched his head. “It’s usually not this intense. It’ll take a little time for Daisy to adjust to having you around,” he said. “I’m sure you can handle it, or I wouldn’t ask.”

“There’s got to be somebody else. How about a private nurse? Someone who specializes in this kind of thing. I’ll help pay.”

He brushed his hand over his face. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Nurses don’t come cheap.” Then he named an astronomical figure. “I can’t risk using up Daisy’s nest egg. She might need it…later. And I doubt you’re willing to foot the bill.”

Vi’s heart sank as she mentally inspected her savings account. There was no way she could swing it—not if she wanted to send money to L.A. every month. And there was no question about that. It kept her conscience clean.

“I’ll stay a week. That ought to be long enough for the dog to get back up to par….” It was a stab in the dark, but she had to try.

“The vet said a month at the minimum. I’m not risking permanent damage to Annabelle, just to make life easier for you. You don’t have a choice. No Daisy, no driver’s license. No driver’s license, no job.”

There was a hard edge to his voice as he scraped mangled Tater Tots and smeared ketchup into the garbage. The remnants of microwaved hot dogs, stale buns and carrot sticks soon followed. The meal made campus food look gourmet.

“Look, I’ll buy you another dog. AKC, pick of the litter, whatever it takes.”

“Annabelle cost over fifteen thousand dollars. Even if you could cough up that kind of money, a dog like her takes a year and half to train.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars?” She nodded her head in the direction of the dog basket in the corner of the kitchen, where the subject of their discussion lay, head on paws, big brown eyes following every movement, every nuance. “That cost fifteen thousand dollars? Boy, did you get screwed.”

“That happens to be a member of our family. She’s worth every penny and then some. Believe me, by the time your four weeks are up, you’ll agree.”

“You never told me why this dog is so important. I can see your mother needs help, but, well, wouldn’t she be more comfortable in an institution? Where there are people trained to handle her problems?”

He crossed his arms. “Home is the best place for her. Annabelle has been trained to help keep her here. Wandering is a big problem.”

“That’s what I’ve read.” Vi mulled over her options.

“I can do two weeks. That’ll use up all my personal and sick time, but I think I can make it work. After that you’re on your own.”

“No deal. This mess is your fault. You’re here till Annabelle’s well enough to work. You leave and I’ll have the judge issue an arrest warrant so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

No counteroffer. That wasn’t good. This was his turf and his rules. It went against everything in her being to do it, but she had no choice but to bid against herself.

“Three weeks.”

He folded his arms over his chest, his mouth set in a thin line. “Uh-uh. Four weeks. And that’s only if Annabelle heals without complications. It could be six.”

Vi pictured her future sliding down the drain in six weeks. Jerry Jones could be well on his way to stealing her promotion.

But knowing when to concede was one of her better survival skills—she’d learned that at home a long time ago. She’d let Ian think he’d won, this time. “It seems I don’t have a choice.”

The man nodded, accepting her apparent defeat. A crooked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. He had dimples. What a waste.

“It’ll be interesting to see who wins. You or Daisy.”

“I don’t lose. Ever.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted, an eyebrow raised in speculation. “I’ll take the shift tonight. Tomorrow while Daisy’s at the center, we’ll discuss her care. You better get some sleep, you’ll need it.

VI FLINCHED. Her heart pounded. Some sort of noise?

She struggled to focus. It was dark, only vague shadows of heavy furniture against pearly white walls.

Where the heck was she?

A strange bed, high off the ground, a footboard with swirls of black against misty gray. Intricate, hand-worked wrought iron.

The noise. There it was again. Pounding, yelling, more pounding.

Daisy. The old lady. What was going on?

Vi burrowed farther under the covers, muffling a curse. With the bedspread over her head, she could barely hear it. Ian had promised to take this shift.

Sure enough, a muffled, “I’m coming, Mom.”

Something heavy thudded against the wall, then footsteps dragged outside her door. It was like something out of the Simpson trial. Had Kato been this scared?

She clenched a corner of the crisp muslin sheet.

More hollering. A doorknob rattled. The pounding resumed.

Vi couldn’t take it anymore.

Fresh air hit her in a cool wave as she pawed her way out of her cocoon. Throwing on her robe, she slid her feet into her slippers.

The door latch was cool beneath her hand, the door opened easily, silently. She sucked in a breath, rattled by what she saw—Ian, a pair of Arizona State University maroon-and-gold sweatpants slung low on his hips and nothing else. Shirtless, he was more Greek god than hulking monster.

Ian fumbled in his pocket and took out a key. He barely got it clear of the lock when a figure came through the doorway and bounced off his chest.

He didn’t grab the figure. Instead, he stood there, arms hanging at his side, talking. Just talking.

Daisy jabbered in rapid-fire succession. Not a word made sense.

Ian inclined his head as he spoke to Daisy, his voice low, reassuring. “It’s okay, Mom, I’m here. It’s me. Ian. Everything’s okay.”

The jabbering slowed to English. “I was trapped. Somebody kidnapped me and locked me in there to die.”

“No, Mom. I locked the door so you wouldn’t get lost.”

“I don’t get lost.” Daisy straightened, the top of her head barely reaching Ian’s chest.

“Sometimes you don’t remember so good.”

“I remember perfectly.” She smoothed her wild hair. Stabbing a finger in Vi’s direction, she shrieked, “She did it. She broke into our house and locked me in my room. She stole my paintings!”

“Shhh. You remember Vi, our guest.” He laid a hand on his mother’s withered arm. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the bathroom.”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured.

The two walked down the hall, hand in hand, one robust, the other tiny and confused.

Vi shook her head and shuffled back to bed, where she flip-flopped for more than an hour. What about this Alzheimer’s stuff? What was it she had read? Progressive, no cure. Eventually fatal. Not a pretty picture. The old lady would die. But what happened in the meantime?

Sighing, Vi contemplated the mess she’d made. Her futile attempt to outrun the past had sent ripples through three lives, four if she counted the dog. The thought of Annabelle with her bandaged hind leg and Daisy with her irrational tantrums made Vi want to crawl under the covers and hide. She’d messed up big time and turned life upside down for everyone involved.

Was she any better than her dad? Letting her emotions get the upper hand until she lost control and did something stupid? Something that hurt another living being?

Vi shook her head. She wouldn’t accept that. There was a world of difference between her and her dad. She intended to make things right for Daisy and Ian. But she wasn’t a trained nurse, or even a social worker. What if she screwed up? The woman could have gone through that glass panel today. If the fall hadn’t gotten her, the glass would have sliced her to shreds. This was too much for them to expect of her.

The decision wasn’t easy, but it was best for everyone involved. She would leave in the morning. Call her attorney. Have him explain everything to the judge. Sell her car, if necessary, to pay for a qualified nurse….

IAN POURED HIMSELF another cup of coffee. Thank God for the senior center. Tuesdays and Thursdays were what kept him going. The first few hours were exhilarating. Freedom beckoned, with endless possibilities. What should he do first? Read? Jog? Work at the computer? Sleep maybe? At nine in the morning, the world looked rosy.

But the crash always came. Along about noon, he’d come down off his high. The responsibility would drop on his shoulders like a rack of free-weights. By two o’clock his gut started churning, tying itself in knots. Fear? Disappointment? Dread for sure. Maybe even a little guilt. He could do better. Be more patient.

Vi staggered around the corner, interrupting his thoughts. Her pink terry cloth robe was belted haphazardly, her black hair wild. She scratched her head, leaving a big cow lick behind.

He shook his head. This couldn’t possibly be the same woman. He let his gaze rove from her face, down her neck, to where the nubbly fabric dipped between her breasts. The ratty old robe was an improvement over the power suits and country club casual stuff. Breasts?

Ian shoved his mind into reverse.

Breasts. The boardroom barracuda had breasts. Imagine that.

He shook his head, bemused.

“Morning, Vi,” he drawled, his gaze seeking out more visual clues, from her shaggy pink slippers upward. Breasts meant hips and a waist. But the bulk of her robe kept everything else hidden.

He stifled a sigh of disappointment. The deprivation was getting to him. Abstinence had never been one of his strong points.

“Morning,” she mumbled, shuffling past.

He winced as she slammed a cupboard door. So did she.

“Where the hell do you keep the coffee cups?”

“My, aren’t we cheery this morning. Upper left.”

She turned, briefly, to fix him with a bloodshot glare.

“Too much partying last night?” He hid a smile in his coffee cup. That’d get a reaction.

Vi grunted, noncommital.

Was she even conscious?

She poured herself a hefty cup of coffee and gulped down a good third of it. The woman might have nerves of steel, but her esophagus had to be cast iron. She closed her eyes and sighed with bliss.

“Cream, sugar?”

“Uh-uh.”

He raised an eyebrow. Impressive.

“Sorry about all the noise last night.”

She waved a hand and grunted as she shuffled past him, back the way she had come.

It was at least half an hour before she returned for her second cup. This time there was a little life in her step. And the light of battle in her eyes.

She poured another healthy cup and slurped away.

He waited. He was good at that. A fight was coming, he was sure of it. Couldn’t really blame her—who would voluntarily stay here? It was different for him. This was his promise to keep, not hers.

He’d hoped things would be different. Hoped her arrival would come on a good day. When she’d fall under Daisy’s charm before she realized what she was getting into. And maybe, just maybe, she’d stick with them until Annabelle could get around under her own steam.

Ian shook his head, amazed at his own gullibility. He could dream, couldn’t he?

At best, she’d last a couple weeks. He needed to make sure they got at least that. But how? He couldn’t hold her by force. Maybe appeal to her humanity?

One look at her straight spine and hard gaze and he gave up on empathy. The woman didn’t have much. Nope, he’d have to appeal to her sense of self-preservation.

“Where’s the dog?” a gravelly voice asked. He did a double take and, sure enough, the words seemed to have come from her. Maybe her esophagus wasn’t indestructible after all.

“I carried her out back. There’s a fenced yard, lots of shade. It’s the place where she knows she’s off duty. Fresh air and sunshine’ll do her good.”

“The faster she heals, the better. Where’s…um… Daisy?”

“Senior center. You’ll learn her schedule pretty fast.”

Vi crossed her arms over her chest. “I won’t be here long enough to learn schedules. I’m sorry about your situation, but I’m not the right person for the job. I’ll figure out another way to make this up to you.”

Ian bit back an oath and reminded himself that this woman had no way of knowing just how precarious the situation was. And how few options he had. “Whether you think you’re right for the job or not, you’re all I’ve got. The only way you can ‘make this up to me’ is to commit to being here at least a month.”

She met his gaze. “I’m leaving. Today. I don’t care how much it costs—I’ll hire a nurse or something. Someone who has experience with this kind of thing.”

“The hell you will. You’ve seen what happens when someone new is introduced into Daisy’s environment. We’re over the worst of it, and she’ll adjust to you. Nurses work in shifts. It would be constant upheaval. No way.”

“Come on, be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable.” Ian clenched his jaws and vowed not to wrap his hands around Vi’s throat. “You need to step up to the plate and take responsibility for what you’ve done.”

“I’ve taken responsibility all right. I’m here, aren’t I? I simply think there has to be an alternative to my staying here. One that will be better for everyone.”

“Believe me, there’s no alternative. Even if Daisy would accept several nurses in the house, I doubt you could get them to promise to stay out here for the duration. I have no intention of subjecting my mother to constant change.”

Vi’s eyes flashed with panic, then anger. “There has to be another way. I’ll work something out with the judge. Something we can all live with.”

“Yeah, Ralph seemed real persuaded with your arguments the other day.”

“I’ll hire an attorney.”

He checked out a speck of dirt under his fingernails. Never let ’em see you sweat. Good strategy on the football field, even better in life.

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? Still need that job of yours? Remember, no Daisy, no driver’s license. No license, no job. That would be a shame.” He made a tsk-tsking sound.

Her chin came up, her full lips compressed into a line. “A good attorney will make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“So you think your lawyer’ll make it all go away? Pull the proper strings?”

“That’s the way the world works.”

“Yeah, unfortunately you’re right,” he conceded. “But, see, Judge Tanner is more than just an old coot playing at law. He’s part of one of the oldest ranching families in Arizona. This is kind of a…retirement job.”

“Retirement job?” She nibbled on her lower lip. Nice teeth. He had her now.

“Sure. He was a Superior Court Judge till his heart attack about ten years ago. Then he decided to come home to Echo Point, where he could make the rules and play the game his way. Eccentric, I think they call it. But he’s got more pull than any lawyer you could hire. And you know what? He’s been Daisy’s…uh, admirer for most of those ten years.”

“Oh.”

She pulled her robe more closely around her. It was almost disappointing to see the light of victory fade from her eyes. A good challenge always revved up his competitive juices. But not this time. The risk was too great.

“Hey, look, truth is, sometimes I don’t want to be here. But Daisy needs me. And she needs you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy. Not you, your job, or anything else is going to get in the way of that. Now it’s time to set a few ground rules. About your vocabulary—”

“She’s your responsibility, not mine.”

It was true, too true. His debt, his responsibility. All the crap he’d put his mom through—the cops dragging him home in the middle of the night, the petty theft, the scum he’d hung out with. That, on top of his dad’s death.

Yeah, he owed her. Big time. And he’d promised to keep her safe, in her own home. And in one split second, this she-devil had almost destroyed the house of cards he’d built. Annabelle was the only thing standing between Daisy and a nursing home. He couldn’t do it alone, much as he wanted to.

No, Vi was the only solution. Otherwise, he’d have to break a string of promises. And he didn’t break promises.

“Lady, you did the crime, you do the time. You can consider her your responsibility, too. For the next month treat her as if she were your own mother.”

CHAPTER THREE

VI ABSORBED Ian’s statement, but couldn’t comprehend it. She wasn’t quite sure how normal people treated their mothers. Maria Davis Peralta had kept her sanity, Vi supposed, by cocooning herself in denial. Denial that their life was a nightmare, and half the time, denial that she had any children at all. It was easier to pretend they didn’t exist. That is, until Patrick died. Then she was the grieving mother, so broken-hearted she had to divorce her husband, leave her two daughters, remarry and move to San Diego.

So when Ian instructed her to treat Daisy like her own mother, it exposed a raw nerve she refused to explore. Instead, she propped her fists on her hips and challenged, “Not only am I to keep the lady from wandering off and getting herself killed, but you want me to be all warm and fuzzy and treat her like family? You’ve got the wrong woman, buddy. If she were my mother, I’d put her some place where she could receive appropriate care.”

She watched her statement sink in. Ian’s eyes were shadowed for a moment. Guilt? Uncertainty? It was gone before she could identify it. Replaced by white-hot anger.

Vi backed away until her hips met the kitchen counter. No escape. She lifted her chin and waited. But the raw frustration in his face made her squinch her eyes shut.

When the blow didn’t come, she cautiously opened her eyes and saw him standing before her, defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders.

Relief washed over her. She’d stared down fear. Something she couldn’t have done five years ago. He wouldn’t destroy her. Couldn’t make her cower. No matter how big or how strong he was.

Step by step, she forced her feet forward until she stood toe to toe with the hulk. Craning her neck, she made sure she didn’t lose eye contact.

“I think I’ll just call a few of my attorney friends. Find out a little about Judge Tanner,” she challenged.

Green, clear and steady. Ian held her gaze. The seconds ticked by, neither of them moving.

When he leaned one elbow back against the breakfast bar, she exhaled slowly. He was giving her room to breathe. Or enough rope to hang herself.

“Go ahead.” He nodded toward the phone on the kitchen counter. “I’m sure your legal beagles will get a hoot out of this one.”

Vi reached for the phone, then stopped, her hand suspended midair.

She studied his expression, searching for a weakness, an inconsistency. He didn’t blink, just gave her a cocky half grin.

Damn.

He set down his coffee cup, the one that proclaimed Ruggers Do It Down And Dirty, and retrieved the phone. Shoving the receiver in her hand, he said, “Here you go. Need privacy?”

“Nooo…that won’t be necessary.”

It was necessary to keep this whole fiasco as quiet as possible. He might be bluffing. But what if he weren’t? It was bad enough she had been banished to this godforsaken place for a month. A month where she was seriously out of the loop. A month for that weasel in the Scottsdale office to suck up to the big boss without any competition. No, she didn’t need to compound the problem by making a laughingstock of herself.

Or worse, find her butt parked at a desk in Underwriting. That’s exactly where eight points on her driver’s license would get her. The big boys upstairs took a dim view of impulsive behavior, especially if it opened up the company to liability. The boss would cover for her to a point. But if it became common knowledge around the legal community…

This little episode had to be erased. Like it never happened. No points on her license, no reminders.

“I—I believe you. I’ll stay.”

For now.

Ian eyed her suspiciously. Maybe she’d capitulated too fast.

Shrugging, she spread her hands wide. “Hey, you’ve got me over a barrel.”

The taut line of his shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’m a pretty mellow guy. Just be good to Daisy and we’ll get along fine.”

“Sure. Fine.” She flashed him a smile, an earnest, kid sister kind of smile. If she couldn’t beat him, she’d join him. Their goals were the same, after all. Get the dog back on its feet ASAP. “And since it looks like I’ll be here a while, why don’t I get dressed and you can tell me exactly what I can do to help Daisy and her four-legged friend.”

He still looked at her warily, but didn’t respond. Just frowned.

Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “We’ll meet in the den in, say, about half an hour? The den is down the hall, to the right.”

VI EASED INTO the battered old wingback chair. The torn leather armrest scratched the tender skin on the underside of her forearm. It reminded her of home. Only their furniture hadn’t started out as nice as this.

She suppressed a shudder. Someone needed to tape some holes, or better yet, scrap the chair entirely.

“Okay, shoot,” Vi prodded, notebook open, pen handy.

Ian sat behind his desk, in an equally worn leather executive chair, that one hunter green. The burgundy and green theme continued throughout the den. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, distressed wood of course. In the corner stood an adobe beehive fireplace, the inside smoke-blackened, but bare. Cozy.

Indian rugs, hand woven and old, judging by the muted colors and workmanship, were scattered on the floor, warming the brown ceramic tile. Here and there were a few knickknacks, something missing in the rest of the house. Hand-carved kachinas, outfitted in flamboyant turquoise and red, jockeyed for space between tan woven baskets and some sort of odd sculpture. Made out of a horseshoe and barbed wire, it looked like a cowboy twirling a lasso.

She cocked her head to the side, checking it out from another angle. Maybe it was a cowboy doing some sort of funky dance….

Her gaze slid to the wall behind Ian’s head. No more western stuff there. No, it was pure modern sports memorabilia. Photos of Randy Johnson and Jake “The Snake” Plummer and some guy in a hockey uniform. All were autographed, all personalized to Ian.

“You’ll watch Daisy from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m.”

She waited for him to continue.

He didn’t.

“And…”

“That’s it. Watch Daisy. If she so much as steps out of bed, you follow her. Help her find the bathroom if she gets lost. Wait for her, make sure she goes back to her room.”

“You said she’d calm down. Now that she’s used to me.”

He didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Yeah. She’ll calm down.”

“Sounds simple enough if there’s no wrestling or windows involved.” Vi snapped closed the notebook. “That’s all the dog does?”

“Originally, Annabelle was trained to watch Daisy only at night, and come get me if she got out of bed. But she gradually extended her shift, so lately she’s spent most of her time with Daisy. There are only three other certified Alzheimer’s dogs in the world, so no one really knows what she can do.”

It was amazing. How they could train a dog to do stuff like that. How the dog seemed to understand almost on a human level.

Vi was intrigued, but didn’t want to give the guy any false hopes. So she suppressed all the questions whirling around in her head and attempted to look disinterested. “Cool,” she commented.

Ian raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll think it’s pretty damn cool, after about a week with Daisy. Last night was just a small sample. When I told you about the witching hour, it was to prepare you, not scare you. The technical term for it is ‘sundowning.’ A lot of people with Alzheimer’s get restless when the sun goes down. At night, their sleep patterns are disturbed and they frequently roam.”

“They childproof homes for kids. Can’t you do something like that for her? Special locks on the doors?”

“Daisy’s figured out every obstacle I can put in her way. The last time she roamed, she ended up two miles away, and it took Search and Rescue nearly six hours to find her. It was June—she was severely dehydrated and almost died.”

“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.

“Most people don’t.” He sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. The bags under his eyes made him look like one of those sad old hound dogs that never moved from the porch. “Hell, I had no idea. Nobody does, until you’ve been there.”

She almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. There was no way she intended to get drawn into his problems. She had enough of her own.

“So I’m off duty during the day?”

He nodded slowly. “If I were you, I’d sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

“I’m sure I can handle it. You a sports nut or something?” She gestured toward the pictures on the wall.

“I guess you could call me that. I was a sports writer.”

A writer. Interesting.

“Was?”

“Until two years ago. When Vince—I mean—Sheriff Moreno, called.” His gaze was focused on the wall behind her left ear. Like he was there, but wasn’t there.

“Asked if I’d noticed Daisy getting forgetful. He’d found her car, still idling, stuck in a desert wash ten miles outside of town. Said she’d seemed disoriented, didn’t know where she was or how she got there.”

Ian shifted, cleared his throat.

“I hadn’t seen her for a while. Been on the road. I should have figured it out sooner. Not Vince.”

A twinge of remorse nagged at her. She’d done this. She’d made this guy worry more than he already did. He didn’t deserve it, any more than she did.

But the touchy-feely confidences had to stop. Because if they didn’t, then she’d have to reciprocate, tell him something deep, dark, revealing. And if she started, where would she end? Her stomach rolled at the very thought.

“Okay, I get the gist. Prodigal son is racked with guilt, throws away a promising career to care for his mother. Very commendable. More than I’d do in the same situation.”

“I don’t want sympathy. You asked about the sports stuff and I told you.”

“Good. I’m not the sympathetic type.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his big leather chair. “No? That’s probably what makes you so damn successful, Ms. Davis. Personally, I’d hate to make a living off other people’s misfortune.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t create the system. I’m just damn good at what I do.”

“I’m sure you are.”

VI MUMBLED obscenities around the pen clenched between her teeth. The computer screen went blank again, only to be replaced by gibberish. For the second time today.

There was a tap at her door. “Ten o’clock. Your shift.”

Not already. She’d barely made a dent in the files she’d ferried in from work. There were a couple demand packets to review along with adjuster recommendations for settlement. Not to mention twenty or better status reports, case reserves and the usual inter-office B.S. to go through.

“In a minute,” she lisped around the pen.

This time the rapping was louder. Hard knuckles. “Vi, ten o’clock. Get a move on.”

Sighing, she removed the pen. “I’m coming already. Don’t get your shorts in a wad.”

Silence.

Maybe just one more file.

“Vi. Now.”

“Oh, all right.” She threw one last look at the computer screen and left the room.

Ian gave her barely enough room to squeeze through the doorway into the hall. He waited, arms crossed, ready to escort her to her own personal hell.

Frustration made her middle finger itch, the thumb and three other fingers started to bend of their own accord. She reminded herself that obscene gestures got her nowhere. Clamping her rebellious fingers into a tight fist, she rapped on Daisy’s door. “It’s me, Vi. Can I come in?”

“Go away. I don’t know a Vi.”

This was turning into a nightly ritual. Even though Vi had been there nearly a week, Daisy could not, or would not, understand that Vi was there to help. She refused to call her by name, always referring to her in the third person, like she wasn’t there. And then it was usually to accuse her of some heinous crime, such as stealing her paintings, locking her in her room or making a mess. A mess, coincidentally, that only occurred when Daisy was around.

“She’ll get used to you,” Ian assured her for the hundredth time, as he rapped gently on the wooden door. “Mom, Vi’s coming in now. She’ll keep you company, just like Annabelle did.”

“Don’t need company.”

“Sure you do. And I betcha she’ll even sing to you,” he wheedled.

It was the only way Vi could get into the room. The only way the woman would accept her. Good thing she had a passable voice.

“The Daisy song?” came the muffled reply.

Vi groaned.

Not again.

“Go on,” Ian urged, as he landed an elbow to her ribs.

“I’ll sing you the Daisy song,” she promised.

The door swung open and she was admitted to the inner sanctum. “I’ll bring you a daisy a day, dear…” she sang. “I’ll bring you a daisy a day.”

It was a lovely old ballad, all about the endurance of love. The suitor vowed to bring his love a daisy a day. And after she died, he brought a daisy a day to her grave. The first time she’d heard Ian sing it to Daisy, goose bumps had prickled her arms. Full moon, PMS, the Celtic part of her soul, the Hispanic part of her soul, whatever the reason, the song always made her throat ache, her eyes mist.

Daisy climbed into bed as Vi sang, humming right along. Framed by the crisp white pillowcase, her face relaxed, the lines and worries smoothed away. Her smile was angelic, her eyes unfocused and dreamy.

Vi usually sang her to sleep, then tiptoed to the daybed tucked away in an alcove. But tonight Daisy didn’t drift off. As Vi sang, the old woman’s eyes became more focused, inquisitive almost.

“You’ve a beautiful voice, dear.”

“Thank you.”

It was the first time Daisy had acknowledged her directly, other than in wild accusations.

“Edward used to sing that song to me.” She sighed, her finger doodling across the patterned chenille bedspread. “He was tall, like Ian. Made me feel so fragile, cherished.”

“Oh. That’s…nice.”

Fragile? People only hurt you if they knew you were fragile. Cherished, now that sounded good. She’d never experienced it, but it sounded good. Safe.

“He’d watch me dance, for hours it seemed. And he’d hum that song. It was as if we were the only two people left on earth. Alone, but so close to Heaven I could almost hear the angels sing.”

“Angels. Sure. You bet. What do angels sound like? Celine Dion? Alicia Keyes maybe?”

Daisy reached out and patted her hand. Her smile was warm, her eyes sparkled. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? It was an allegory, dear. To illustrate my point, about love being the closest thing to Heaven we can find here on earth.”

“An allegory. Sure.” What next, a discussion on the origin of the species? World politics?

“And dance. The next best thing to sex.”

Vi tried to steer the conversation in a safer direction. “You danced? Professionally?”

“I danced. Still do, when the joints allow. Not professionally of course. I met Edward in New York, when I was auditioning for the ballet. It was a wonderful time. I met Edward and knew he was the one. Everything else paled in comparison. Even dancing. We were married by the justice of the peace and left New York without even finding out if I’d made the cuts. It just wasn’t important anymore. Only being with Edward was.”

Daisy’s eyes shone. Edward must have been one helluva guy.

“How’d you give it all up? All your hopes and dreams?”

“New hopes, new dreams. Different, but better in some ways. A family, my own dance studio…”

“Did you ever regret it?”

The other woman’s eyelids drooped, her smile faded. “Only once.”

Vi wanted to shake her, make her explain. But Daisy’s eyelids fluttered shut and she snored lightly.

THE NOISE reached Vi’s ears, as if filtered through layers of cotton. It was a rattle, like a doorknob. Somewhere though the layers, she knew it was important. Something she should do about it. Burglar?

She bolted into a sitting position. The night-light in the hall illuminated the room. No burglar. Whitewashed stucco walls, big rustic beams holding up the ceiling. Ian’s house.

She glanced around the room. Not her room. Her room didn’t have colorful paintings anchored to the walls.

Daisy’s room.

She turned to check Daisy’s bed. Empty. How could that be? It seemed only a moment ago that the woman had drifted off to sleep after reminiscing about her dance studio.

Vi muttered an oath as she swung her legs over the side of the daybed, ignoring the dull throb in her temples. Her bare toes curled away from the cold tile, but she pushed through the discomfort. No time for slippers. The reflective tape was cool, eerie beneath her fingers, as she followed it toward the bathroom. The door was open.

Her breath came in deep, ragged breaths, her pulse pounded. No light. Where could the woman be?

She rounded the door frame to check.

There she was, slumped on the toilet seat, her chin resting on her chest.

Thank God.

“Daisy?” She touched the woman’s arm, then gently shook her shoulder.

No response.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I THOUGHT I’D LOST HER.”

Vi waited for the bombshell to sink in. She held her coffee cup suspended at chin level, denying herself that first luscious swallow. Hot, steamy fingers of aroma wafted upward, stinging her nose. Caffeine withdrawal seemed like a light sentence for her crime.

“Hum?”

Ian leaned against the kitchen counter, more interested in cramming a whole power bar in his mouth than her confession. He wore black nylon shorts, a white T-shirt and a gray hooded sweatshirt, his usual running uniform. The senior center bus had barely chugged down the drive, and he was ready to go.

“I said, I thought I lost her,” she bit off every word, enunciating clearly. “I got up with her at midnight, one-thirty and three. No problem. But the last time…I didn’t wake up. Didn’t even hear her until she was out the bedroom door. I’m not a real rise-and-shine kind of person—it took me a couple minutes to get going. By the time I found her, she was asleep in the bathroom.”

Ian chewed slowly. His jaw was smooth for once, his eyes alert and ready for the day. He looked years younger than the first time she’d seen him, boyish almost. Except for the frown.

“You found her. No harm done.”

“But what if I don’t next time? What then?”

“Look, you can do this. I wouldn’t trust you with her otherwise.”

“Why are you so sure you can trust me?”

“You’re smart and determined.” He hesitated for a moment. “And whether you admit it or not, you care.”

Restless energy prodded her into action. She paced the kitchen floor. “No way, you’ve got me all wrong. My career is the most important thing in the world to me. And right now it’s in danger of going down the tubes. I’m behind already and so exhausted I can’t string together a coherent thought.”

Ian shrugged. “You’ll get used to it. Just sleep in the day.”

“I can’t. That’s when I get my work done. I’ve still got a job to do, no matter what happens here.” The tightness in her chest expanded to a fist-sized knot of frustration. “I’ve got a shot at District Claims Manager. It’s big, really big.”

He hesitated, chewing slowly. “Okay, so you sleep during the day, then work at night in Daisy’s room. We’ll set up a desk.”

“You don’t understand. I get tunnel vision when I’m working. The whole place could burn down and I’d never notice. Besides, Daisy’d be a wreck—the light, rustling papers, dictation. She wouldn’t sleep a wink.”

Ian pushed away from the counter. He loomed over her, his bulk no longer benign. “So what do you want me to do? Let you off the hook? Say okay, go back to your important job in Phoenix. We’ll manage just fine. Well, you know what, we won’t manage, thanks to you. And I won’t let you off the hook. Nice try.”

He crumpled the wrapper and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can. “I’m going for a run. You do whatever you want. Just don’t leave.”

It was hard to believe this was the same guy who tended the old lady with such patience. There was a hard glint in his eyes and his voice vibrated with anger, as if he wanted to wrap those big hands around her throat and squeeze. Hard.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he slammed out the kitchen door without a backward look. She wasn’t worth the effort to strangle.

Vi set her coffee cup down on the counter and pushed it away. Then she bent over and banged her forehead against the Formica. Once, twice, three times. Not hard enough for it to hurt, but she hoped hard enough to knock some sense into her.

“What am I going to do?” she asked the empty room. As long as the walls didn’t answer, she figured she must have a shred of sanity left.

Daisy could have been lost, or seriously hurt. It had seemed simple enough. Watch Daisy sleep. She hadn’t counted on getting only a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep a night. It was starting to take a toll. Her eyes were gritty, her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Vi rubbed her temples as she mulled over the whole mess. She’d have to adapt, somehow. That was the key to survival. In nature, in the corporate jungle, even in this weird house. Adapt or die. But how to adapt to something she couldn’t understand and couldn’t predict? The old woman and her idiosyncrasies ruled the whole house, no matter what time of day. Like yesterday. Only a few glorious moments at the computer before Daisy wandered in and accused her of all sorts of nasty things. Theft, kidnapping, murder, they were all part of Vi’s M.O., according to Daisy.

She would get used to it, Ian had said. Ha! Changing her sleep schedule was next to impossible. It was like an alarm went off somewhere the instant her head made contact with a pillow during the day. So much as a long blink and Daisy would wind up. It could be something as simple as a bath and World War III would erupt. Even the thick adobe walls couldn’t block out the yelling, the slap-slap of escaping bare feet on tile, the thud of Ian’s tread in hot pursuit. And sometimes, a dirty word or two.

Once, before she learned to lock her door, Daisy had rushed into her room. The old woman had been nearly naked, her eyes wide with fear, her breathing shallow.

Vi shook her head as she remembered the strange episode.

Daisy hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, scrawny arms wrapped across her sagging, wrinkled breasts, and shook her head frantically from side to side.

Ian had followed close behind, his breathing labored, as if he’d run an eight minute mile.

“Mom…” he’d gasped.

Daisy had feinted to the left, then dodged right.

But Ian was too quick for her. He wrapped her in a big bear hug from behind.

She bit and clawed and lashed out. “Let me go,” she screeched. The air crackled with her terror.

Ian let go.

She backed away from him and cowered in a corner.

It took several minutes for Ian to catch his breath. Vi waited, mute, unable to differentiate between perpetrator and victim.

Finally, he said, “It’s okay, Mom. No bath today. I’ll get you a nice warm washcloth to sponge yourself down with.”

“I don’t need a bath. Had one yesterday.”

“Sure you did.” His voice held more defeat than conviction. “But a warm washcloth wouldn’t hurt. You know, knock down the trail dust.”

“It’s a trick. Just like that woman.” She pointed an accusing finger in Vi’s direction. “She was sent to spy on me.”

“It’s not a trick, Mom. I’ve never lied to you before, have I?”

She ruminated on that for a minute, hands on hips. Apparently she’d forgotten she was naked from the waist up. But Vi hadn’t. Her gaze bounced around the room as she looked everywhere, but at Daisy. At least the other woman wore white cotton briefs.

“Nooo…you haven’t lied. But she’s sneaky. See, she won’t even look me in the eye. And she won’t tell me her name. She’s hiding something.”

Ian shrugged helplessly. “She has problems with new things. Remembers stuff from twenty years ago, but has a hard time with anything new.”

“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” Daisy chirped.

Ian’s lips twitched into a smile. “Exactly. Well, Vi, we’ll just have to keep trying.”

“Who’s Vi?” Daisy interrupted.

Ian sighed and shook his head. “She’s having a hard time with the Vi part. Sometimes giving her a point of reference helps. Mind if I try something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Mom, this is Violet. She’s named after a flower just like you.”

“Yeah, as in shrinking Violet,” Vi muttered.

Daisy practically glowed with excitement. She gestured with her hands as she spoke. “Another flower woman. I should have known immediately. We’re kindred spirits, my dear. This is so exciting.” She floated across the room and slid her arm around Vi’s waist. “I’m so glad you came, Violet dear. It will be so good to have another flower woman to keep me company.”

Vi forced herself not to cringe. If she kept very, very still, her elbow would not brush against the woman’s bare breast. She sucked in a breath and managed a plastic smile.

“Violet. Yep. That’s me.”

Ian gently grasped Daisy by the shoulders and drew her away. “Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed and ready for your volunteer work. You can chat with Vi…ah…Violet, when you get home.”

“That would be lovely, dear.” Daisy twisted around to wave gaily. “We’ll talk later, Violet.”

And that had been the beginning of the end. She would continue to be Violet for the duration of her stay, she just knew it. Once Daisy latched on to something, she didn’t let go. Maybe it was because of all the memories she’d lost. Maybe that made what she did remember all the more precious.

A high-pitched whine interrupted Vi’s reverie, bringing her back to the present. The noise came from the corner. She swiveled on the stool to look into Annabelle’s concerned brown eyes. This time they didn’t trigger a flood of bad feelings. Annabelle was a big dog—what had Ian said?—a chocolate Lab mix? Really nothing at all like the terrier pup she’d had as a kid. The pup her dad had killed.

Annabelle whined again.

“I’m okay. Nothing to worry about, girl.”

Who was the crazy lady now? Talking to animals.

The whine grew more persistent, ending with a half bark.

Vi got off the stool and approached the dog, slowly, carefully. She seemed harmless enough. Head on paws, big beseeching eyes, who could resist?

Vi knelt a few feet from the animal and stretched out her hand. The dog sniffed her fingers, then her big, pink tongue swiped across Vi’s palm.

“Yech.” Vi wiped her hand on her pants, but leaned a little closer.

The dog didn’t move a muscle, just swished its tail slightly. Bolstered with confidence, Vi let her fingers wander over the soft, silky ears.

Annabelle’s tail thumped her approval.

Warmth flared somewhere near her heart. That wasn’t bad at all. She lowered herself to sit cross-legged next to the dog. Annabelle inched forward on her stomach and rested her head on Vi’s lap.

The warmth expanded. It became a reassuring feeling that grew with each stroke of the dog’s coat.

“You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you.”

The pink tongue bathed her wrist.

“You know, girl, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The big, brown eyes gazed up at her, as if she were the most important person on earth.

“And I don’t really think Daisy is as big a pain in the butt as I did at first. She just kind of freaks me out. Never knowing what she’ll do. And that’s a lot of responsibility. Ian says he trusts me, but he doesn’t know me. I can’t even keep a houseplant alive, let alone a confused old woman.”

Vi stroked Annabelle’s head and worked her way down her soft, silky back. She really was beautiful. Her hind leg was in a cast, but healing nicely according to the vet.

“And you know what, Annabelle? The woman insists on calling me Violet. I don’t want to be Violet. Violet, as in shrinking Violet. As in, let-people-walk-all-over-her Violet. And run-and-hide Violet….”

Annabelle whined, stretching up to lick Vi’s chin.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I promise I’ll help you get better. That way you can have your job back, and I can have mine. Sound like a plan?”

She nodded for the dog. Of course it was a good plan. Next time she went to Phoenix for more files, she’d stop off at the library and do some research on fractures. It would right a wrong, good karma and all that. And it would get her out of this mixed-up place where up was down and night was day.

IAN STOOD IN THE DOORWAY, watching Vi and Annabelle. The woman held the dog’s head in her lap, talking softly, so softly he had to lean forward to hear.

Remorse? And tenderness. And something missing, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Confidence. That cocky attitude.

Guilt, or the power bar, twisted his gut. It was okay to use her when he thought she was a heartless witch. But now she looked relaxed and very unwitchlike.

Her tender murmurs grated on his nerves. Ian didn’t want to hear anymore. He didn’t need to feel bad about disrupting her life.

He cleared his throat.

Vi’s head came up. Their eyes met for a minute, before she looked away. What he’d seen there made him curse under his breath. Confusion. And fear. Beneath that tough-as-nails stuff was a woman hiding from something. A woman who didn’t expect much from people. But with the dog, she’d let down her guard. Let out all that vulnerability. And dammit, he’d had to witness it.

“I was checking on Annabelle. Making sure she was okay.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Short run.” She raised an eyebrow.

Ian tried to convince himself he wasn’t seeing her any differently, but he was. “I don’t like being gone long. Force of habit. Besides, I’ve got a lot to do.”

He watched her pry Annabelle’s head off her lap, careful not to disturb the snoring dog. She rose so smoothly the dog didn’t even twitch.

“What exactly do you do?” she asked.

“Write. Kind of an action, mystery type thing.”

His shoulders tensed as he waited for the look. That surprised look. Sure enough, there it was. Then she eyed him up and down, before letting her gaze stop at his face.

The silence lengthened. He let it go on and on, until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I was an English Lit major. That was right after I quit dragging my knuckles and figured out those darn opposable thumbs.”

A flush crept up her neck. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

“Don’t bother denying it. You’re not the first to make that assumption.”

Her flush deepened, worked its way up her face. Amazing that her smooth, olive-toned skin could get that red. A few more twists in the breeze and he’d let her off the hook.

“Of course, those assumptions come in handy at times. Like when I helped out in Daisy’s dance studio. At first I was drafted against my will, but when I got a look at all those ballerinas in leotards, I learned a whole new appreciation for dance. The dumb jock thing was what kept me from being severely beaten on a daily basis. I learned to compensate.”

The expression on her face was priceless, well worth the soul-baring. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened. “Ballet? You?”

“You got it. I was pretty good, too. Better quarterback though, much to Dad’s relief.”

Vi let the rest of Ian’s disclosure wash over her without registering. It was the only way she could keep her sleep-deprived brain cells from overloading completely.

This guy was a real trip. He’d developed the ultimate line. Not just a hard body, he was a renaissance man—intelligent, gifted and cultured, all rolled into one package. The average woman would buy it hook, line and sinker.

“How about antiques, what do you think of those?” she quizzed.

“I can take ’em or leave ’em.” He grinned, an amused half smile that lit his eyes. “I don’t enjoy show tunes, either. Never patted another guy on the butt, on or off the football field. ‘Good game’ worked just as well.”

Okay, so he was an interesting paradox and liked women. But she had one ace up her sleeve, one that couldn’t be conned or forced. Chemistry.

Vi let her gaze roam, from the barrel chest to biceps nearly the size of her thigh. Sweat made a damp V on the front of his T-shirt, highlighting some impressive pecs. Slim hips, muscular thighs. Toned calves. Probably even muscular feet. But it didn’t matter. Not an ounce of chemistry.

None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Now a guy in a crisp, blindingly white dress shirt, Armani suit, cuff links, that might be another matter.

She crossed her arms and smiled. “I’m sure Daisy’d be very glad to hear that. I imagine she wants grandchildren—most mothers do.” It was good to be in control again. Another three weeks or less and she’d walk out of here the way she’d arrived, in control and knowing where she was headed.

“Nah, she never says. Wants me to be happy, that’s all. Demanding old broad, isn’t she?”

“Not unless you mind finger foods or stand down wind of her on a bad day.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. You ought to try getting her in a bathtub.”

“No thanks. Not in my job description.”

“No, I guess not. I didn’t think it would be in mine, either. But it’s the Alzheimer’s. If you’d known her before… Well, she was quite a woman.”

“I’m sure she was.” Vi placed her hand on his forearm, then let it drop to her side.

The Daisy who had danced, fallen in love, painted—all of it was slipping away and there was nothing Ian could do. It must tear him up. But not her problem. If she kept reminding herself of that, she’d be okay.

“I’ve got some books about it. Alzheimer’s. If you’re interested?”

She edged toward the door. “No thanks. No time,” she shot over her shoulder, making her escape. There was no way she’d admit to the exhaustive Web search she’d made. Or the compulsion she felt to learn what made Daisy tick. And she definitely would not admit to wanting to make Ian’s life a little easier.

IF THE WOMAN didn’t shut up, Vi was going to wrap her hands around her wrinkly little turkey neck and squeeze the living daylights out of her. It wasn’t fair. The lady’d had more adventures than one person had a right to. Sitting next to her, Vi felt like a mere imitation of a woman.

She shifted in her chair, then flicked her watch to make sure it hadn’t stopped. Ian had only been gone twenty minutes.

“…and that’s when I said, ‘Joe, you just put that thing back in your pants right now.’” Daisy cackled with ribald glee, a far cry from her usual tinkling laughter.

According to Daisy, she’d been quite the belle of the ball around these parts. Every man within miles was smitten.

“Uh, Joe…he’s Sheriff Moreno’s father, isn’t he? I met the sheriff yesterday when he came by to check up on me.”

“Yes, he’s Vince’s father. And my, but Joe was a fine-looking man in his younger years. All that dark wavy hair and passionate Latin eyes. Now he’s a man who knows how to please a woman.”

Vi groaned. She’d never be able to look Sheriff Moreno in the eye again without imagining Daisy and his father together, horizontal.

“How’d Ian’s dad feel about your admirers?”

Daisy’s eyes lost their sparkle. She clasped her expressive hands in her lap and allowed the corners of her mouth to quiver, just for a second.

Her voice was husky now, the elegant widow was back. “Oh, no, dear. I didn’t move here until after Edward died. The first year at home was hard. Keeping Ian out of trouble, getting over it all. Well, a year and a day later, I decided I’d had enough of cold winters and an even colder bed. Figured Arizona was a brand-new start. For me. For Ian.”

Vi fought to stay detached, removed from the woman’s grief, old but still raw. But she couldn’t. It grabbed her and wouldn’t let go.

“Did you think you’d die if you stayed a minute longer?” she murmured.

The old woman’s eyes narrowed, searching her face. She grasped Vi’s hand and gave it a hard squeeze.

“Yes. Who did you lose, dear?”

The kindness in Daisy’s voice was almost her undoing. The loss was as sharp as the day Patrick had died in a car accident.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “My brother.”

“How long?”

“Twelve years.”

Twelve years. Could it really have been that long? Patrick with the wide, giving smile. The strength that had sheltered her, protected her from the worst of it. The back that had taken many of her beatings.

“Painting. That’s when I took up painting. Ever try it?” Daisy chirped.

“Not really. Just pastels.”

“Violet dear, you may use my studio anytime. Get those feelings out on canvas. It will set you free.”

“No, I couldn’t….”

“Nonsense. I can’t paint anymore. It’s just going to waste. Might as well share it with another flower woman.”

“I don’t have time.” She shifted in her chair. Every fiber in her being strained to say yes, to bury herself in that studio, until every canvas, every dab of paint was used.

“Whenever you’re ready, Violet dear, it’s there for you.”

Violet swallowed hard. Nobody had given her such a selfless gift in a long time, something so precious and personal. Not since Patrick.

“YOUR INTERVIEW’S tomorrow?” Ian asked, tapping his fingers on the easel.

“At ten-thirty. Time enough to drive down to the valley.”

“You really want it? This District Manager thing?” He sounded like it was a management position in Hades.

“It’s what I’ve been working for.” She avoided his eyes, busying herself cleaning the brushes. The painting session had been completely unproductive, but so stimulating she could hardly stand still. The medium was new, but the experimentation inspiring.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you do something for the pure enjoyment of it. You’re a natural artist.” He nodded toward the canvas.

Violet’s cheeks warmed with pleasure. “It’s not as good as Daisy’s, but it’s not bad.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. “You seem pretty comfortable in the studio. Painting’s probably similar in some ways to writing. Instead of manipulating paint on canvas, you manipulate words.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way before, but that’s exactly what it’s like. I’m still amazed that I can create a whole other world. Probably sounds silly to you.”

“Not at all. Art’s that way for me. I’d forgotten how relaxing it can be. That’s why I chose today to paint. I needed to relax. This promotion is too important to screw up because I’ve psyched myself out.”

He leaned against the wooden workbench, splashed with layers of color. “I wouldn’t have figured you as the type for great introspection.”

“Ah, the old adjuster stereotype. Ice water in the veins, motivated by pure greed. Sadistic delight in putting innocent customers through hell.” She grinned at him wickedly. “Almost as bad as the attorneys, or maybe those Neanderthal sports nuts.”

“No way. Sports nuts are very kind-hearted underneath it all.”

Scraping dried paint off the brush handle, she could feel him watching her. But there was no way she would meet his eyes. No way she would tell him that maybe he was right. Maybe the way he treated his mother was more important than how he looked.

Instead, she fell back on safety. “Yeah, well it takes a lot more than a stout back and soft heart to get by in this world.”

He reached out and fingered a strand of her hair, working out a blob of dried crimson paint. “Ain’t that the truth. But who says I want to just get by? Don’t you ever want more Violet? After you become District Manager, what then? More money, more promotions, more power? But what have you really accomplished?”

That one hit a raw nerve. One she hadn’t known existed until she’d picked up Daisy’s paintbrushes. Until she’d immersed herself in the joy of creating so thoroughly that space and time ceased to exist. But that wasn’t a career. Creativity didn’t pay the bills or keep her safe.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve accomplished. I’ve bought my own house, my own car. I can come and go as I please, without permission from anyone. If I want something, I can reach out and grab it.” She poked his unyielding chest with a paint-smeared index finger. “And you know what, that feels pretty darn good.”

Vi ran out of breath. It sounded just a little bit desperate, even to her.

She braced her fists on her hips. “And what about you, Mr. Obedient Son, Mr. I’ve-got-my-life-so-together? You can lecture me all you want about life and priorities, because you’re safely sidelined for the moment. At least I’m honest about what I want. I like being in charge, and that’s something I won’t give up. Ever.”

Ian grasped her shoulders, getting closer, too close. “Hey, calm down. I didn’t know… I mean, that you felt so strongly about it. I never thought of insurance that way…you know, passionately. But I guess it’s not the insurance you love, it’s the being in charge part.”

He absently rubbed her neck with his thumb.

She jerked away.

“What’s so bad about being in charge? I haven’t lied to you. What you see is what you get. Now don’t you have some corn dogs to cook up or something?”

Turning away, she willed her hands to stop shaking.

“I thought maybe I could understand why it’s so important to you.” Ian studied her face.

Violet warmed under his scrutiny.

“I guess I was wrong.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE CAR SLID SIDEWAYS on gravel, but Vi didn’t give a damn. Nothing to lose now. Eight years of working harder and smarter than everyone else. Eight years of kissing corporate butt. Hell, she’d even learned to play golf.

She sniffed, choking on her own laughter. Tears ran down her face until she could barely see the road. This was where it had started to go wrong. Where her life had careened out of control and her career hit the skids. All because her appointment with Bob Johnson had flipped an emotional switch and she was afraid, somehow, some way, she’d slipped into an alternate reality. Afraid she’d escaped from one crazy, old man, only to be killed by another.

The Mustang’s tires spit gravel as she jammed on the brake, parking in the Smith’s circular drive—right behind the sheriff’s patrol car.

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