Author: Johnson, Janice Kay
Date: 2013-03-22T22:00:00+00:00

HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE

By Janice Kay Johnson

ISBN-10: 0-9890418-2-4

ISBN-13: 978-0-9890418-2-9

Home Field Advantage

Copyright 1991 Janice Kay Johnson

All Rights Reserved

Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

This book is a work of fiction.  All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used factitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  The e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dear Reader,

I’m really excited to be making three of my earlier romances available again.  One of the big drawbacks to writing series romance is that the books don’t stay on the shelves very long.  As much as I love real books (I confess, I even love the smell of new books), I’m sold on e-books if only for the amazing benefit of having them readily available for purchase and to be read at any time.  We all know how frustrating the hunt can be for that elusive book written ten or fifteen years ago by your new favorite author!

Working on these three books to make them ready to go up online turned out to be fun.  I was a little nervous – after all, I’d like to think I’m a better writer now than I was then, right? – but I was also happy to find I really liked every one of these books, originally published by Meteor as Kismet Romances.  The biggest difference I could see is that there’s more of my life in these books than you’d find in my more recent ones.  I wrote more about what I knew.  No, I’ve never had to flee from Mafia hitmen, like Megan does in DANGEROUS WATERS, but I was quite a serious competitive swimmer from the time I was nine years old until college.  Didn’t make the Olympic team, but I know the sacrifices that have to be made to compete at that level.  I worked as a lifeguard, too, through high school and college.  Long days at a beach, keeping the kids safe?  Been there, done that.  HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE?  I had young daughters when I was writing it, and had grown up with horses.  Yes, I’ve always especially loved Arabians.  And I fell off the swing when I was five years old and knocked myself out.  ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE?  Well, there’s the daughter again (one of my two is even a Katie, I was really getting close to home there), and I really love old houses – the first house my husband and I bought was an old farmhouse and we discovered the never-ending surprises that accompany each project.  (New vinyl in the bathroom?  Oh, gee, the floor is rotting.  Solution?  Completely gut room.)  Plus, I have to tell you this town is, thinly disguised, my own small hometown.  The hike to the ice caves?  A long-time favorite.

One warning, just in case you read Kismet Romances – DANGEROUS WATERS was originally published as LIFESAVER.  I always hated the title, and decided now to go back to my original.  The other two books have retained their original titles.

I love to hear from readers!  Look for my Facebook page and, coming soon, my website at www.JaniceKayJohnson.com.

Janice

Table of Contents

HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

About The Author

Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson

ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE

DANGEROUS WATERS

CHAPTER 1

John McRae straightened, abandoning his comfortable slouch against the tiled kitchen counter. Into the telephone, he said incredulously, "You're what?"

The woman's voice babbled on. "I'm so sorry. I know this must be inconvenient for you, but I was so upset, and, of course, things were in a mess here at home. Dad's in intensive care now. The doctor says he should make it, thank God, but, of course, I've just been living in the hospital. There's no way I can leave him, and I'm dreadfully sorry, Emma is such a doll, but ..." At last she faltered. "Well, I'm sure you understand."

"You couldn't have called a little sooner?" He reached up and rubbed the tight muscles at the back of his neck.

"I did try once," she said defensively, "but you must have been out. And since then...well, I didn't think about much but Dad. I am sorry."

She wasn't the only one who was sorry. A moment later, after tersely expressing his sympathy, John dropped the receiver back in its cradle, then slumped into a straight-back kitchen chair. What in hell was he going to do?

He was booked for a flight out of SeaTac in—he glanced at his watch—precisely three hours and forty-three minutes. Obviously he wasn't going to make that. He'd cancel the dinner date he had with the Denver Bronco's coach and switch his flight to tomorrow. Fine and dandy, he thought grimly, but where was he going to come up with a baby-sitter in the next twenty-four hours, one he could leave Emma with for two days?

Ten minutes later his flight reservation had been changed and the Bronco's coach had agreed to make their dinner tomorrow night instead. John could snag the Seattle coach sometime before the game for some profound words to quote during the broadcast. For that matter, he could make them up himself. Lord knew he'd heard it all often enough.

He was reaching into the refrigerator for a can of beer when the clatter of footsteps on the front porch distracted him. Glancing through the window, he saw the yellow school bus just lumbering into motion again out on the road. Then the door slammed and a five-year-old bundle of energy catapulted across the kitchen into his arms.

"Daddy, is she here? Can I help her unpack? You're not going right now, are you? I don't want you to go."

He smiled down into his daughter's dark eyes. "Whoa! No, she isn't here, and unfortunately she's not going to be. Her father is sick, and she can't come. I'm going to have to find somebody else, so I'm not leaving until tomorrow. Okay?"

Emma nodded, but looked troubled. "Didn't she like me? I was quiet when she came. Wasn't I? You said I was good."

John hugged her thin shoulders again. "You were terrific! She said she was especially sorry because she'd liked you so much. But her father has to come first. Do you understand?"

Emma nodded again, her brown ponytail bobbing, her face solemn. "Daddy, can't Helen come back? Just for this time? If we asked, I bet she would. I really miss her. Couldn't we ask her? Please?"

John crouched down to his daughter's level. Hands on her arms, he looked directly into her eyes. "Sweetie, Helen got married. Remember? She can't come back. Her new husband needs her, too. Besides," he added practically, "she's still in Hawaii. Hey, she's probably scuba diving this very instant!"

Normally Emma could be distracted by a discussion of what their former baby-sitter and housekeeper might conceivably be doing at any given time, but for once his tactic didn't work. She stared at him, her eyes looking even bigger and darker than usual. He was reminded painfully of how young and vulnerable she was.

"Daddy, I didn't want Helen to go away." She bit her lip and tears suddenly shimmered in her eyes. "I miss Helen."

He pulled her against him and laid his cheek against her hair. "Sweetie, I'm sorry. I know you miss her. But she'll visit. She promised. And you have me. You'll always have me."

Her voice was very small. "If you don't die and go away like Mommy."

John rocked back on his heels so he could meet her eyes. "I won't die," he said. "God would have to drag me kicking and screaming. And I never was easy to bring down."

A watery chuckle rewarded him. "That's not what Isaiah says. He says you would have been knocked down all the time if it weren't for him. He says if you hadn't been so slow throwing the ball he wouldn't have knees that hurt so much."

John grinned at his daughter. "Don't believe a word he says. Your dad was All-Pro. I unloaded the ball damn quick on occasion. Isaiah is just teasing you."

She looked thoughtful. "Oh."

"Now." He stood up. "We need to go see if today's newspaper has come yet. Because, you know what? We have to find a baby-sitter for you, kiddo, or this time I am gonna get pounded for sure."

He tried to picture what his boss at the network would say if he called and pleaded baby-sitting problems as an excuse for not showing up in Denver to cover Sunday's game between the Broncos and the Seahawks. He failed, since he was pretty sure that'd be a new one on Frank. He also had a feeling Frank wouldn't be very forgiving. As it was, the network had a hell of a time shuffling play-by-play people and color commentators to make sure all the games were covered.

On the other hand, he wasn't going to leave Emma with just anyone. He'd taken weeks to select a new housekeeper, interviewing what had seemed like dozens of women. What he'd really been hiring was a mother for Emma, and she needed someone special. After losing her real mother when she was three, and now Helen, Emma was fragile.

He never had found anyone who really satisfied him, but in the end he'd decided he was being unrealistic. Hell, if he'd found the perfect woman, he'd have married her! But perfect women didn't answer newspaper ads.

Twenty minutes later, he and Emma sat at the kitchen table together, poring over the classifieds. No one was interested in baby-sitting in the child's home. And nary a one mentioned overnight stays. But that didn't mean he couldn't ask.

He was on his sixth call before he heard anything but "No, I'm sorry, children in my care have to be picked up by six P.M. I don't do evening babysitting."

Emma sat and listened to his end of the conversations, her small face anxious. For her benefit, John hid his growing frustration and worry. If only Emma had a close friend, whose parents he could ask. But they hadn't lived here in the Northwest long enough for either to have made friends yet, and school had only started three weeks ago.

If Helen had just stuck it out for a few months longer... But he had known she was in love. Deciding to move and taking her with them, separating her from her boyfriend, wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, even if this ranch about an hour north of Seattle was the perfect set-up. Rural, the area was still within easy reach of a major airport.

John shook his head impatiently. Who was he justifying his decision to, anyway? What was done was done. Helen wasn't here. They didn't have friends yet in this small Washington town.

Could he leave her with Isaiah? He just couldn't picture it. The huge, former offensive lineman was brilliant with the elegant Arabian horses out in the pasture, his big hands gentle and his rough voice a soft growl. Unfortunately, with people he rated closer to a zero. He talked to Emma, barely, but making dinner, washing her hair, holding her at night if she awakened crying...not Isaiah.

John's voice had become brusque by that sixth phone call. "I'd better ask right off the bat whether you'd consider taking my daughter overnight. I have to go out of town and our new housekeeper failed us."

"Well..." The woman on the other end hesitated and his hopes rose a notch. "I suppose I could consider it." Her voice suddenly became muffled. "Jesse, stay out of the bathroom! Toilet paper isn't to play with!" She came back on the line. "I'm sorry. How old did you say your daughter is?"

"I didn't say. She's five."

"And does she have any particular needs or problems?"

"No. Emma is always cooperative."

"Really." She sounded faintly disbelieving. "Well, normally, if I'll be taking a child on long- term, I like to schedule an interview alone with the parents first. But if this is just a temporary situation...?"

"It is," he assured her.

"Then why don't you bring Emma over this evening so we can get acquainted?" She mentioned her charges, which John thought were reasonable. Too reasonable, maybe. But he was desperate, and anyway, he had faith in his ability to judge people.

"About seven o'clock?" he asked, and she agreed. Only after hanging up did John realize that he had forgotten to ask her name.

At seven that evening he pulled up to the ramshackle white cottage that matched the address the woman had given him. Dusk had deepened the blue sky, and the air was crisp with early autumn. Apples ripened on a huge old gnarled tree that overhung the cottage, and a white-painted fence enclosed at least an acre. One of the smallest, plumpest ponies he'd ever seen gazed at them over the board fence. Emma gave a crow of delight and tugged at his hand.

"Can we pet the pony?"

"After we're done inside," he said firmly. "We'll ask if it's okay then."

The pony forgotten as they neared the front door, Emma clung to John's hand and hung slightly back. The spiky blue-and-yellow blooms of asters and chrysanthemums spilled over the low picket fence that edged a flower bed along the house. John looked down at his daughter's dark head and felt a pang of bittersweet love. He wanted to give her everything, and was reduced to this: abandoning her for days with a virtual stranger.

His knock produced an unexpected cacophony of noise. The deep bark of a large dog mixed with the higher yap of a smaller one and the squeals of more than one child. A zoo. John's hand tightened protectively on Emma's shoulder as the door swung open.

He was only peripherally aware of the toddlers peeking around the woman's legs, of the walking dust mop that sprang out onto the porch, of the deep woofs still coming from the background. For just an instant, the world narrowed so that all he saw was her.

She might have stepped out of an old picture of Russian nobility. Thick dark hair slid out of the loose bun at the nape of her long, slender neck, and eyes as dark as midnight stared back at him. Her cheekbones were stark, her forehead high, her nose slender and patrician, and her mouth soft and sensuous. She was pale, with the creamy complexion Victorian women had been known to kill themselves trying to achieve. Perhaps the contrast of hair and eyes and skin was what had made him think of her in black and white, like an old daguerrotype, but the faded jeans and loose cotton sweater were thoroughly modern.

His voice sounded strange to his own ears when he managed to summon his powers of speech. "Uh... I'm John McRae. I called earlier?"

And then she smiled, not at him but at Emma, and his heart lurched painfully in his chest. Perhaps the perfect woman didn't answer advertisements in the newspaper, but it appeared that she did place them.

"Hi. You're Emma? I'm Marian. And this," she glanced around, then lightly touched the head of a brown-haired boy who looked about two, "is Jesse and"—her hand moved on to the girl, obviously a twin—"his sister Anna. And I see you've already met Aja."

Emma nodded shyly, reaching down to pat the ball of fur that bounded around their feet.

"Come in." Marian stepped back. "For heaven's sake, hush!" She gave John an apologetic look. "Rhodo sounds much more ferocious than he is. You don't mind Emma being around dogs, do you?"

"Not at all." John held out one hand to be sniffed by the huge black German shepherd that wagged his tail. As he followed Marian and the toddlers that clung to her into the living room, John somehow wasn't surprised to notice two cats as well, one lounging on the back of the couch, the other draped over an end table.

Marian was suddenly conscious of the cats, too, not to mention the Duplo spread over ten square feet, and the puzzle pieces that had been cheerfully scattered, and the coloring books and markers, the picture books, boxes of juice, and a plate of cookie crumbles. Why hadn't she picked up before he came? But the house was clean, she told herself defensively. Just cluttered. With six children here all day, what would he expect?

She stole a glance, and found his expression inscrutable, although his gaze was taking it all in. She had the feeling he could see even the Cheerios that Jamie had been poking under the couch that morning. Marian wasn't usually so self-conscious. What was it about him?

He wasn't exactly handsome; his lean face was too rugged for that. It was also faintly familiar, and yet she didn't remember ever meeting him. It would have been hard to forget a man built like him, tall and broad-shouldered with narrow hips and long legs. And while his straight brown hair matched his daughter's, the level gray eyes that held Marian's sparked no recognition.

Her awareness of him made her stomach knot. The feeling wasn't wholly pleasant. For heaven's sake, the man was probably married. Anyway, it was the child she should be paying attention to, not the father. The little girl's gaze was still downcast, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.

"Would you like to color while your dad and I are talking?" Marian asked gently. She stopped herself from reaching out to brush the child's bangs back from her forehead. It was too soon.

After a pause, Emma whispered, "No."

"Okay. Why don't you sit down?" Marian wrinkled her nose. "If you can find a place. Sorry. I always pick up, but I haven't found the energy yet tonight. Six kids are like a tornado."

John looked at her quizzically. "Six is quite a few. Are you sure you can handle another?"

"I'm licensed for seven." Marian met his gaze, hating the nervous flutter in her chest. "Which I think is too many. But if I understood you, it's this weekend you want to leave Emma?" He agreed, and she continued. "The other children in my care come Monday through Friday, even the drop-ins. On weekends I have only my own."

He nodded, his expression noncommittal. There was something in his gray eyes, though, an answering awareness, that reminded her of that first odd moment when she had opened the door. She tried to tell herself that she had imagined the way he had looked at her, but failed.

Feeling the need to fuss, Marian collected a pile of books from the couch and carried them over to the bookcase, talking over her shoulder. "Jesse and Anna are two and a half, so they're a little young to be friends for you, Emma, but they'd be thrilled if you played with them! Did you notice that we have a pony?"

Still standing stiffly beside her father, Emma nodded again. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the two dark-haired, dark-eyed toddlers who stared silently at her.

"We have a goat, too, which saves me from having to mow. Goats are funny creatures. Esmerelda likes to nibble on noses and ears, so you have to watch her, but she's really a lot of fun. I save her hair when she sheds, and we dye it for crafts. For Mother's Day some of the kids took home cups decorated with purple goat hair."

"Emma and I are on our own," John said.

Marian wasn't sure how to take that—as a warning, perhaps? She met his eyes when she said, "Jesse and Anna and I are, too. We'd love to have your company, Emma, if you think you'd feel comfortable with us."

The man replied only indirectly. "Do you have an extra bed for Emma? Or would she need to bring a sleeping bag?"

"I have a bed," she said. "This place is three-bedroom, believe it or not. They're tiny, but—" She broke off. "Would you like to look around?"

He nodded and stood. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all. I'm afraid the dinner dishes are still piled up." Marian caught herself apologizing. She wasn't one of the world's great housekeepers and she wasn't about to pretend that she was, just because the girl's father intimidated her. If that was the right word, she thought, all too aware of his long, lazy stride as he followed her, of how big the hand was that hadn't left his daughter's shoulder.

As she led a silent tour from room to room, the shabbiness of the house made her self-conscious as well. The kitchen cabinets were old painted wood, the vinyl floor cracking, its finish long worn off. The hardwood floors needed refinishing, the bathroom could have used new fixtures. She hadn't been able to afford to do any of those projects. What she could afford she'd done. The wallpapers were bright and airy, the curtains gauzy splashes of color. She'd made slipcovers for some of the furniture, stripped and stained the wood pieces. There were books in every room, and colorful toys randomly stacked on shelves. It was home, she thought, trying to ignore a clutch of sadness. Maybe only for another few months, but while the house was still hers, she refused to feel defensive about it.

The small hallway ended at the three bedrooms. The door was open to hers, which lay straight ahead. Marian's instinctive reaction was hurriedly to pull the door shut, as though by doing so she could salvage some remnant of privacy. But that was ridiculous. He had seen a bed before. Hers would tell him nothing about her.

But Marian was wrong. Although he didn't allow his expression to change, John had guessed quite a lot about her from one leisurely glance. The quilt, in an unusual and striking mix of teal and orange, was clearly handmade. The room was untidy in a casual, homey way; books were piled haphazardly on the end table, a stuffed rabbit lay at the foot of the bed, and one slipper hadn't quite made it into the closet. A ball of bright red yarn had rolled out of a bag. The bedroom was emphatically hers, without any sign that a man had ever belonged there.

The two children's rooms duly inspected, John followed her back into the living room, Emma silent at his side. He should have been thinking only about his daughter, about her reaction, but instead he seized the opportunity to admire Marian's narrow hips and long legs, revealed by snug jeans. Above her slender back, her hair was like thick, dark silk, carelessly bundled. His fingers almost tingled as he imagined how that silky mane would feel, slipping through them. He had a vivid image of her naked, slowly turning to face him, her hair flowing to her waist, an impossibly sensual contrast with her porcelain skin.

John blinked, and realized he stood beside the couch staring at her. She had turned to face him, her gaze wary. Before he had thought of anything to say, she spoke abruptly.

"I keep thinking how familiar you look. Have we met before?"

"No." He wouldn't have forgotten her. "I'm, uh..."

"Daddy was a football player," Emma interjected proudly. "Everybody knows who he is."

"Well, not quite," John said wryly.

"I'm afraid I've never followed football." She didn't sound apologetic.

"Daddy has scars all over his knees," Emma added. "Big ugly ones."

Marian's dark gaze lowered to his jean-clad legs, and then she flushed slightly as she looked back at his face.

"Thank you, Emma," John said, then grinned ruefully at Marian, who was, if anything, more beautiful with her cheeks tinted pink. "I retired because of knee injuries," he explained.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding awkward.

He shrugged. "It's a rare football career that lasts over ten years. I couldn't ask for more than that."

Her small daughter tugged at her sweater, and Marian bent to pick her up. "This isn't a business trip, then?"

"I'm a color commentator for network television," John said. "Which means I'm on the road a lot for five or six months a year, and home the rest. We've had a housekeeper for the last couple of years who took care of Emma, but she left to get married and the woman I hired to replace her called today to let me know her father had a stroke and she wouldn't be able to come. Obviously, I'm going to be hunting for a new housekeeper. In the meantime..." He shrugged again.

As he talked, her expression changed, becoming shuttered as her brow crinkled and she studied him. Suddenly the warmth was gone from those velvet dark eyes. But, damn it, what had he said?

"Is something wrong?" John asked, taking a step toward her.

She held her ground, raking him with an unexpectedly cool gaze. "No. No, nothing." And then she turned away from him as though he didn't exist, carefully setting her own daughter down before crouching in front of his. He saw again her gentleness as she smiled at Emma. "I'll be delighted to have Emma this weekend if you'll feel comfortable leaving her here."

John glanced at his daughter, but her face stayed averted. "Suppose I bring her about noon?" he said.

"Good." She hesitated, then looked up at him. "Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?"

The offer was obviously no more than polite, and even so he refused only with reluctance. "You must be tired. And Emma and I both have to pack."

Marian told herself firmly that she was relieved. He had a strangely unsettling effect on her, one she didn't even like to acknowledge. If she were ever to fall in love again, which at this point in her life she found difficult to imagine, it wouldn't be with a man who spent more time away from home than he did with his motherless daughter.

When he and Emma were gone and Marian was involved in the nightly rituals of bathing her twins, of cuddling them and reading stories and tucking them in, a peripheral part of her consciousness puzzled over the two who had left—the child with the frightened brown eyes and the man who had looked so tenderly at his daughter but was prepared to leave her with a stranger for the weekend—not just this weekend, but all the ones to come in the next—what?—three months? Four months? Did all men lack some basic instinct for nurturing? she wondered, giving her own sleepy children a soft kiss as she pulled the covers up to their chins and left them in the warm glow from their mouse nightlight.

Tired, she began to run soapy water into the kitchen sink automatically, wanting nothing more than to finish cleaning up so that she could go to bed herself. But tonight her thoughts were relentless, the remembered ache of betrayal sharp in her throat. She knew the unfairness of turning her bitterness on John McRae, who at least had not abandoned his child. But he had sparked too many memories, ruffling the hard-won serenity she had achieved. Unfair or not, she resented that.

CHAPTER 2

Watching John McRae say good-bye to his daughter nearly broke Marian's heart. Crouched before Emma, he pulled her into a tight hug, resting his cheek against her dark hair. For just a moment his eyes met Marian's over the littie girl's head, before Marian looked uncomfortably away. The pain she had seen was too private, not meant for her eyes.

Why, she wondered, if he loved his daughter so much, was he leaving her? Although she knew little about football, even Marian was vaguely aware that professional athletes made an obscene amount of money—surely enough for him to have retired, or at least waited until Emma was older before he went back to work.

He abruptly released his daughter and stood. His expression was wiped clear of all emotion when he said, his voice rough, "I'll see you Monday morning. Do you mind if I call Sunday night en route?"

"No, of course not," Marian said. "If you want to call any time and talk to Emma..."

John nodded. When he spoke to his daughter his voice was softer, filled with tenderness. "I'll call tonight, hon. Have fun riding the pony."

Marian stepped forward and instinctively put an arm around the girl's thin shoulders as her father strode to his car and drove away without a backward glance. Something caught at Marian's throat as she watched him go. She tried to tell herself that it was anger, but it felt more like pity. Only, how could she feel pity for a man who was rich, successful, and sexy? He had everything. Didn't he?

Tearing her thoughts away from the father, she glanced down at his daughter. "Would you like to meet Esmerelda now?" she asked gently.

For a moment Emma didn't respond, but at last she nodded. Feeling the child's stiffness, Marian let her hand drop away. Perhaps without a mother, Emma wasn't used to being cuddled. Or maybe it was just too soon.

Turning to her own toddlers, who lurked shyly in the doorway, Marian said, "Anna? Jesse? Do you have your shoes on? Good. Let's go visit Esmerelda. And maybe you could all have a ride on Snowball. If we don't exercise her a little, she'll get so fat she won't be able to walk! Maybe she'll have to roll like a real snowball!" Encouraged by Emma's slight smile, Marian herded the children around the house, accompanied by both dogs.

The goat was penned in a tall enclosure beside the ramshackle barn. Seeing them coming, she butted the fence and bleated.

Emma dropped to her knees and pushed her hand through the wire. When Esmerelda nibbled on her fingers, a soft giggle escaped the five-year-old.

"It tickles!"

"Wait'll she gets your hair!" Marian promised.

"She's fat, too," Emma said shyly.

"Yes, but she has an excuse," Marian said as she opened the gate to let Esmerelda loose into the pasture. "She's a pygmy goat, and they're naturally round. Although she does look like she's pregnant, doesn't she?"

"A baby goat would be nice," Emma said wistfully.

"It would be fun, but..." Marian stopped. There was no reason to tell Emma that they might soon have to find another home for poor Esmerelda, who had been outrageously spoiled. And Snowball. How would she ever find anybody who would love the shaggy white pony as much as she did? Snowball had been hers when she was a child. It would be a part of her life she would be selling. How could she do it?

Forcing a smile, she said, "Oops, here comes Snowball. He gets jealous. Here." Marian pulled a carrot from her back pocket and offered it to Emma. "Break this into a couple of pieces and hold it out to him on the flat of your hand." She demonstrated. "I promise, he'll be your slave for life."

"Ride Snow," Jesse demanded.

"Ride," his sister agreed.

"Emma, do you mind going next? No? Okay, who wants to go in front?" Marian asked.

"Me!" Anna insisted.

Marian plopped her two-year-old daughter on the broad white back and waited until her small fingers had knotted in Snowball's mane before lifting Jesse up behind. Busy crunching the carrot, the pony paid no more notice to the added weight than he did to Aja, frisking about his hooves.

Snowball had to be convinced that no more carrots were forthcoming before he reluctantly agreed to amble around the pasture with Marian walking on one side of him and Emma holding the lead rope. Any shyness vanished in the pleasure Emma took at being trusted to be in charge.

When the pony's stride dragged, she tugged on the lead and demanded, "Come on, Snowball! Giddyup!" The pony sighed and increased his pace infinitesimally.

Marian hid a smile. At twenty-three years old, Snowball had learned long ago that he was the master. Fortunately, he was a kind, well-meaning one.

"Okay, Emma," Marian said as they came around by the barn. "Your turn. Have you ever ridden before?"

"Whoa, Snowball." The pony had already stopped, but Emma clung to his halter as though she expected him to fling up his head and gallop away at any moment. "Daddy has a horse ranch," she informed Marian. "Arabian horses. I ride a lot."

Marian instantly pictured one of the elegant horses, but it wasn't Emma she saw astride; it was her father. The image fit, Marian realized. John McRae looked more like a cowboy than a football player, his tall body rangy rather than overmuscled, his voice deep and slow.

Emma's tone of importance dwindled into discontent as she admitted, "But Daddy or Isaiah always has to lead me because our horses are all big. I'll bet I could ride Snowball all by myself."

Seeing the hope in her dark eyes, Marian smiled. "I'll bet you could, too," she agreed.

Snowball had worked his usual magic, Marian thought with relief. It was going to be all right. Emma would be happy with them.

Why she was so relieved, Marian couldn't have said. After all, this was temporary. After Monday morning, she would probably never see Emma or her father again. Which was just as well, Marian thought firmly. She had enough problems without complicating her life further. And a complication was all that the vulnerable child and her too-attractive father would be.

*****

Sunday morning Marian studied the classifieds while the children watched cartoons. "Hannah!" she exclaimed, pushing a fat gray cat off the newspaper. "I can't read it with you sprawled in the middle!" Hannah grudgingly moved over a few inches.

There were plenty of rentals available, Marian thought, trying to find her place. The trouble was, she couldn't afford three-quarters of them. And of the remainder, almost all specified no pets. She'd given up hope of keeping Snowball and Esmerelda, but to have to find homes for the dogs and cats as well... Her teeth closed painfully on her lower lip and her gaze moved to the next column. Eight hundred and fifty dollars a month! She lived on less than that.

The next one was a possible, she supposed, circling it in red. But the description was ominous. "Fixer-upper with darling potential!" In her experience, "darling" translated to tiny, and if it was too much of a fixer-upper, she'd never get it licensed by the state for day-care. Assuming there were no neighbors to object, and that her current customers were willing to cross town to leave their children, and... Her mind easily found the familiar path strewn with worries.

If only she'd been able to stay here a few more years. Just until the twins started school. Then she could have worked... But she was wasting time. If she were going to dwell on the "if onlys," she ought to wish for child support. If only her ex-husband were paying it, life wouldn't be so hard. But he wasn't. And she wouldn't trade her children for anything on earth.

She lifted her voice above the canned giggles from the television set. "Guys, we have to go somewhere. Time to turn the TV off and get your shoes."

"But Daddy's going to be on," Emma protested. "We could watch him."

The thought had already crossed Marian's mind. She had instantly squelched it. She didn't have time to waste today, and football bored her anyway. She could satisfy her curiosity another time, once father and child were out of her life.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you probably enjoy watching your dad, but I have some errands that have to be done."

Anna unpopped her thumb from her mouth and scrambled off the couch, but Jesse was still staring at the colorful screen, mesmerized. When Emma turned it off, he blinked, as though coming out of a spell. Marian hated to let the children watch even as much as she did, but many days it was her only time to herself.

"Where are we going?" Emma asked.

"To the grocery store, and to look at a couple of houses. I don't own this one, and unfortunately the people who do, want to build some condominiums here. We have to move pretty soon."

The twins didn't understand, but Emma did. "I hated moving. I don't have any friends. And Helen left because she didn't want to live here."

Crouching to put on Jesse's shoes, Marian said, "It's hard, isn't it? At least we don't have to leave town, so we won't lose our friends." What friends? she thought. Who had time for them?

"Let's go look at the houses first," Emma said, bouncing a little as Marian buckled all three into her old station wagon. "Grocery stores are boring. Besides, maybe we can find a really neat place. Like our house. Our house is okay, even if I wish we still lived in California."

Marian clicked the seat belt into place over Emma, then ruffled her bangs. "You know something? I'll bet in just a few months you'll have tons of friends and you won't be able to remember why you didn't want to move."

Marian had buckled herself in and backed the station wagon out of the driveway before she glanced over to see how pinched Emma's face was.

Without looking up, the little girl mumbled, "If Helen loved me, she wouldn't have left."

The road was empty. Marian put the brake on right where she was and reached out to enfold Emma in a hug. Leaning her cheek against the dark head, she closed her eyes. "Oh, sweetie," she said sadly. "Life should be easier, shouldn't it?"

*****

The children were long in bed that night when the telephone rang. Answering, Marian recognized John McRae's voice immediately.

"Emma's doing just fine," she said. "She's asleep already, but if you want—"

"No, don't get her up," he interrupted. "I'm at the airport and I just thought I'd call before I try to remember where I parked the car. Emma sounded happy when I called last night, but since I didn't really get a chance to talk to you... Well, I wondered how things went. I wasn't sure we'd get a chance to talk in the morning."

Marian tucked the receiver in the crook of her shoulder and sank into the comfortable, worn armchair where she did most of her knitting. It was odd how easily she could picture his lean face just from the sound of his voice.

"Emma's done well," she assured him. "She loved Snowball. She says you have horses, but they're all too big for her."

"Yeah, I'm breeding Arabians. I guess I should get Emma a pony of her own. She'd enjoy that, wouldn't she?"

The words hurt, but Marian made herself say them. "I may have to find a home for Snowball. I wanted to wait until the last minute, but if you're interested I know Emma would be good to him—"

He interrupted again. "Why do you have to get rid of him? Your own kids are just getting to the age where they'd enjoy a pony."

"I know." Marian blinked back tears. "But we have to move shortly. Finding a rental with property is next-to-impossible. And I can't afford to board him."

"Does that mean the goat, too?"

She laughed shakily. "Any chance you want a goat for Emma?"

There was a moment's silence before he said thoughtfully, "I can see the problem. I didn't realize you were renting."

"Unfortunately. The owners are planning to build condominiums here. I can understand... But I've lived here six years and it's home. Oh, damn..." She swiped at suddenly wet cheeks. What had gotten into her? "I'm sorry," she said more formally. "You don't need to hear my troubles. Especially after a long weekend. You must be tired."

"I am," he admitted, sounding it. "The traveling wears me down. Different time zones, too many restaurants and hotels...and now an hour-and-a-half drive. You'd think I'd be used to it." His laugh was rueful. "Hey, listen to me. I've had a long two days and I'm asking for sympathy from a woman who has six kids, twelve hours a day, week in and week out!"

"You'd be surprised how many people think I don't really work for a living," she said. "I'm home, right? That must mean I have plenty of time to bake cookies for the bazaar or run over to let the repairman into somebody's house."

"Don't you have anyone who can give you a break?"

The compassion in his rough-edged voice made Marian realize how she must have sounded. He was too easy to talk to. No, it wasn't him; if he'd been sitting here, watching her with those perceptive gray eyes, distracting her with his intensely masculine presence, she wouldn't have found him so easy to talk to. It had to be the telephone, the anonymity. The modern confessional.

Forcing amusement into her voice, she said. "Oh, don't listen to me right now. I'm tired, too. I love kids and I enjoy them most of the time. It's the parents..."

"Watch yourself!" he said humorously.

She chuckled. "Well, you're not a regular."

There was a pause. "No. Listen, I'm probably keeping you up. Thanks for listening. Sometimes I miss coming home from trips and having someone to talk to. Someone above three feet tall, that is."

"I know what you mean. That's the hardest part..." Marian broke off. What an odd conversation. She didn't even know this man, and here they were baring their souls. Well, not quite, thank goodness. She made herself sound more reserved. "Shall we see you in the morning?"

"Yes. Seven-thirty, eight o'clock? That's not too early for you?"

She laughed again. "Are you kidding? The hordes will have already descended!"

"Then I'd better come and snatch Emma from the eye of the storm. She has school, anyway," he added practically. "You might remind her."

"So she doesn't wear those jeans with the holes in the knees? No problem. See you in the morning."

Marian hung up the receiver, then very slowly sank down into the chair again. The house was so quiet around her that she strained to hear the small, familiar night sounds: the clink of tags as one of the dogs moved restlessly, a sleepy sigh, the rustle of bedcovers. Nothing. She felt...alone. Was it John McRae's sympathy that had undermined her defenses? Or the attraction she couldn't deny she felt for him?

It had been so long. She remembered how it was to fall in love. To share laughter and sadness, silliness and pain, with someone who cared. To weaken with passion, to make the earth move for someone else. To be able to lay your head on a strong chest and cry.

She was contented with her life; of course she was. Anna and Jesse were her joy. But she was all they had to lean on, and she had nobody. Oh, she talked to her father once a month, but he was a remote man who had never been interested in his own children, far less his grandchildren. And she had friends, some of whom had been very supportive, but, at best, the closeness had begun to slip away in the last two years. Friendships only prospered when you had time to invest in them.

Sometimes Marian longed desperately just to be able to lay her burden down and walk away, only for a few hours, to think her own thoughts, to please herself. Sometimes, at night, she wondered what it would have been like if Mark had stayed. If he'd been here to hold the babies, to give them bottles and change their diapers and make them laugh. Would the marriage have lasted if she hadn't gotten pregnant? Or if it hadn't been with twins?

She could scarcely picture Mark's face anymore, although sometimes it looked back at her when Jesse's eyes twinkled with mischief or when Anna scowled. Did Mark ever think about her, or about the children? Did he ever wonder what he had missed?

But she knew better. Her pensive mood vanished in a rush of anger. If Mark had cared at all, if he'd harbored even the tiniest amount of regret, he would have at least paid child support. He wouldn't have deserted her so utterly.

Marian was grateful for the sting of anger. It carried her through her last tasks and to bed, just as it had given her the strength to cope these last three years. Where would she be without that anger?

Probably waiting for Prince Charming to rescue her, she thought impatiently, tugging the covers up around her shoulders. When John McRae immediately appeared in her mind's eye, she groaned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. The first attractive single man she'd met in years, and she was ready to knight him.

Well, this candidate might look the part, but he was missing a few qualifications for the job. Otherwise, why was his daughter asleep in Marian's extra bedroom?

*****

Weary as he was after getting in at nearly midnight, John had trouble sleeping that night. The house felt too damned empty without Emma in it. Or maybe he was the one who felt empty, without the purpose she gave his life.

At an ungodly hour the next morning, he gave up and headed into the bathroom to shave. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was disconcerting. Today he showed his age. The lines on his forehead and beside his eyes were carved deeper and his mouth had a cynical tilt. The Monday morning blues, he thought. He felt as battered as he had when he'd been on the field taking punishment. Now he didn't even have that excuse. Shaking his head, he reached for the razor.

Half an hour later, but considerably earlier than he had told her to expect him, John parked the car in Marian's dirt lane. His long strides carried him to the front door, where he knocked, producing the expected uproar. As he waited for the door to open, he wondered about his eagerness. Was it only Emma he couldn't wait to see?

When Marian appeared in the doorway, her dark hair confined in a fat braid that flopped over her slender shoulder, John knew the answer by the tightening he felt in his chest. Yes, he'd missed his daughter, but he'd also wanted very badly to see Marian again.

The quick smile she offered was warm and, for the first time, all for him. A wave of raw hunger hit him, making his voice a notch huskier.

"I hope I'm not too early?"

"No, no, of course not," she said, her attention distracted. "For heaven's sake, Rhodo, hush!" She sighed and stood back. "Emma's still eating. Come on in."

Bending automatically to pet the two dogs, he followed her. She wore jeans again, with a loose-fitting cotton shirt tucked in that emphasized a tiny waist that his hands ached to span.

Unfortunately, he saw no sign whatsoever that she was physically conscious of him. Unless her very casualness as she hurried into the kitchen ahead of him qualified.

"Lizzie, Joshua doesn't want you to feed him! He can feed himself."

The little girl, who was trying to cram a spoonful of oatmeal into a toddler's mouth, reluctantly stopped. "Do dogs like oatmeal?"

"No, they don't," Marian said firmly.

In the mob of six—no, seven—kids at the table, it took John a moment to spot his own daughter.

"Daddy!" Emma leaped out of her chair and into his arms, which closed tightly around her small body.

"I missed you, honey," he murmured, for an instant forgetting the dark-eyed woman who stood watching them. At last he let Emma go and leaned over to plant a kiss on top of her head. "Go ahead and finish your breakfast. We're not in any hurry."

"Have you had breakfast?" Marian asked, from the other side of the table. "There's plenty."

"Maybe a piece of toast," he said. "Thanks." Taking one from the platter, he used Emma's knife to slather it with jam. Raspberry, he discovered, taking a bite. And obviously homemade.

After he had swallowed, he said appreciatively,"A woman of many talents." Lifting the toast in mock salute, he strolled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter beside her.

She wrinkled her nose. "The hardest part of making jam is picking the darn berries. I can't claim cooking as one of my talents."

"No? Then what is?"

A shadow seemed to cross her face, although her voice stayed light. "I'm good with kids. Speaking of which... Lizzie, please don't feed the dog. He shouldn't eat people food."

"But he likes it."

"Do I need to put Aja and Rhodo out?"

The littie girl pouted, but she shook her head.

"Thank you," Marian said gently. Catching the amusement in John's gaze, she rolled her eyes. "Maybe I'd make a good drill sergeant. What do you think?"

"There's not enough snap in your voice."

"I can scream with the best of 'em."

He swallowed the last of his toast. "Since we're back to the subject of your talents... Tell me, did you make that quilt in your bedroom?"

Her cheeks warmed, as though the mention of her bedroom held enough intimacy to make her self-conscious. Nodding, she said, "I'll have you know, it took me about ten years, at one square a year. Worse than having a baby."

"It's beautiful." He lifted his voice. "Emma, if you're done, why don't you go collect your things?"

"I'm done, too," Lizzie announced.

"Me, too," Jesse said.

"Done," Anna agreed, then stood precariously in her high chair. Only John heard Marian's faint sigh. As she rescued her daughter and began washing hands and sticky faces, John started carrying dirty dishes to the sink. He glanced around the kitchen, astonished not to see a dishwasher; but something told him that Marian wouldn't appreciate comment on the fact. After going back for another pile, he started rinsing plates off.

Marian looked up, startled. "Oh, you don't have to…

"I don't like to stand around," he said, his tone not allowing for argument. A minute later he began running soapy water into the sink.

The children all vanished into the living room, where they happily squabbled over who got what coloring book. Marian carried the last dishes in. "Please, you don't need to..." When he frowned, she stopped, then cleared her throat. "Uh...do you know how?”

John grinned. "Do I detect a little sex stereotyping here?"

An enchanting pair of dimples appeared when she laughed. "Let's just say it's a first for me."

"Hey, I'm a prince among men," he said loftily, wanting very badly to capture the vivacity on her face, to hear that delicious chuckle again. But it appeared he'd failed, because her smile slowly faded. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

She worried at her soft lower lip as her dark eyes searched his. "Nothing, really. You just...oh, reminded me of something." She turned away to reach for a dish towel and added in what he guessed was meant to be an offhand tone, "Tell me, do all men imagine themselves as a prince in disguise, sweeping a woman away?"

"Lord, no," he said, hiding his shock. Because, damn it, he'd just discovered that that's exactly what he'd like to be. Her prince. The ogres he wanted to sweep her away from were dirty dishes and other people's children, bills he doubted she could pay, and worries she pretended not to have.

He did his best to keep his face impassive as he added, "But you remind me of an offer I do want to make you."

Reaching for a clean plate, she said warily, "An offer?"

"It's about Snowball. Instead of buying him, I'd like to board him for you. No charge." He lifted a hand as she started to interrupt. "No, let me finish. I have twenty-five horses already. We wouldn't even notice the addition of one pint-size one. You could bring your kids to ride him anytime. While he's with us, Emma would have the privilege of riding him. That way, we'd both get what we want. I wouldn't have to buy a pony that Emma would outgrow in just a couple of years, and you'd be able to hold on to Snowball. And I could be talked into the goat with the same arrangement."

Her brow crinkled. "But...what would you want with a goat?"

"Blackberries keep springing up in our pastures. I hear goats are damn near the only way to get rid of blackberries once and few all, short of poisons I'd prefer not to use around the horses. You'd be doing me a favor."

"Why don't I believe that?" she said softly.

He wanted to smooth the worry from her brow. No, what he wanted—needed—was to touch her, with any excuse at all. He was probably crazy, but he reached out, his hand curled into a fist, and lightly stroked her cheek with his knuckle. The contact was fleeting, but it jolted him like walking into an electric fence.

"Don't worry so much," he said huskily.

Her eyes widened in something very close to panic and then she ducked her head away from his hand, which fell back to his side. She spoke in a muffled voice. "I can't take a favor like that. It's...it's kind of you, but..."

He made himself thrust his hands in dishwater and say brusquely, "I love my daughter, that's all." He rinsed some plates under the faucet and stacked them in the drainer, not looking at Marian. "You'd make her gloriously happy if you agreed. And I mean the offer. It's practical for both of us. Just think about it, okay?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her watching him with a troubled gaze. "I can promise that much, at least," she agreed uncertainly. "And I don't want you to think I don't appreciate..."

Catching both by surprise, Emma popped up right behind them and craned her neck to see between them. "Why are you washing the dishes, Daddy?"

"To be helpful," John said. "You all ready to go, kiddo? I'm about done here."

He'd already decided that strategic retreat was the order of the day. Anyway, he was looking forward to hearing how Emma had enjoyed the weekend. Because he'd had an idea that would kill two birds with one stone, to put it vulgarly. If Marian could take Emma every weekend, he'd not only feel comfortable about his daughter, but he'd have an excuse to see Marian again. Regularly. And he'd be able to avoid a repeat of the housekeeper hunt.

So he made their good-byes casual and left a check bigger than Marian had asked for. He could still see her small house in his car's rearview mirror when he asked Emma about the weekend.

"It was fun, Daddy." She bounced in the seat. "Can I go there again? I didn't really like the lady that was going to come to our house that much. I like Marian. So could I...?"

"I think that's a good idea," John said firmly. "I'll call Marian tonight. Okay?"

"Okay!"

Of course, that was only step one, he thought with satisfaction. Step two was going to be luring Marian away from all the children so he could have her to himself for a few hours.

Why was he so sure that it wasn't going to be easy?

CHAPTER 3

"Then I'll expect Emma Friday afternoon," Marian said.

She slowly replaced the telephone receiver and stood without moving, staring out the window into the backyard where the children played in the sandbox. Warning bells were going off in her head. No, that was ridiculous. She'd agreed to take Emma again only because of the generous check John had left. That amount weekly added to what she already earned might make the difference in the kind of rental she would be able to afford. And it wasn't as though Emma had been any trouble. Despite the sadness beneath, she was a joyous child, one who had all too easily touched Marian's heart.

She would simply have to be wary of her own vulnerability, Marian told herself firmly. She cringed at the idea of Emma's father discovering how his kindness had affected her.

Who was she kidding? He hadn't even needed to be kind! It was that slow, rough voice, the penetrating gray eyes, the broad shoulders, and the lazy, graceful way he moved. Marian shivered as she pictured the rare smile that warmed his face.

The real trouble was that John McRae had reminded her of her own nearly forgotten sexuality, of the sweetness and passion and tenderness that was possible between a man and a woman. Unfortunately, along with that she'd remembered betrayal and sorrow and loneliness. For her, the happiness in her marriage had become inextricably tangled in her memory with the sadness.

Exhilaration and heartbreak. She didn't need either, Marian thought fiercely, turning from the window to hurry out into the backyard. Her children were enough. They had to be enough. She would not allow John McRae to reawaken longings she could no longer afford.

She crouched by the sandbox. "Hey, guys, want some help making a castle?"

*****

Emma accepted her father's hug with grace, but without the previous week's misery. When he released her, she danced away. "Hey, Jessie, Anna. Let's go pet Snowball. Can we ride, Marian?"

"I'm afraid it's too late. Dinner's already in…” But the three children had vanished around the house. Marian rolled her eyes and turned back to John. "I can tell who's popular around here."

His grin was wry. "And how badly she's going to miss her dad."

Marian bit her lip. "I'm sure..."

He gestured dismissively. "Just kidding. I'm glad she was looking forward to coming. It makes leaving easier for me."

Easy was what all absentee parents wanted, Marian thought, but somehow she couldn't summon any anger. John too obviously loved his daughter.

"Well," Marian said. "Have a good trip. Where are you going this week?"

"L.A. Which reminds me..." He patted his pockets, producing a slip of paper. "My cell phone, my phone number at the hotel, and the network. They can always track me down."

When she reached for the paper, her fingers touched his, sending a disconcerting tingle up her arm. Her gaze lifted and she saw in his eyes an echo of the awareness she felt. For a very still, breathless instant, they looked at each other, until Marian swallowed and made herself glance away. She stared down at the telephone numbers written in a bold, dark scrawl. They might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics for all she knew.

"I'm sure we won't have any problem," she said brightly. "Still..."

"Better safe than sorry?"

Something mocking in his tone brought her gaze up again. His mouth was curled into a crooked smile, and Marian wondered whether his comment referred to telephone numbers or to the far more intimate, unnerving vibes that shivered just beneath the surface.

Tilting her chin up slightly, she said, "I do my best."

His smile widened until he looked almost predatory. "I'm sure you do. Otherwise I wouldn't bring Emma here."

Was he talking only about Marian's capabilities as a baby-sitter? The look in his gray-green eyes was too direct for her to believe that. But why would he be interested in her? He was a retired pro athlete, a media personality. He must have stylish, sophisticated women constantly throwing themselves at him. He couldn't possibly be attracted to a struggling single mother who couldn't remember the last time she'd bothered with makeup or worn anything more elegant than jeans. But if he was... Dear God, what was she going to do?

Her panic must have showed on her face, because his smile faded and his expression became guarded.

"I'll call tomorrow night."

She bobbed her head nervously. "Fine. Emma looks forward to that."

His voice was soft, sending a shiver up her spine. "I look forward to that."

Marian refused to remember the last time he had called. Instead she said only, "Emma needs the reassurance."

"You'll take good care of her?"

It sounded like an entreaty, and she reacted instinctively, reaching out to touch his arm. "Of course I will."

Before she could withdraw, he'd captured her hand in his. The clasp was light, allowing for escape, but she was paralyzed by the strength she felt in his long fingers. For an instant she quit breathing as she stared up at him with wide eyes.

A frown gathered between his brows. "Do I scare you?"

"No, I..." She bit her lip. "Yes, I guess you do. I'm just not used to..."

When her words trailed off, he arched one brow. "What aren't you used to?"

Marian tugged her hand free, in a rush of defiance saying more than she wanted to. "I'm not used to having a man look at me the way you do."

Again he frowned. "You're a beautiful woman."

She held herself very straight, although she had to twine together her trembling fingers. "Right now I'm more interested in being a good mother. And a good baby-sitter for your daughter."

Their gazes held for a tense moment before his mouth tilted wryly. "That's pointed enough even for me. I'd better get moving, anyway, or I'm going to miss my plane. Damn, I hate L.A."

Marian struggled to sound normal. "But didn't you live there?"

"That's why I hate it. Oh, well. See you Monday morning?"

Again there was that hint of vulnerability in his voice. What was he asking? Whether she would want to see him? But Marian didn't let herself examine the question. "Monday," she agreed.

She made herself turn away as he started his car. Before he had backed into the street, she circled the corner of the house. She didn't have to watch him drive out of sight, anyway. That last quizzical smile was frozen in her mind's eye like a butterfly in amber.

Marian stopped in the long, late-afternoon shadow behind the house. Outside Esmerelda's pen, the three children were hunkered down in a row with their backs to Marian. Something about the sight squeezed her chest with tenderness. But as though she had opened herself to emotion, a wave of desperation washed over her, pulling little bits of her along as it receded, like sand being swallowed by the tide. She couldn't bear to be hurt again like Mark had done to her. It seemed that John McRae could hurt her without even intending to, just by his existence, by the possibilities he made her want to believe in. But that was impossible. He was impossible.

Somehow, in the next three days, she had to make herself believe it.

*****

Stretched out on the hotel bed, John cradled the telephone receiver between his shoulder and ear. He still wore slacks and a dress shirt, but his tie was flung over a chair and papers were strewn across the flowered bedspread.

"Did you ride the pony?" he asked.

"I made Snowball trot," Emma told him with great satisfaction. "It was kind of bumpy and I bounced around, but I held on tight and it was fun. Marian said I did great. And Snowball stopped the minute I wanted to. Marian says I can trot again tomorrow if it's okay with Snowball. But I know he will."

John carefully kept the amusement out of his voice. "That's terrific. You're going to be my show rider before you know it."

"Can I be in the costume class? I could dress up in purple and silver and..."

"Sure, why not?" he said recklessly. Actually, he'd always thought the dressy costume class at Arabian horse shows was tacky. The intent was to present the graceful horses as they'd once been ridden. John had a suspicion that hundreds of years ago, as the nomads swept over the desert on their swift mounts, very few were accoutered in purple silk with jangling bits of silver and painted hooves and even mascara around the horse's eyes, for God's sake. But if entering the class would give Emma pleasure, hey, what was a little purple silk?

"Listen, can I talk to Marian?"

"Sure." The little girl hesitated. "I miss you, Daddy."

His heart seemed to knot in his chest. "I miss you, too, honey."

His daughter didn't bother to cover the telephone before she bellowed, "Marian!"

As he waited, John pulled himself up, yanking the pillow from beneath the spread and bunching it behind him. The king-size bed was too hard, the pillows too squishy. With an ache Emma had brought on, he missed home. His own bed, his solid foam pillow, Isaiah's silent, familiar presence, the soft whisper of a horse's muzzle against his hand. Always Emma, with her light, high voice that ran on and on. And at times like this he still thought about his wife, who had died over two years ago. As Emma changed and grew, John couldn't help hurting for all that Susan had missed.

With a shock he realized that he was seeing Marian, too, as though she held a part of his heart as well. He had almost kissed her yesterday, before he had recognized her fear. What would have happened if he had? Damn it, he couldn't be alone in feeling this attraction!

He heard her coming, her voice muffled as she said, "Emma, could you help Jesse and Anna pick up the Playdoh?" Then she said into the telephone, "Hello, John. How's your trip going?"

"Oh, it's okay." He glanced at the sheaves of paper fanned across his bed. The statistics on the two teams were the kind of thing he'd need to pull from his hat tomorrow during the broadcast.

"It ought to be quite a game," he added. "But I forgot, you're not a fan, are you?"

"I'm afraid not. Emma made us promise to watch you, though."

"You trying to give me stage fright?"

Her chuckle, low and delicious, came from too far away. With an increasing ache, he could see those dimples and the gentle curve of her mouth.

"Millions of people are already watching you," she pointed out. "I don't think Anna and Jesse are very critical."

He couldn't resist. "What about you? Are you critical?"

"You could tell me three downs made an out and I wouldn't know the difference."

"I wasn't really talking about football," he said. "I was talking about me."

There was a moment of silence before she answered obliquely, "I'm looking forward to seeing you on TV."

"What's that mean?"

"You live in a different world."

"Yeah, in hotel rooms that have less character than my horses' stalls. Or are you imagining glamour and the high life?"

"Well..." Her laugh took away her constraint. "All right, you've got me. I figured a pro athlete makes tons of money and always has a blonde on each arm."

John grimaced. There'd been a time that he'd seen the life that way, too. He had even lived it for a couple of years, before he'd grown up. Marriage and a baby and too many aches from too many hits had a way of doing that.

"I'm a has-been nowadays," he reminded her. "It's not the same."

"That's right." There was a smile in her voice. "I'd almost forgotten the ugly scars on your knees."

"That's one thing about kids. If I have any flaws, you'll hear about 'em."

Again that chuckle. "Emma tells me you have scratchy cheeks because you only shave when you have to. She says that you yell sometimes when you're mad, but she knows you don't really mean it. She says..."

He groaned. "I get the point. I don't have a secret left to my name."

"I don't, either," she said, inexplicably sounding a little sad.

"Obviously our lives have become too staid and boring." He kept his tone light. "Maybe we ought to dump all the kids and you could come with me some weekend. Live that life of glamour."

"You should have asked before you disillusioned me," she countered, equally lightly. "Speaking of a life of glamour, I'd better be getting the kids to bed."

Was that a warning? Back off, he thought. Take it slow and easy. Quit imagining the raw silk of her hair tangled around him, the gentle weight of her breasts in his hands, her dark eyes dreamy with passion. Quit imagining how it would be to make love to her, slow and easy.

His voice was husky with the effort he'd made. "Emma sounded happy. Any problems?"

"None at all," she said. "We'll see you Monday morning?"

"Right. Although you'll see me sooner if I decide at half-time tomorrow to grin at the TV camera and say 'Hi to Marian and the kids.'"

"You wouldn't."

"Hey, I'd be the one losing my dignity, not you. Besides, it's in a great tradition. Ahmad Rashad proposed to his wife on camera."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. It was very sweet and newsworthy. She even blushed."

"No wonder," Marian muttered. "I'm not sure I will watch tomorrow!"

Laughing, he said good-bye. For a moment he toyed, not at all seriously, with the idea of asking her from the broadcast booth for a date. Then with a sigh he reached for the notes he'd taken on the Rams' hotshot new quarterback. Personally, he had doubts the kid would know what to do under real pressure.

But then, everybody had to learn sometime, John thought. After all, he'd figured it out, hadn't he? And he'd been a hotshot once, too.

But no more. He knew better now than to force a pass deep. He'd learned that slow and easy got the job done, too. But the impatience he'd once conquered tightened his fingers on the sheaf of papers. "Take your time," he said aloud to the empty hotel room. "There's no hurry." But he was frowning as he forced his attention back to the stats.

*****

Emma told Marian knowledgeably that they ought to watch the pregame show Sunday afternoon.

"That's practically the only time you can see Daddy. The rest of the time you only hear his voice." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "And then he's talking about football."

"That is what they pay him to talk about," Marian pointed out in all justice.

"Yeah, but it's boring." Emma brightened. "I wish he was in something different. Like Star Trek."

"I don't know if I can see him with pointy ears," Marian said doubtfully.

"And purple hair," Emma suggested. "I like purple. It's my favorite color."

Switching on the TV, Marian concluded that pointy ears and purple hair wouldn't look any more outlandish than football gear. She would never have recognized John McRae with a cage across his face and white streaks on his cheeks to reduce the glare and those silly pads on his broad shoulders. When the camera panned in on a player trotting away from it, however, Marian decided that the tight pants weren't too bad.

"Tell me when this game is over, okay?" she asked. "I'm going to fold some laundry."

It wasn't long before the little girl called, "Marian! There's Daddy!"

Marian dropped the heap of towels and hurried into the living room. She was just curious, she told herself defensively. Why her heart took an odd thump when she recognized Emma's father on the screen, she didn't try to explain to herself.

She sank slowly onto the couch while Emma grabbed Anna and thrust her face almost up to the screen. "See? That's my daddy. He's on TV."

How bizarre, Marian thought. She'd never actually met anyone who was on television before. But there indeed he was, leaning comfortably back in his chair, his gestures emphatic as he made some point about a prevent defense. Whatever that was.

The twins stared wide-eyed at the television, Anna sucking on her thumb and Jesse clutching his tattered white rabbit. After a minute Anna unpopped her thumb to say in a small voice, "He's little. Make him big again."

"That's dumb," Emma said, sounding offended. "My dad's not little!"

Marian bent to hug her son and daughter. "Emma's daddy isn't inside the TV. That's a picture of him, just like we have in our albums. Like your baby pictures, except this kind shows him moving and talking."

Anna looked doubtful, but stuck her thumb back in her mouth and continued to stare at the screen, where the two men tossed jargon back and forth. Their greatest interest seemed to be in pass rushes and sacks. Marian had a suspicion it wasn't brown paper ones they were talking about.

Eventually the other broadcaster leaned toward Emma's father. "Okay, John, it's time to put you on the spot. What's going to triumph today? The flashy passing attack of the L.A. Rams, or the powerful defense of the Washington Redskins?"

John directed a crooked smile at the camera and began to answer. The lazy humor in his eyes made Marian's heart do a peculiar dance. She felt as though he were looking only at her.

"A million other people feel the same way," she muttered.

Emma bounced on the couch beside her. "What, Marian?"

"Nothing." Marian blinked. A commercial was galloping raucously across the screen. "What did he say? Did you hear?"

"I think he said he was prejudiced. What's that mean?"

"That he wants the team he used to play for to win. It was L.A., wasn't it?"

"Um hm." Emma gave an additional bounce. "Can we go ride Snowball now?"

Marian gave her a startled look. "I thought you wanted to watch your dad?"

She shrugged. "I've seen him. I don't want to watch football."

Marian wondered if Emma said the word in quite that disgusted way around her father. If so, it would keep him humble. Except, Marian remembered, that Emma had sounded proud because her father was famous.

"I wouldn't mind watching for a while," Marian said. "I'd be embarrassed to tell your father we'd turned him off before the game even started. Can you guys color for a while?"

"I guess." Emma flounced off the couch and headed for the table. "C'mon. Let's make a TV show. We can color the pictures and then tape 'em up and make a story. What do you want to do, My Little Pony?"

Grateful for Emma's bossiness, which resulted in all three children settling happily at the dining-room table, Marian soon found herself drawn into the game, despite her ignorance. There was something compelling about the sweating, grunting, slamming bodies on the television screen. She especially liked the long, high, arcing passes that were apparently called "bombs."

At half-time she hustled the kids out for one of the fastest pony rides in history. Even Snowball looked startled when she surprised him into a fast trot with Emma flopping around on his broad back like a loosely tied bundle of sticks.

"Ride again?" Jesse asked as his mom hurried them back into the house.

"I want to see the rest of the game," Marian said. "Later we can ride again."

"I thought you didn't like football," Emma protested.

"I guess I'd never watched it before. It's interesting."

It didn't hurt, of course, that the camera flashed from time to time into the broadcast booth, showing John with headphones on, watching the game with an intensity that shouldn't have surprised Marian, considering his success at the sport. There was no question who was the authority, as he made crisp, unexpected analyses, spiced with an occasional dash of humor. Marian had to ask herself whether it was the game itself that interested her, or the man commenting on it. But how could she separate the two?

In the final seconds L.A. had a chance to kick a field goal for the victory. Marian found herself on her feet, breathless as she watched the ball spiral toward the uprights, at the end barely clearing the bar.

"How come you're screaming?" Emma asked with interest. "Did someone die or something?" She stared avidly at the TV, while Jesse and Anna stared at Marian.

Feeling foolish, Marian shut her mouth. "No, uh, I just got excited. Your dad's team won."

"But Daddy doesn't play anymore."

Thank God, Marian thought, picturing the way the behemoths on the other team had swarmed over the young quarterback, who had looked frail in comparison. Although the quarterback hadn't been hurt today, Marian couldn't help but remember the scars that symbolized the end of John's career.

"There's Daddy now!"

Headphones off, John proceeded to sum up the game with a few perceptive comments. At the end he looked directly into the camera with a distinctly wicked smile.

"If I may be allowed to indulge myself for a moment, I'd like to say hi to Marian and Emma and the kids."

Struck dumb, Marian stared at the television. As the other commentator tossed a joking remark back at John, who looked unperturbed, Marian's cheeks blossomed with heat. He'd actually done it!

Emma got her voice back first. "Hey, that was cool!"

Marian started to laugh. She couldn't help it. "Your dad is crazy.

"I know." His daughter looked smug. "But he's neat, isn't he?"

Still laughing, Marian gave Emma a hug. "Yeah, he's okay."

*****

On Monday morning, the first thing she said to him was, "You actually did it!"

Hands in his pockets, he stood on the front porch, his grin disarmingly mischievous. "I couldn't resist. You sounded so horrified."

Marian just shook her head and stepped aside to let him in. "I think Emma's all ready to go. The kids are watching 'Sesame Street' while I clean up the kitchen."

"You want some help?"

"I only require that if you don't pay your bill."

There it was again, that slow, warm smile that crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes and turned Marian's insides to jelly. "In that case," he said provocatively, "maybe I'll pretend that I forgot my checkbook."

Marian decided not to react to that. How could she? What would he think if he knew how bittersweet his presence in her kitchen had been?

Edging away, she called, "Emma! Your father's here!"

"Coward," he said softly, but a whirlwind erupted out of the living room, distracting him.

"Daddy!"

"Hey, pumpkin!" He swung his small daughter high into the air before enveloping her in a hug. "I missed you."

Marian knew she'd been forgotten, and a lump formed in her throat. Was she jealous? Had her feelings grown so out of control? No, it was more complicated than that. She was seeing what she'd once imagined Mark would be like with his children. She was seeing a love that excluded her, because she wasn't a part of it. She was only a caretaker for Emma. For John, she was a reasonably attractive woman he enjoyed bantering with. Neither John nor Emma could guess how the tenderness they felt for each other increased the deep ache of loneliness in Marian's heart. Why it did, she didn't totally understand herself.

When father and daughter turned toward her, she smiled casually. "I'll see you next Friday, Emma?"

John's eyes narrowed, but he didn't comment directly. "Get your stuff, hon."

As Emma danced away, John crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the wall. "Have you thought any more about Snowball and the goat?"

Marian shook her head. "I'm worrying more about myself and the kids right now. I have to find a rental for us first."

"If you need any help..."

"Thank you," she said, not letting him finish. "But I'll find something."

His gray eyes searched hers. "I mean it, you know."

"And I'm grateful," Marian said formally.

"Don't be stubborn."

"My husband used to say that stubborn was my middle name." She smiled at the little girl, who had reappeared clutching her possessions. "Did you get your Barbie stuff?"

"Yes, except I couldn't find my Jewel Secrets necklace. But I'll find it next weekend."

John handed Marian a check. "See you Friday?"

"Friday," she confirmed.

He paused on the doorstep. "By the way, what'd you think of the game?"

Taken by surprise, she said, "It was exciting. Lots more exciting than baseball."

Laughter glinted in his eyes. "Trying to overwhelm me with faint praise?"

Nothing she felt for him was faint, except perhaps her pulse. "No," she said. "Really, I enjoyed it."

"Marian screamed at the TV set," Emma said from just behind him.

He raised one eybrow and grinned, clearly enjoying Marian's blush. "Did she really?" he murmured. "Good. That brings me to something I wanted to ask you."

Emma tugged on his arm. "What's that, Daddy?"

"You go get in the car, hon. I'll be there in a second."

Marian felt as though she were teetering on the edge of a cliff, and he was going to ask her to jump. With him. No, worse yet, he had something utterly mundane to ask her. He'd want her to take Emma shopping for school clothes. Do her laundry over the weekend. Lower her rates.

She had never been so grateful to hear the telephone ring. "Excuse me, I'd better go answer that."

He only smiled. "I'll wait."

Marian fled in total disarray. Inside, she mumbled, "Get a grip on yourself," then reached for the telephone.

By the end of the brief conversation, she had forgotten that John wanted to ask her something, forgotten her confusion and apprehension and anticipation.

When she appeared on the front porch, he frowned and stepped quickly forward, reaching for her elbow.

"What's wrong?"

Marian swallowed hard. "That was my landlord," she said starkly. "He says I have to be out of here by the end of the month. That's less than..." Her voice quavered. "Less than three weeks away."

CHAPTER 4

John swore. "That's crazy. There must be some legal recourse. They can't possibly expect you to be out that fast."

"I can't afford legal recourse."

"My lawyer would be happy to write a letter for you. A threat might be all it would take."

"No." She shook her head hard when he started to speak again. "Please. I can't accept financial help."

"Stubborn."

"I told you it's my middle name." Despite her attempt at humor, he saw how pale she was and how her mouth trembled until she compressed her lips.

With his hand on her elbow, John turned her toward the ramshackle porch swing that hung by rusting chains. "Sit. Let's think about this."

"I'm sorry. It's not your problem. I..."

"Sure it is. What'll I do with Emma if you go out of business?"

"I'll find something," Marian said. "I'm sure I can. You don't need to worry."

"Damn it!" Her dark eyes widened and John realized that he had raised his voice. He let out an impatient breath and moderated his tone. "I'm worried about you. Is that okay?"

When he pushed, she sank onto the swing, although she said automatically, "I'll manage. I've always..."

"I'm sure you have." The porch swing creaked under his weight when he joined her. He laid an arm across her stiff shoulders, ignoring the jolt of attraction he felt. This wasn't the time for it. "That doesn't mean friends can't help you out," he said.

With wide, vulnerable eyes she searched his face, then abruptly turned her head away. She said in a muffled voice, "That's...that's very kind of you."

He wanted to swear again. If only they'd had dinner together a couple of times, if only he had felt her mouth soften for his... If only she had talked to him. Maybe then she would have given him some rights. As it was, she was probably wondering who he thought he was. They'd met three, maybe four, times. He was nothing to her. She might be wishing he'd leave her alone.

He remembered that odd conversation in her kitchen. Tell me, do all men imagine themselves as a prince in disguise, sweeping a woman away? But she was no sleeping beauty, waiting to be saved. She wanted to save herself. Who was he to deny her?

The screen door squeaked and a small voice intruded. "Mommy? Lizzie's mean. She made a mean face."

Marian leaned forward and held out her arms. "Come here, Jesse Bear."

John left his arm across the swing. When Marian leaned back again, her son on her lap, he felt the warmth of contact. He didn't think she even noticed. She had closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against Jesse's head.

"Daddy!" His turn. Emma had rolled down the car window and hung inquisitively out. "Daddy, what are you doing?"

Marian lifted her head and forced a smile. "Emma's going to be late for school. I'll be fine. Really."

He wanted to sweep her into his arms and cuddle her like she was cuddling Jesse. Instead, he didn't move. "Marian, listen to me for a minute. There's one thing I can do for you. Let me take Snowball and the goat. If you find a solution later that'll make you happier, fine. But for now, you can get one load off your mind and make Emma happy at the same time."

"I..." Her teeth closed on her lower lip, and he saw her chest rise and fall on a long breath. "Okay. At least for now. Thank you, John. It will simplify my life."

He made himself stand. "I'll pick 'em up when the time gets closer. If there's anything else I can do..."

This time her mouth curved into a genuine smile, so gentle he felt as if she'd kicked him. The humor in her voice was real, too. "You know, I may not be the only one who's a little stubborn."

"Most people would tell you that what I am is competitive. Jocks don't like to lose, you know."

"No." Her smile became shaky. "But this isn't a game."

John couldn't help himself. He reached out and touched her, just the brush of fingertips against her cheek. "I never thought it was," he said softly. Back at his side, his fingers curled into a fist. He had to clear his throat. "See ya," he said, and headed off the porch.

He glanced back once, as he opened his car door. Framed between the posts that supported the porch, she still sat there, head bowed over her young son. She looked...virginal. Pure. No, beautiful. Madonna and child. Dark hair slipping out of its knot, the curve of her slender neck, her pale skin... Something in the sight of her tightened his heart, until he had to clench his teeth against the pain. For once, he let Emma's high voice wash over him unheard as he drove away.

*****

Nothing. It was getting dark and she'd looked at eight places. Jesse and Anna in the backseat were whiny and hungry. Marian wanted to lean her head against the steering wheel and cry. Instead, she smiled over her shoulder, hoping her children were too young to see the tears she had blinked back, and said, "You know what? I think maybe tonight we'll go to MacDonald's. How's that grab you?"

The effect was magical, worth the twelve dollars she couldn't afford. "Can I have nug-nuggles?" Anna asked.

"Me, too!" Jesse said.

"Chicken Nuggets, coming right up," Marian promised.

The MacDonald's where they stopped had children's movies playing on a big screen, which mesmerized Jesse and Anna. Marian didn't have to do any more than squeeze catsup out for the fries and supply napkins and straws. She ate slowly, not even tasting her hamburger. Despair made it hard to swallow, clutching at her throat and stomach.

What if she couldn't find a decent house? What if she had to rent one of the tiny dumps they'd looked at, just to have someplace to go? She would lose her day-care business, and then what? She couldn't afford to work any more than she could afford an adequate house! The cost of putting two young children in daycare would eat up too much of the measly amount she could earn with the few skills she had.

She had only finished two years of college, as an English major, of all useless things. She had always intended to go back to school, but it was a dream that kept getting pushed aside. First she had worked while Mark finished his degree; then his job had brought them too far from Seattle to reasonably commute. Then pregnancy, of course, and the shock of finding that she was to have twins. And finally Mark's abrupt departure…

Suddenly, it was more than she could deal with. There she sat on the smooth plastic seat, surrounded by normal families on a normal outing. The movie voices were squeaky and meaningless. Her hamburger might as well have been Styrofoam. A wave of fear and loneliness hit Marian, so powerful she felt bruised. Most of the time she blocked thoughts of the future from her mind, lived like an alcoholic must, one day at a time. What hope did she have? How could she go to school and work and be a parent all at the same time? It was impossible. Her dreams were impossible.

And now she didn't even have a place to live.

Marian put down the last quarter of her hamburger. What little appetite she'd had was gone.

"You guys done?" she asked. "It's time to go."

"Can we have ice cream?" Jesse pleaded.

"Please," Anna said disarmingly.

Marian wanted to cry. Instead, she smiled. "Okay. On the way home."

Home. The small, ramshackle cottage with its worn wood floors and sagging front porch, the bright wallpapers and old paned windows. All to go under the blade of a bulldozer. In three more weeks it would be gone forever.

She didn't have a home anymore.

*****

John was running late when he dropped Emma off that Friday. He handed her bag to Marian and kissed his daughter, who bounced happily off to play with Crystal, a four-year-old who was one of Marian's regulars. Her mother wouldn't be picking her up for another hour.

"See you Monday," Marian said.

He held out a hand to block the door, though she hadn't started to close it. "Any luck?"

His gray eyes were too perceptive. "Not yet," she admitted. "There are always some new rentals listed in the Sunday paper, though. If you don't mind my dragging Emma along again, I'll probably check a few out."

"Of course I don't mind," he said tersely. "I want you to know that if you get desperate, I'd lend a hand."

"Please!" Marian rolled her eyes in a display of humor she didn't feel. "I don't even want to think about getting desperate! Give me a couple of weeks, okay?" More softly she added, "But...thank you."

Marian had no doubt that he could see how thin was her veneer of self-confidence, though he said only, "All right. I'll call sometime this weekend," flipped his hand in a casual wave, and strode to his car. For just a second, she let herself luxuriate in watching him, those long, lean legs and broad shoulders, the effortless, powerful grace of his every move. Before he reached the car and might turn back for one last glance, she quietly closed the door and leaned her forehead against it.

Damn. Why did John McRae make her feel so...so hungry? So safe?

Those feelings were deceptive. They had to be. He hadn't offered her anything but casual sympathy and camaraderie. He was an easy man to know and like, that was all. He had revealed nothing of what lay beneath the surface. He'd never said any more about his wife or her death, nor asked about the twin's father. John might look at her sometimes with terrifying intimacy, but whatever attraction he felt was strictly physical. She still scarcely knew him.

They talked briefly when he called on Sunday night, but with none of the closeness she had sometimes felt. He sounded preoccupied and tired, and Marian could hear her own wariness in her voice.

The most personal the conversation got was when he asked, "Find anything?"

"I'm afraid not," she said ruefully, hiding her own, bone-deep weariness.

"Marian..." Then he stopped. In the pause that followed she could hear his breathing and knew he was still there. "I've got to go," he said then, almost abruptly. "See you in the morning."

But he said little when he collected Emma after breakfast. He was friendly but distant. He didn't once look at Marian with that glint in his eyes or lower his voice to that husky, intimate level. He didn't once mention running away for the weekend. He didn't even linger to chat.

Marian tried very hard to convince herself that what she felt was relief. She had never been very good at self-deception, however. Impatient with herself, she managed a smile for the kids.

"Okay, story time!" She collected a couple of her favorite picture books and plopped down on the living-room floor, her back against the couch. Children clambered on her lap while others leaned trustingly against her. The group included most of her regulars. It was strange how conscious she was of Emma's absence. "Which book first?" she asked.

"Fritz and the Beautiful Horses," Lizzie said promptly.

"Fritz," Jesse agreed.

"Okay, Fritz it is."

As Marian opened the book, Lizzie wriggled in place and confided, "I like Fritz, 'cuz he kinda looks like Snowball. And Snowball is gentle and kind, too."

Marian ruffled the little girl's blond bangs. "Yes, he is. But I'm not sure he's always willing to work, like Fritz."

They all giggled. "Snowball doesn't have to work!" one of the little boys said. "Giving us rides isn't workl"

"No?" Marian teased. "Then what is it?"

"It's fun!" they all said in chorus.

"Oh, I see. Has anybody told Snowball that?"

Lizzie looked at her as if she were stupid. "Snowball can't understand human talk. You know that!"

"I'd forgotten for a minute," Marian said with a straight face. Then she laughed and hugged as many kids as she could get her arms around. Tired as she sometimes got, what she did wasn't really work, either. The children were too much fun. The thought of losing the joy as well as the money scared her. "Okay, here we go,' she said. " 'Once there was a walled city known for its beautiful horses...' "

*****

When the doorbell rang Wednesday evening, Marian glanced automatically at the clock. Seven-thirty. Who on earth could it be? She dried her hands on the dish towel and raised her voice.

"For heaven's sake, Rhodo! Aja! Shush!" Hopeless, of course. The hysterical yaps continued above the big shepherd's deeper, booming bark.

Ever shy, Jesse and Anna peered around the corner from the living room when their mother went to answer the front door.

At the unexpected sight of John McRae standing on her doorstep, his big hand cradling the back of his daughter's head, Marian's heart took an uncomfortable lurch. Tonight he had on jeans and a worn leather jacket that made his shoulders look even broader. His expression was imperturbable, while beside him Emma was dancing on her toes like a child who could hardly wait to open presents at her birthday party.

"Well, hi," Marian said, trying to speak above the barking. "Aja, Rhodo...!" She gestured helplessly. "Come on in. Then they'll shut up."

Emma stooped to hug Rhoda's big black head and let herself be kissed on the nose by the smaller dog. Marian closed the door behind father and daughter and followed them into the living room. When John glanced around, Marian immediately felt self- conscious again, even though by this time she was pretty sure he wouldn't care if there were Cheerios under the couch or fun fruits squished between the cushions. She still felt exposed, as though on some deep level the house was her.

She had been stuck at home so much these last three years, her life so circumscribed, that she had begun to think of her house like a turtle does its shell, needing its protection from more than the wind and rain. Was that why losing the house was hitting her so hard?

John made no move to sit down, just met her eyes. "Emma and I have a proposition for you."

Jesse was saying something to one of the dogs and Anna clung to Marian's leg. Emma's brown eyes were fixed eagerly on Marian's face. Marian was aware of all three children, and yet not. Somehow the world had narrowed. All she really saw was John's face with the shadow of a beard on his jaw, the hollows beneath his cheekbones, his mouth controlled and his eyes watchful. She felt something similar to what she had felt the other week, standing on her front porch, when she had known he was going to ask her a question that might change her life. Until now, she had forgotten that moment, the sensation of being on the brink of something earth-shattering. She couldn't seem to think now, or anticipate. She only waited.

"We would like you to become our housekeeper. We want you and Jesse and Anna to come live with us."

Marian felt a rushing in her ears, and realized that she was dizzy. "Your housekeeper?" she echoed, then sank onto the couch.

"I didn't expect you to be surprised," he said.

On one level the offer was a complete surprise; but in her heart she had known what he would suggest. It was almost too perfect to be true.

She and the children would be secure, with a comfortable roof over their heads and food on the table. She would have time for Jesse and Anna, time to remember who she really was. She could mean something to Emma, too, who needed to feel secure as badly as Marian did. And John would be there, perhaps gradually letting her know him beneath that self-possessed, humorous facade. Did he ever lose his temper? Laugh until he cried? Mourn? Ache with loneliness?

Marian sat there staring stupidly up at father and daughter, seeing a vision. The five of them together, a man, a woman, and their children. Dinner-table conversations, silly, serious, in between. Good-byes and good mornings. Making his bed, folding his laundry. School open houses, horseback rides.

A family. Dear God, that was what she wanted so badly that she ached. So badly that there was no way on earth she could accept what he had offered, because it would never be enough. She didn't want to work for him, relegated to belowstairs. She didn't want to accept a paycheck once a week, smile pleasantly when he took another woman out to dinner, discreetly absent herself when required. She wanted everything, his passion and his anger, the prosaic with the tempestuous.

What he had offered instead would hurt too badly. If Crystal's parents or Lizzie's parents had offered the same deal, she would have accepted. Would have had to accept, for Jesse and Anna's sake. From John McRae, she couldn't.

But forcing the words out was bitterly hard. Her voice was husky from the effort, and her fingernails bit into her palms. "I ... I appreciate your asking. It's very kind of you. But I'm afraid I...I have to say no."

Emma's face fell so ludicrously it might have been funny in other circumstances. A frown gathered between John's dark brows, though Marian couldn't tell whether he was annoyed or dismayed.

"Will you think about it?" he asked. "I can promise you I'd be a considerate employer. It's a practical solution for both of us."

Marian stood. "I know you'd be kind to Jesse and Anna and me. Of course you would be. It's..." she swallowed and clasped her hands in front of her. "I just don't think it's right for me. I've fought so hard to be on my own. Working for you and living with you, too, would make me feel dependent. As though I had given up. Do you understand?"

He didn't answer right away, but studied her with a frowning gaze. At last his mouth twitched ruefully. "I understand. That doesn't mean I like your answer. And I won't promise to accept it."

Marian felt a tiny spark of leavening humor. "Please don't make me feel like a football."

"Something I don't like fumbling?" His smile was as wry as hers. "It's...a little more complicated than that."

What did he mean? Marian wished she knew exactly what he had been offering in the first place. She couldn't have misread the desire she'd seen in his eyes. Had he imagined that sharing his bed would be part of the deal? Or did he simply feel sorry for her? Marian told herself that it didn't matter. Either way, his offer wasn't for her. Her pride wouldn't let her accept his charity, and she was afraid to accept his desire. She would only want more.

And if he offered more... She was afraid of that, too. How could she trust him? He was a man, just like Mark. A man, she had to remind herself, who was offering her a job so that he could more conveniently abandon his daughter half of every week.

"I'm sorry," she said to Emma. She put her hands on each side of the girl's face and tilted her chin up so that her brown eyes, swimming with tears, met Marian's. "You know what?" she said softly. "I'd love to go home with you. But you wouldn't need me for very long. And then we'd have to say goodbye, and that would be hard. We can be better friends this way."

Emma gave a small, jerky nod and stepped back. Her hand clung tightly to her father's. Marian looked up from Emma's averted face to John's. Their eyes met, and she saw something disconcerting there before he wiped it away. But what? Physical desire again? Anger? Hurt?

Whatever he had been feeling was securely tucked away, because he smiled again, still ruefully, and said, "I won't argue anymore. Will you at least let us help you move when the time comes? I can bring the truck and a horse trailer. I don't think you have anything we couldn't get in it. That'd save you some money and me some pride."

She had to laugh, just a little. "Okay," she said. "I won't argue anymore, either."

"Then we'll say good night and give you some peace," John said. "By the time I pack Emma's lunch, it'll be bedtime for me, anyway. I have to roll out of bed tomorrow at the crack of dawn. Not my best time of day, but my partner's taking a couple of horses down to a show in Portland."

Marian scooped Anna up on one hip and followed John and Emma to the front door. "When you were a football player, didn't you have morning practices?"

"God, I hated 'em." He grinned at his own fervency.

"Emma tells me you were All-Pro, whatever that means. You couldn't have played too badly, even if you were still dying for another cup of coffee."

"I faked it." He smiled again. " 'Bye, Jesse, Anna. Good-bye, Marian."

"Emma, I'll see you Friday," Marian called to their retreating backs.

Emma didn't answer and John just waved.

Marian went back inside the house and closed the door, feeling absurdly lost and let down. Their departure had come so quickly, it seemed like an anticlimax. As she steered Jesse and Anna into the bathroom to brush teeth, she made herself analyze why.

Had she wanted John to argue? To overwhelm her with logic until she agreed despite herself? She was terribly afraid that she had. He had accepted her answer so easily, even if he had made protesting noises. Well, why should that surprise her? He could hardly have wanted a housekeeper encumbered by twins in the midst of the Terrible Two's! No, she had to face it. John McRae was a nice man who had felt sorry for her. No more and no less.

*****

John tried hard to keep his distance over the next couple of weeks. The only alternative was begging her to have dinner with him, and he was pretty sure that was the last thing she wanted or needed right now.

Every time he saw her, she looked more tired. With that translucent skin, lack of sleep left purple bruises beneath her eyes. She made him think of a fine porcelain doll, not just because she was beautiful, but because he was increasingly aware of how fragile she was.

The next two weekends he didn't even have to ask whether she had found a new rental. When she saw him on the doorstep, she gave a tremulous smile that was meant to be insouciant and shook her head. But the mountain of boxes in one corner of her living room grew, and the small, shabby house began to feel chilly and bare.

He wanted to help her so badly it tore at him, but he couldn't make her accept anything from him. The night when Marian had refused his offer of a job, John drove home, gently explaining her reasoning to Emma. He tucked his daughter into bed and wandered down to the living room, where he picked up the new Sports Illustrated with every intention of reading it. Abruptly he felt a wave of anger, frustration, fear for this woman he hardly knew—a muddle of emotions so strong he suddenly slammed the magazine against the wall. He was shocked to realize his hands were shaking.

Football players were known for throwing temper tantrums on the field. As a senior in high school John had earned his team a penalty that lost them the game. He had kept a relentless grip on himself ever since.

With one exception. The night Susan died, he had taken every book from a bookcase, one by one, and flung them across the room with the arm that had made him All-Pro. They had slid down the wall and landed in a heap with broken spines and creased pages. One by one. Mindless. Like a quarterback warming up, he'd thrown those damn books. He hadn't even realized until later that they were Susan's. He hadn't realized how angry he was at her. At fate.

What the hell was it about Marian Wells that called up similar feelings of choking frustration? Was he most angry because she had hurt Emma? His daughter, who had needed a woman to want her and love her?

Or was it Marian's stubbornness that infuriated him? He found a certain ironic amusement in the idea. Because if so, it was a case of like calling to like. Or maybe he'd told more of the truth than he had realized, when he'd reminded Marian of how competitive he was. Maybe he just didn't like losing.

At least he had sense enough to know this wasn't the time to suggest a romantic evening out. For one thing, Marian would have had every reason to feel pressured, in more ways than one. For another thing...all he had to do was look at her. What she needed was a good night's sleep, an unexpected windfall, a house she could afford. Not another demand.

He had asked if she needed her weekends free, if while she packed and moved he should try to find someplace else for Emma. She had looked at him with alarm she tried to hide.

"Heavens, no! Emma's no trouble. If anything, she's a help keeping the twins out of my hair! Really. I'm delighted to have her."

And she needed what he paid her each Monday. But when he added ten dollars to the amount, Marian handed the check back to him.

"You've been paying me more than generously. I can't accept this."

"Stubborn," he muttered, reaching into his back pocket for his checkbook.

She just smiled. "That's like the pot calling the kettle black."

"One of my mother's favorite sayings." He tore off a new check. "Wednesday night okay to come and get the animals?"

"Yes, of course." This time her smile wasn't as convincing. "Emma told me that's what you had in mind."

"We figured that would give her a day to help them settle in before she's back here for the weekend."

"Yes." Marian looked down at her hands, which were tightly clasped together. "John, I know I've said this before, but...thank you."

"The clock's ticking," he said roughly. "You're down to eight days. What are you going to do, Marian?"

She lifted her chin in unconscious pride. "Rent something temporary, if I have to."

"What about the dogs and cats?"

"One of my other parents offered to take them for a few weeks, if it came down to that."

He was dumbfounded, speechless. Later he realized how he'd felt. Astonished. Hurt. Like a kid who had been told he wasn't big enough to help. Why had he convinced himself that she had no one to turn to? Of course she had friends and family! The trouble was, he wanted her to need him. It was a humiliating admission to make.

Do all men imagine themselves as a prince in disguise, sweeping a woman away ?

He had to laugh at the irony. So far, he was one of the contenders who had ended up as a skeleton in the middle of the thicket.

CHAPTER 5

Marian drew a deep breath and steeled herself. "I'll take it," she said, without allowing herself to look over her shoulder at the plain, boxlike house, painted pale green and set behind a tiny, yellowing lawn.

"Wonderful!" the owner said. "Well, then, let's see... As I mentioned, I'll require first and last month's rent as well as a damage deposit. Especially since I've agreed to permit both cats and children."

"I supervise the children very carefully," Marian said from between gritted teeth. The woman, plump and well-dressed, had introduced herself as a realtor who owned several "investment" properties. The rent was unreasonable for a house this size, but Marian was the beggar who couldn't be choosy. It was a twenty-year-old rambler with three small bedrooms, one bath, and a kitchen that would have fit in the cabin on a weekend boat. A "galley" kitchen, the owner had euphemistically called it. Marian called it cramped.

But the house would do. The backyard was fenced, and the owner had agreed to let her run her day-care business—with a substantial deposit—and Marian had to move quickly.

So she wrote out a check for an amount that decimated her already inadequate reserves, and handed it over.

"I'm afraid I can't give you the key until the current tenants move out," the realtor said briskly. "I'm sure you understand. Now, I expect to be paid by the fifth of each month. If you want to paint or wallpaper or anything like that, it will be at your own expense and I'll need to approve the colors or paper before you start."

"I understand."

"You will keep the dogs outside?"

"Yes, of course."

The woman's smile became steely. "I do drop by regularly, just to see how things are going. If you have a problem, leave a message any time on my answering machine."

Marian managed—barely—to smile and thank her new landlady. She stood on the cracked front walk, Anna and Jesse and Emma beside her, and watched the woman drive away. The silence was eloquent.

"Well," Marian said, forcing yet another smile, "this is our new home. We can move in next week."

"I liked your other house better," Emma said, wrinkling her nose. "This one's ugly."

"It's not that bad," Marian said, less than wholeheartedly. "We can fix it up. You'll see."

"It's kind of dirty, too."

"I'll bet the people who are moving out will give it a good scrubbing," Marian said brightly. "If they don't, I will."

Three children stared at her with identical expressions of doubt. To escape, Marian turned to look at the house again. After a moment she sighed. "Let's go.”

In the car, Emma fastened her own seat belt, then waited until Marian had buckled the younger children in the backseat and settled herself behind the wheel.

"You know," Emma announced, "Daddy isn't going to like this house."

I don't, either! Marian thought rebelliously. All she said was, "Then it's lucky he doesn't have to live here."

"Our house is lots prettier than this one. We have wood floors you can run and slide on. And three bathrooms. And I'll bet Daddy would let Rhodo and Aja in the house."

"To scratch your beautiful wood floors?" Marian stopped the car before she had backed into the street and reset the hand brake so that she could give her full attention to Emma. "Sweetie, we just can't come to live with you. I thought you understood why."

The little girl ducked her head and mumbled, "Well, I don't."

From a deep well of tenderness, Marian reached out to gently stroke the five-year-old's brown hair back from her face. "You'd like to pretend Anna and Jesse and I are your family, wouldn't you?" she said softly. "That I'm your mother?"

Emma looked up then, her huge brown eyes washed with tears. "Why can't you be? I want you to live with us."

Marian's heart twisted. "I know. I know you do, Emma. But..." How to explain to a child so young? "Have you told your dad how you feel?" she asked.

The desperate gaze clung to Marian's face. "He said you were afraid you'd love me, only I wouldn't really be yours, so someday you'd have to leave and it would hurt." She bit her lip. "I heard him say you were stubborn, too."

Annoyance warred with Marian's sense of humor. Amusement won. "Your dad's pretty stubborn, too. I think he and I have had this argument before."

"I want you to change your mind."

"I know you do," she said gently. "But I just can't. That doesn't mean I won't be happy to have you come and stay with us any time at all. And we'll come over and ride Snowball sometimes. Won't that do?"

Emma pulled away from Marian's hand and turned her head to stare out the window. Her voice was muffled. "I never get what I wish for."

Marian looked sadly at the back of her head. "You know, sometimes wishes don't come true right away. And sometimes when one does, it's not in quite the way you expected. What you really want is a new mother. Maybe one of these days you'll get one."

Emma was silent so long, Marian finally released the emergency brake and had begun to back the car out of the driveway when Emma said, very quietly, "I don't want any mother. I want you."

"Oh, sweetie," Marian said helplessly. "I'm sorry."

*****

Snowball was docile enough to willingly follow Emma into the horse trailer, even though he hadn't seen one in five years. Esmerelda was made of entirely different stuff, however. She wanted nothing to do with a box on wheels. John pushed while Marian pulled, but the goat managed to twist at the last second and break free, leaping off the ramp and throwing John to his knees.

The rope whipped through Marian's hands, burning her palms until she tightened her grip. When Esmerelda hit the end of the rope, she almost ripped Marian's arms from their sockets.

"Damn," she said explosively.

"Tut tut," John reproved, picking himself up. "We wouldn't want to soil the ears of innocent children."

"They're laughing too hard to hear me," Marian said. She stuck out her tongue at Emma and the giggling twins, which set them off again. Then she turned to glower at the goat, who stood stiff-legged and wary at the end of the rope. "Do you suppose we could pick her up?"

John took off his Stetson and used it to slap at the dust on his jeans. "Have you put her on a scale lately?"

"She's supposed to be fat," Marian said defensively.

"Yeah?" He put the cowboy hat back on. "Maybe so, but we'd still have to get our arms around that belly."

"I'll take the back and you take the front."

John eyed Esmerelda's expression. "Why don't you take the front, and I'll take the back?"

"She kicks."

"Oh, hell."

"Please," Marian said loftily. "We don't want to soil the ears of..."

The three children sat in a row on the bottom rail of the fence, waiting expectantly for the next act. John looked at Marian, and suddenly they were both laughing.

"I'll take the front," he said ruefully.

A minute later, John slammed the door of the horse trailer, dropping the bolt just in time. The whole trailer shook when Esmerelda rammed her head against the door.

"Are you sure you want her?" Marian asked doubtfully. "Now that you know what you're getting into?"

"If I can't handle one little goat..."

"You mean, one overweight, bad-tempered, useless goat?"

"Remember those blackberries."

Marian smiled at him. "I'll believe in those when I see 'em."

At her smile, something changed on John's face, and his arrested gaze locked with hers. "Doubting me?" he asked roughly.

She couldn't look away from the disturbing expression in his gray eyes. "I think you're nice enough to lie," she retorted, not quite as calmly as she would have liked.

He shoved the Stetson back on his head, his grin an unmistakable challenge. "One hedge of blackberries coming up. I'll give you the grand tour right now. Why don't you follow us on over?"

She began an automatic protest, "Oh, I don't think..."

"Come on," John coaxed. "I want you to feel comfortable visiting your animals. You have to see where we live sometime. Why not tonight?"

"I really should pack and..."

He didn't let her finish. "Emma made dessert, just for you. She was hoping you'd come. She's pretty excited."

"Dessert?" Marian said weakly.

"Lemon meringue pie." This time his grin was self-mocking. "We did our best. Store-bought crust, Jell-O mix, and the meringue...well, it's a little on the flat side, but..."

Marian held up one hand. "I surrender. I couldn't possibly hurt Emma's feelings. As you know darn well." She heard his soft chuckle when she raised her voice for the benefit of their audience. "Let's get our coats, guys. We'll go see Snowball and Esmerelda's new home."

"Hey, cool!" Emma jumped up. "Come on, hurry up. I'll show you my bedroom and everything!"

Unfortunately, everything included her dad's bedroom. Half an hour later, Marian and the twins had already dutifully inspected a living room bigger than their entire house, complete with gleaming maple floor, river rock fireplace, vaulted ceiling, and a wall of windows that looked out toward the Cascade Mountains. Marian stood for a long moment in front of the windows, gazing past the red barns and crisp white fences toward the jagged mountain range, shadowed by dusk. The scene was heartbreakingly beautiful. She had to wrench herself away to continue the tour.

There was a large office as well, and a small room set up with a projector and screen that covered one wall.

"Game films," John said.

The kitchen gave Marian a spasm of envy, with its counters tiled in bright blue, glass-fronted maple cabinets, and dishwasher, microwave, and double ovens. Emma's pride in her bedroom upstairs was poignant. It was so perfect for a little girl. Marian knew each toy and piece of white-painted furniture had been anxiously chosen by John, trying to make up for all that Emma had lost.

She was reassured by the normality of their small family when he stuck his head around the door and raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's the first time in days I've seen the floor in here. I have a cleaning agency coming twice a week," he added as an aside. "I guess they must have bulldozed their way through here today."

Anna stared big-eyed at the two-story pink Barbie house and the Barbie Ferrari. Jesse's eyes were just as wide as he peeked around Marian's leg at a four-foot-tall teddy bear. Emma bounced on her bed, then whirled past John and Marian to fling open the door across the hall. Marian followed without thinking.

John's bedroom. She didn't want to see it, but she was trapped in the doorway, her gaze riveted to the king-size bed. From her peripheral vision she knew that the floor in here was carpeted in a rich shade of rust, the pile deep and lush, that the walls were oyster white, dominated by a huge wallhanging, stylized and primitive, that some distant part of her recognized as South American. Below it was the bed. Marian couldn't look away from the expanse of black coverlet, the simple table beside it with a clock and a lamp and a pair of glasses.

Dear Lord. Why was the sight of his bed so intimate, so unnerving? Of course he slept in a bed! What had she expected? Why was panic stealing her breath and heat coiling in her belly? Why was she painfully conscious of John standing just behind her? Why was she so sure he knew what she was feeling?

Her voice defied her best attempt to control it. Huskily she said, "You wear glasses?"

When he didn't answer, she turned her head to look at him. Their eyes met and Marian quit breathing altogether. John was watching her with blatant desire, the curve of his mouth unbearably sensual. The children no longer existed. She was frozen in the doorway, achingly conscious of the big hand braced on the doorframe only inches from her shoulder, of his wide shoulders in a worn denim shirt, and the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. They stared at each other, neither moving.

The shocking spell was broken when Emma snatched Marian's hand and said eagerly, "Let's have pie now. I made it myself. Except Daddy helped some."

When John smiled crookedly at his daughter, Marian's stolen breath was restored. Shaken, she wondered if she had imagined the expression of naked desire on his face.

"I... Thank you, Emma. I'd like some. Jesse...Anna? Would you like pie?"

"What kind?" Jessie asked with deep suspicion.

Emma dropped Marian's hand and grabbed his. "Oh, come on. It's good. Really. I think it's good. Daddy and I've never made it before, but when I licked the bowl I liked it."

Somehow they were retracing their steps, first through the hall and then down the carpeted steps, the children bumping on their bottoms and giggling.

Marian was about halfway down in their wake when she heard John's voice behind her, more rough-edged than usual. "I wear glasses to read. It's a sign of impending middle age."

She seriously doubted that he would look any more middle-aged in glasses than he did without. She could picture him tipping them down, smiling lazily at her over the top of the frames. Leaning against a pillow, long legs stretched out. On a bed.

She couldn't think of a thing to say. What in God's name was wrong with her? She didn't want a man in her life. Any man!

In the kitchen Emma laid out quilted placemats on the antique oak table, then solemnly served Marian, Anna, and Jesse before carrying her own plate to the table. Marian felt...odd. Going through the motions. Smiling at Emma, lightly thanking her, answering Anna's questions—"Mama, why do they have two tables to eat at?"—sliding the tines of her fork into the weepy meringue and tough crust.

But on another level she remained acutely conscious of Emma's father. In faded jeans and scuffed leather cowboy boots he looked nothing like a television personality. His straight brown hair showed the marks of the Stetson and he smelled faintly of horse and hay. And goat, she thought, with the first stirring of humor she'd felt since she walked in his front door. But even that faded when he drew up the pressed-back oak chair next to her and dubiously eyed his pie. His knee touched hers under the table. He glanced up to smile ruefully at Marian, though the look in his eyes somehow didn't match the smile.

"I can make a damned good dinner," he said. "But I have to admit, my baking still leaves a little bit to be desired."

"This is fine," Marian said. "Really." It wasn't a lie. She couldn't taste the pie. She was too miserable. There she sat in John McRae's kitchen, facing the facts. She was jealous. No, worse than that. She was swamped by longing for this kitchen, this house, for the acres of rolling green pasture and the horses behind those freshly painted fences. For Emma with her anxious brown eyes and for Emma's father with those intent gray ones. The hunger was a searing, wholly unexpected pain. Marian wanted to belong here. She would have given almost anything to belong here—anything but the pitiful remnants of her pride.

This house had made obvious the vast gulf between her and John. Maybe he didn't walk around with a pretty blonde on each arm. Maybe he loved his daughter and did the best he could. Maybe he even worked hard with those elegant Arabians out in the pasture. But his life was as alien from hers as that classy gray stallion out in the pasture was from dumpy, shaggy Snowflake. What were either of them doing here? She tried to picture John in her kitchen, tasting her jam, washing dishes, gently teasing, but the image wouldn't come. Why had he chosen to leave his daughter with her when this was what she was accustomed to?

For Emma's sake, Marian finished every bite on her plate. Then she said with determination, "Thank you, Emma. That was delicious. But I'm afraid we'd better be going."

"But Emma said I could play Barbie," Anna whined. "Can we?"

"I wanna play, too," Jesse said. "Not go home."

"Please?" Emma chimed in.

Defeated before she opened her mouth, still Marian tried. "We really need to..."

John laid down his fork and said casually, "Why don't you let them play while I show you the barn. You should know where the tack is. And don’t forget the blackberries."

"I..." What could she say? She was as trapped as she'd been upstairs in the door to his bedroom. "Just for a few minutes," she conceded.

The three children poured out of the room, Emma's nonstop chatter leading them. "You can play with my Western Fun Midge. She has red hair, like the Little Mermaid. Jesse can be Prince Eric. I'll be the Witch. You know how to play Little Mermaid, don't you? I can sing the songs, too..."

John shook his head. "Bossy."

"Normal for that age." Marian began carrying dirty dishes to the immaculate sink. "Anyway, Anna and Jesse are young enough to like being bossed."

"Leave the dishes," John said. "Come and meet Isaiah. I see his pickup's out there. He must be back from town."

She glanced involuntarily out the window. "Isaiah?"

"My partner. He's good with horses."

Reluctantly Marian left the pile of plates in the sink and followed him. "Does he know about Snowball and Esmerelda?"

"As long as it walks on four legs, Isaiah likes it," John said. He waited at the bottom of the front porch steps for her to catch up with him.

Evening was coming on, and outside the light was gilded by the setting sun, the shadows deep and long. All that was missing was a garden, Marian thought irrelevantly. Roses climbing the porch rails behind tall lilies and spiky blue speedwell and heavy-headed peonies.

Her effort to distance herself failed when John said bluntly, "What's wrong, Marian? Why are you so quiet?"

"Oh, I'm just tired," she said evasively. "It's been hard work getting packed and still taking care of the mob. I'll be relieved to get settled again."

He studied her in silence for an uncomfortably long moment. At last he took a different tack. "Emma doesn't like the new rental. I hope you didn't settle for something..." John hesitated.

Marian managed a chuckle. "Your daughter has no imagination! It's a perfectly adequate house, just kind of blah. Some fresh paint and wallpaper and a flowerbed in front will do wonders."

He was frowning, his searching gaze too perceptive, but Marian kept her chin up and waited him out. Finally he smiled crookedly. "You shouldn't be so polite. It's none of my business, anyway."

"But it's kind of you to be interested," she said, a little stiffly.

John nodded toward the barn. "Shall we get on with the tour?"

She murmured agreement and fell into step beside him, very aware of his size and sheer physical presence. His long strides ate up the ground and she had to hustle to keep up.

"Where does your partner live?" Marian asked.

"Right over there." John nodded past the barns to a rise, where a small white farmhouse sat. Marian had vaguely noticed it and assumed it belonged to another property. "That's the house that came with the place," John added. "Isaiah and I talked it over. He decided to keep the old house and I'd build a new one. It's worked out."

The huge doors to the barn stood open, revealing a wide, sawdust-covered aisle with stalls to each side. A soft whicker called her to the first stall, and she glanced over the half door to see a leggy bay yearling moving restlessly.

"Oh, you're beautiful," Marian murmured.

John paused beside her and propped his elbows on the Dutch door. "He's one of our first crop of foals. I like his looks."

"What a wonderful way to make a living," Marian said, then asked impulsively, "Why do you ever leave?"

"Hey, it's an expensive hobby. I have to support it somehow, don't I?"

His tone was so flippant that she discounted his answer. She read the sports page in the Seattle Times and knew darned well how much pro stars were paid. He must have had plenty of money or he couldn't have bought this spread to start with. She held one hand out for the colt to nuzzle. "You're lucky," she said, wondering why she felt a spasm of pain in her chest.

John didn't look at her, and his tone was unrevealing. "Yeah. I know I am."

The magnitude of the operation became more obvious to Marian as they continued the tour. A bisecting aisle led into a huge, covered arena, and she could see that on the other side of it was another corridor lined with stalls. John showed her the tack room and the nearby stall where he planned to put Snowball, who had been left with Esmerelda in a small paddock while the house tour was conducted.

"Shall I put the goat next door until we rig some kind of pen outside?" he asked.

"You know," Marian said thoughtfully, looking into the large, loose box with a thick bed of straw, "I'll bet Snowball and Esmerelda would happily share a stall. They're good friends."

"If you think that's best."

John's response was so terse that Marian turned her head, only to find that he was watching her again. The light was dimmer here in the barn than it had been in his bedroom, shadowing his expression, but she saw enough to make her pulse take a dizzying leap.

"John..." She stopped, licked suddenly dry lips. "You're doing it again. I wish you wouldn't look at me like that."

"Why not?" His voice had a thick, uneven timbre. "You're a very beautiful woman, Marian."

"I told you before. You...scare me."

Very slowly, as though to give her time to withdraw, he lifted one hand to her face, then laced his fingers into her hair. "You know something?" he whispered. "You scare me, too."

Marian opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she became paralyzed when his gaze dropped to her parted lips. Still slowly, he bent his head, but she couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. This was inevitable, necessary, as important as breathing. She wanted desperately to know what the touch of his mouth would feel like, what he could make her feel.

The kiss was achingly tender, his gentleness a startling counterpoint to the rasp of his shaven cheek and the tension in his hand as it tightened in her hair, tugging at the roots, tilting her face up. He smelled of hay and leather, with an elusive hint of cologne. Marian instinctively laid her palms against his chest. Through the soft fabric of his shirt she could feel his warmth and the heavy beat of his heart. Still his mouth tasted hers, never demanding, only asking, but with such sensual intent that pleasure shuddered through her. She swayed against him and began to answer the kiss with a need she had nearly forgotten she possessed.

Marian felt the vibration of his groan before she heard it, and realized he had backed her up against the stall door. She was grateful for the support when the kiss ended and he laid his cheek against the top of her head. Her legs wouldn't have held her up.

But when she heard John say, only a little huskily, "Isaiah," as though in greeting, her strength returned as if she'd been jump-started.

Marian jerked away from John and swung to face the immense black man who had approached so quietly. Well, maybe not quietly. He might have stomped down the aisle for all she would have noticed.

He was downright homely, with massive shoulders, a disproportionately thick neck, and hands that dwarfed John's. More disconcerting, however, was his totally impassive face. He didn't appear disapproving, she thought, so much as uninterested. Either that, or he was very good at hiding his emotions.

"Isaiah, I'd like you to meet Marian Wells," John said calmly. "That walking ball of fur out in the paddock is hers. Marian, this is my partner, Isaiah Jones."

The big black man inclined his head gravely. His voice was a deep rumble that somehow sounded velvety soft. "And the goat on your front porch?"

"Goat on my... What the hell?"

John beat Marian out of the barn, but only by a few yards. Sure enough, Esmerelda was on the porch, her front hooves on a windowsill so she could peer inquiringly inside the house. She took an exploratory nibble at the wood trim just as Marian arrived.

"Esmerelda!" she scolded.

The goat dropped to all fours and gently butted Marian. John stared down at her, baffled.

"How the hell?" he repeated.

"She, uh...climbs," Marian said.

"Climbs."

Marian nodded nervously.

"Over a five-foot board fence."

"I'm...afraid so. Usually she'll stay where she's supposed to, but sometimes she, well...just wants to look around."

"Really." His face was expressionless.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marian saw Isaiah stroll out of the barn and across the yard toward them.

She rushed into speech. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you, but I just didn't think. My wire pen at home has a top, so she couldn't get out, but mostly she's like a dog. I mean, she'll follow you around..." Her speech trailed off. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I can't expect you to build a special pen. I'll make some other arrangement for her."

"Don't be ridiculous," John said. "If I can't figure out how to keep one little goat..."

"You mean, one overweight, bad-tempered..."

"But not useless." John's rare grin was devastatingly wicked. "Remember those blackberries. Maybe we can keep her occupied."

Marian glanced toward Isaiah, who had stopped one step down, but towered over her anyway. She still couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he reached out an enormous hand and scratched the wiry top of Esmerelda's head.

"I don't mind goats," he said.

The traces of that grin still lingered on John's face. "I told you," he murmured. "If it has four feet…”

"Thank you," Marian said helplessly, looking from one man to the other. "Thank you both."

"No problem," John said. "Just promise you'll come and visit her often."

She knew in her heart how dangerous too many visits here would be. But what else could she do?

"I promise."

"Good," he said, very softly, for her ears alone, before adding in a normal voice, "And now, how about if you help me get this damn goat in the barn?"

CHAPTER 6

Bad news always came by a phone call. Numb, Marian slowly hung up the receiver and looked around at her living room, bare but for the furniture. Bookshelves were empty, even lamps packed carefully in boxes.

All dressed up and nowhere to go, she thought, verging on hysteria. All dressed up and she had to go.

Oh, God, what was she going to do?

From her bedroom she could hear thumps. The twins were jumping on her mattress, which lay on the floor. She didn't care. Anything to keep them content.

What could she do? Go to a motel? She'd be broke in a week. And what about her furniture, the mountains of boxes? What about the animals?

Panic rose in her throat like bile, choking her. She seemed to see through a haze, as though her body fought to distance her from unbearable reality.

She wanted to cry or scream or faint, but the sound of Anna's giggle anchored her. What was she going to do?

Dear Lord, she thought suddenly. John McRae. He was coming to help her move! She had to stop him. With astonishment she saw that her hand was shaking when she dialed the telephone. It rang, once, twice, five times. At last she hung up. She had barely done so when she heard the growl of an engine in the driveway.

The twins tore past her. "Emma's here, Emma's here!" they chanted. In front of the door they bounced like eager puppies until Marian opened it for them. Emma was already bounding up the steps, while John was just climbing out of his pickup, which pulled a big, four-horse trailer. Isaiah, Marian saw with surprise, was just slamming the passenger-side door.

"Wow, is your house all empty?" Emma demanded.

Marian didn't answer. She just stood on the porch and watched John come toward her across the grass with those long strides of his. Emma wasn't quite real, just a small face turned up to her, a voice that she couldn't quite decipher. She was frozen, that sickening terror holding her in a vise.

What was she going to do?

Since the day Mark had walked out the front door with his suitcase, she had lived on the edge, always knowing disaster was hungrily waiting in the wings. If her old car broke down, her washing machine gave up the ghost, one of the children became seriously ill... Anything. Anything at all could bring her fragile world down. She had nowhere to turn, no reserves. If only Mark had contributed something in child support!

But for three years now she had managed, and become overconfident. The worst was past, she'd told herself, the kids would be in school in only a couple of years and then she could find a job. Only at night, when the house had fallen silent, did her confidence falter. Nearly every night her last thought before sleeping was a prayer: Let me hold on until then. Please, let me hold on. This time, for whatever cruel reason, her prayer had not been granted.

"Marian?" John stood before her, his expression puzzled and anxious. She wondered if he had been talking for a long time. Had she tuned him out, too? She was distantly aware of the children who looked anxiously at her, and of huge, stolid Isaiah, who waited at the bottom of the porch steps.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice amazingly calm. "I tried to call you."

"Call me? Marian, what's wrong?"

"My new landlady phoned to tell me that the people who've been living in the house I rented haven't moved out. They're months late with their rent. She says she's going to evict them, but it will take..." With horror, Marian wasn't sure she could finish. In a rush, she did, "take weeks, or even months. I don't have anywhere to move to." With that, humiliatingly, she burst into tears.

John didn't even hesitate. His long arms wrapped around her and pulled her tightly against him. Marian laid her head on his chest and cried with great wracking sobs. She cried out of today's fear and yesterday's loneliness. She cried for all the weeks and years she hadn't let herself. She cried until John's shirt was sodden and her cheeks burned and her chest hurt. And then she tried to pull away.

He didn't let her go. Instead, he produced a tissue from heaven knows where and let her blow her nose. When she was done, he bent his head to kiss her wet cheek and then her mouth with tenderness so all-encompassing she wanted to cry again, except that she had no tears left. But this time when she stiffened, he released her.

"Did that help?" he said softly. "Are you ready to think about what we're going to do?"

We? Did he intend to repeat his offer? With a surge of renewed panic, Marian wondered what she would do if he didn't. But if he did, was her independence all she had to lose? Or was she part of the price?

Drained, she said, "I...I don't know. I'm going to wash my face."

She gave the twins a quick, reassuring hug on the way, then hurried into the house. Safely locked in the bathroom, Marian stared at herself in the small mirror over the sink. Incredibly, she wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry again.

Sexual desire had to have been the last thing on John's mind. A face to launch a thousand ships, or even a dream or two, this was not. It was splotched, puffy, wet. Her eyelashes stuck together in clumps and her eyes were red. Wisps of hair had pulled loose from her braid and clung to her forehead and cheeks.

The dreams were hers, not his. Thank God he couldn't have guessed them.

Marian slowly brushed her hair and rebraided it, then splashed cold water on her cheeks. Face buried in a towel, she wondered. Would taking what he offered be so bad?

Wasn't it logical, sensible? She would be a housekeeper and mother in return for a taste of security and comfort. A better life for her children in return for a small piece of her heart.

No promises this time. Just common sense.

Mark had made promises. He had told her he loved her, but his love had meant nothing. Love, the real thing, was what she felt for Jesse and Anna: tenderness, impatience, fierce protectiveness, laughs, kisses, grumpiness, and the secret knowledge that she would die for either of her children. That was love. What men and women promised each other had more to do with passion and loneliness than it did with forever. When the passion wore out, so did forever. An empty closet and savings account and a note on the kitchen table. No, Marian wanted nothing to do with that kind of love.

She hadn't wanted anything less, either, but was afraid that this time she had no choice. Paler, composed, she reluctantly left her sanctuary.

Isaiah was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere near as tactful, John was in the kitchen, a solid, relentless presence that humiliated her even as she was grateful for it. Emma was stuck up against him, a limpet to her father's strength. The instant Marian appeared, the twins rushed to her, returning her embrace with all the fervor of children who hadn't known their mother could cry.

Marian didn't meet John's eyes. "Emma," she said, "would you take Anna and Jesse into the bedroom to play? I need to talk to your father."

"But there's no toys."

"My mattress is on the floor. You can jump on it if you want."

"Hey, cool." Emma immediately became animated. "I take gymnastics," she announced. "I can even do a somersault. You want me to teach you?"

Jesse tried to cling, but Marian gently disengaged him and gave his small bottom a push. At last all three disappeared. When Marian made herself look at John, he smiled ruefully.

"I would have liked to make you a cup of tea, but..." His shrug was a stark reminder of the empty kitchen.

"That's okay. I'm fine. Really." She took a deep breath. "John, I'm..."

"Sorry. I know." He wasn't smiling anymore. "Damn it, Marian, if you apologize to me one more time..."

She turned her back on him, staring out the window at the old rusting swing set that would go under the bulldozer with her house. "I hate needing help," she said, almost inaudibly.

"Why?"

She hardly knew the answer. It had to do with a distant relationship with her father, with never having had anybody to lean on, except Mark. It had to do with...

Marian finished her thought aloud. "After my husband walked out, I swore I'd make it without him. I swore I'd do it myself."

"But you don't have to." John was just behind her. She could feel the force of his personality, hear the determination in his voice. "My offer is still open. You and the kids are coming home with us. If you don't want to stay, that's up to you. But today I won't take no for an answer."

She didn't turn to look at him. Instead, she continued to gaze out the window, seeing past and present together; empty swing set, laughing children, a square of sand with a ruined castle, patient Snowball gone, fat, useless Esmerelda, late-season apples she wouldn't be here to pick, even a trace of Mark's presence. They had made love once out there in the grass, smelling the lilac and the apple blossoms.

But her bitterness was locked away. She sounded only a little sad when she said, "I couldn't say no even if I wanted to, could I?"

*****

"Would you pass the jam?"

Marian passed it. Just as she had imagined he would, John tilted his glasses down and smiled at her over them. Smiled with unmistakable...satisfaction. That was it. He'd gotten his way. She was in his bailiwick, his turf, his... How did the sports page always describe it? Marian saw it like a headline. John had the home field advantage. She knew it, he knew it, and it scared her.

That was the precise moment when she was sure she couldn't stay. It might be the logical, sensible thing to do, but... She didn't feel logical and sensible. She only knew that she couldn't bear sitting here, morning after morning, passing the jam, sipping coffee with him, listening as he commented over the newspaper.

He had started breakfast more formally than that, and Marian had sat on the other side of the table feeling like the guest she was.

Most of her possessions had been unloaded in John's garage, where they sat forlornly. She and the twins were ensconced in the two side-by-side guest bedrooms, though Anna and Jesse had actually slept in the queen-size bed with Marian. Emotionally exhausted, she had gone to bed early and slept like the dead, waking to find sunlight streaming across the gleaming wood floor and the twins gone. A distant giggle reassured her and a shower resuscitated her enough to shuffle downstairs in search of her children, following the smell of bacon and eggs. When she stepped into the kitchen, her first realization was that the twins were happily playing with Emma; her next was that John, thank God, wasn't wearing a bathrobe. She didn't think she could handle that. Though she couldn't help wondering how muscular his long legs were, whether they were hairy or sleek. And then there were the scars on his knees...

But he wore jeans, a sloppy sweatshirt, and brown slippers. Her gaze shied away from the slippers. She'd only seen two men in her entire life wearing slippers. They were cozy, homey, comfortable. She didn't feel comfortable with John McRae.

Emma chattered at the breakfast table, filling the silence. Anna and Jesse each sat on piles of books, since the booster seats were heaven only knew where. They ate shyly, whispering small responses to Emma's enthusiasm.

John listened to his daughter, interjected an occasional remark, dished up more scrambled eggs for Anna, and smiled at Marian, who realized guiltily that she should be cooking breakfast.

Finally she burst out, "Don't feel like you have to entertain us. I mean, if you like to read the newspaper or something like that..."

He tilted an eyebrow. "Was I entertaining you?"

"I just don't want to get in your way..."

John regarded her for a long, thoughtful moment, his clear gray eyes disconcertingly perceptive. Then he said, "I do usually read the paper over breakfast. Do you want the comics first?"

"Uh…sure. Why not?"

John stood. "You done, hon?" he asked his daughter. "How about you, Jesse?"

"Can we go play?" Emma asked.

"Anna hasn't quite finished. Besides, kiddo, you have to hop on the school bus in exactly..." He glanced at his watch, "Ten minutes."

"Can't I stay home?" she pleaded as he carried dirty dishes over to the kitchen sink.

"Nope." Back at the table, he bent to kiss the top of her head. "They'll still be here when you get home."

Her lower lip stuck out. "Oh, pooh!"

John grinned, unfolded the paper and handed half of it to Marian, who was staring down at her eggs and bacon and wondering how much she would have to eat before she could gracefully excuse herself.

Excuse herself to do what? a little voice whispered. Go upstairs and sit on her bed? Volunteer to muck out stalls? Grocery shop? Mow the lawn? What was she going to do? Play housekeeper even though she had no intention of staying?

How could she not? She had to repay him somehow. The least she could do was be useful. After she politely ate the breakfast he had cooked.

She pretended interest she didn't feel in the comics, then opened the classified page. The columns of rentals didn't take long to peruse, because there were only a couple of new listings. One a four-bedroom house with a hot tub for twelve hundred a month, and the other a one-bedroom fixer with a low rent in exchange for carpentry skills. One extreme to another.

Marian was frowning down at the page when John said, "Still looking for a rental?"

She flushed like a kid caught with Mom's lipstick on, feeling inexplicably guilty. Would he think she was ungrateful?

"I'm sorry, I just..."

He sliced a finger across his throat. "Watch it."

Her brow crinkled. "Watch it?"

"No more apologies. Okay?"

It was harder than she'd expected to meet his eyes, but Marian bit her lip and kept her gaze steady. "Okay. Yes, I am still looking for a place of my own. I really think that's best. But while I'm here, I intend to be useful. I don't want you to think I don't appreciate..."

"Are you trying to apologize again?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, then chuckled. "Probably. See? That's why being dependent is bad for me. I feel like I should shuffle my feet and bow out of the room."

John frowned a little as he looked at her, but the twist of his mouth was rueful. "Yeah, I do see," he admitted at last. "I'd probably feel the same—"

"Mommy, I want down," Anna interrupted.

"Me, too," Jesse said.

"A budding yes man," John murmured.

"Wait until you see one of his temper tantrums," Marian said under her breath.

"I want to play with Emma's toys," her daughter demanded, sounding like the autocrat she was.

"Me, too," Jesse agreed.

Stifling her amusement, Marian glanced at Emma, who said graciously, "It's okay if they play with my toys."

"Then I don't see why not," Marian said. She helped the twins down from their perches and wiped their faces while John handed Emma her lunch box and herded her out the front door, watching from the window as she climbed on the school bus. When he sat back down with his coffee in the now peaceful kitchen, Marian hesitated, then joined him.

"Can I thank you again?" she asked softly. "Or is that verboden, too?"

"Definitely off limits." He grinned with that rakish charm she found so hard to resist. "Want to talk about the weather?"

"No," she straightforwardly said. "What I'd like to talk about is what my duties should be while I'm here."

"If you're not going to take the job, you don't have any duties," he said calmly before sipping his coffee.

"Then I can't stay," she said with equal firmness.

Their gazes clashed. At last John shook his head, a glint of humor in his gray eyes. "Stubborn, aren't you?"

She smiled. "Gee, I think we've had this discussion before."

He shook his head again, laughing. "You win! What do you want your duties to be?"

"I guess whatever your last housekeeper did."

His expression became oddly sheepish. "Would you believe me if I told you I don't know the half of it?"

"You mean, you don't know what she did?" Marian asked.

"I hired her right after my wife died. She...well, sort of took over. Dinner was on the table, clean clothes in the drawers, the bathrooms were clean..." He shrugged. "Now that I'm on my own, I keep discovering things I should have been doing. In about two weeks the house started falling apart around my ears. At least I have a cleaning service coming now. But... Oh, for example, I discovered the other day that Emma was bringing stuff home from school that I should have been reading, but it seems Helen knew enough to go look in Emma's bookpack. I didn't. I found a wad of papers an inch thick. I've missed a couple of things at school that I should have gone to. And then there's packing school lunches. That's been an adventure."

"Hot lunches?" Marian ventured.

"Emma won't eat any except the chicken nuggets. In fact, she's damned picky. We alternate peanut butter sandwich—no jam or honey—noodle soup, or string cheese with crackers."

"She hasn't been that picky at my house," Marian said in surprise. "No more so than most kids, anyway."

"Maybe you're a better cook than I am. In fact, I know you're a better cook than I am! How could you fail?"

Marian was grateful for his admission of helplessness. He sounded as though he really did need help. She had wondered.

"So you want me to just...take over?"

"Exactly." He smiled provocatively. "Play mother."

"I am a mother." Marian knew she sounded acerbic and couldn't help it. What if he launched an all-out assault on her defenses? She wasn't sure she could bear too many more of his smiles, period. She wished she could be like housekeepers of old, who wore somber gowns and their hair in a bun and faded into the woodwork. She was pretty sure John wouldn't let her take her meals separately, however.

She had to find a rental soon. She had to.

*****

It wasn't going to be as easy as he'd imagined, having her in his house. In fact, John wasn't sure it was one of his more brilliant ideas.

He had known he was attracted to Marian, liked her, sensed that she could be someone special to him. The perfect woman, he thought wryly, remembering his first impression of her. The trouble was, he wanted her. God, did he want her. He felt a little like a teenage boy forced to live with the object of his most desperate passion but told to keep hands off. He watched her whenever he could do so without being obvious, he lingered when he passed her bedroom to catch the faintest whiff of lilac that she left behind her. He took the long way around the room if that led him closer to her. He touched her unnecessarily often. Always casually, of course.

Right.

So far, the wariness in her eyes had kept him from doing more. It scared him, the way she looked at him. As though she was afraid of him. But why? Why? Wouldn't you think a woman in her position would be eager to find a new husband who could pay the bills?

So why did her entire self-esteem hinge on her paying them herself? Which brought him to the crux of the matter. Who was her ex-husband—and where was he? Maybe it was none of John's business, but he wanted to know why the twins' father was nowhere around when they had been virtually homeless.

*****

So what was he going to do? John wondered, a couple of afternoons into Marian's stay, as he ran a brush over the sleek chestnut coat of a dainty young mare he had high hopes for. Should he give Marian the space she needed? Or take advantage of proximity?

Maybe it didn't make him a very nice man, but he knew the answer.

Just then Isaiah passed in the shadowed aisle of the barn, leading a yearling he'd been working on the lunge line. His footsteps were silent, though the colt's made a soft clop, clop. "School bus," he said.

John grunted a response, then turned the mare loose in the stall. He paused for just an instant, pleased at her round belly and delicate beauty. This would be her first foal.

Emma's arrival gave John an excuse to head for the house and lurk around the kitchen. Ridiculous, the pleasure he took in watching Marian do something as simple as making dinner. He was dreading having to leave tomorrow, even though this week's game, thank God, was in Seattle, and he'd only be gone overnight. He couldn't remember feeling so reluctant to leave—or spending so little time with game films and stats during the week. If he didn't get his butt in gear, he was going to be caught totally unprepared, no doubt with the camera on him. He wasn't the only one who would be embarrassed. And network executives didn't appreciate being embarrassed.

"Daddy!" Emma flew to him the minute he stepped inside the back door. "I checked out three books from the school library today. Marian said she'd read them to me. And then I can read them to her. Do you want to listen, too?"

"You bet." He lifted her high for a kiss, peripherally aware of Marian, the smile in her dark eyes exquisitely gentle. "After dinner," he added. "I've still got work to do out in the barn."

"Marian says Anna and Jesse are napping. Can I help you? Please?"

He hesitated. Marian intervened. "Maybe she could clean Snowball's stall. He'd appreciate a little attention."

"Can I?" Emma begged.

"Go for it, kiddo. You know what to do."

"Wow!" She was gone.

John shook his head. "How come she's not that excited when I ask her to clean her bedroom?"

Marian had turned back to the oven, from whence floated the delicious smell of baking cookies. "Because there's no horse in it, of course," she said practically.

Feeling ridiculously nervous, he strolled toward her. "You seen Esmerelda lately?"

The damn goat had claimed the run of the place. The five-foot fences were apparently no obstacle. She could open the stall door in two minutes flat. He'd tried a long rope; she had chewed through it. And probably eaten a few feet while she was at it. He could chain her—but he didn't like the idea. So far, she hadn't hurt anything and hadn't wandered off the place. And the horses seemed to like her.

His suspicion that Marian enjoyed Esmerelda's string of triumphs was confirmed when her chuckle floated over her shoulder along with the realization that the cookies she was baking were raisin-oatmeal. His favorite. "She peeked in the kitchen window a few minutes ago," Marian said. "I'm glad you don't have a garden yet."

"Yet?" He was only a couple of feet away now. She bent over to peer in the oven, and John savored the view of her nicely rounded derriere.

Marian straightened with the cookie sheet, her hands protected by oven mitts. "You are planning to have a garden, aren't you?" she asked, looking shocked. "I just assumed..."

"I hadn't thought about it," he admitted. "The house was only finished this spring. I did put in those little apple trees out back. I don't know anything about gardening. That's one of the things..." He stopped.

Their eyes met and she said, "That your wife did?"

"Yeah." Funny, the jolt he felt remembering Susan and looking at Marian in Susan's place.

"But you do a lot of the things she used to," Marian observed softly. She nudged the oven door shut with one hip and slipped past him to set the cookie sheet on the range. "Did she love to garden?"

"Yeah," he said again. "Yeah, she loved color. Middle of the summer, I used to think the yard was gaudy. Too much yellow and red and flaming orange. Colors she wouldn't have been caught dead wearing. But she always said nature was gaudy."

Marian looked at him, her thoughts impossible to read, the pancake turner held uselessly in her hand. "Was your wife like that? Flamboyant?"

Why did she want to know? But if he asked, the fragile mood would be broken, so John followed where Marian led. "She could be," he admitted. "Not her looks. Susan was...pretty, but not spectacular." Not like you, he thought, and had sense enough not to say. "But she was alive. Do you know what I mean? Had a hell of a temper, but mostly she seemed to have a gift for happiness. She liked other people, liked taking chances. Susan always did drive too fast..." Unexpectedly his throat closed, so that he couldn't finish. And she didn't wear a seat belt. Damn her, he thought fiercely.

Shocked by the anger he had thought gone, John turned abruptly away to look out the kitchen window toward the mountains and paddocks. His chest felt seared. What had brought it back so vividly? They had only been married five years, and she'd been gone nearly three. In another five, he might need a picture to remember her face. Emma's memory of her mother was already fading, something she could hold up to the light and faintly see, like a four-leaf clover preserved between sheets of onion-skin paper. Not a source of pain anymore, just...sadness. Gentle and distant. So why was he angry?

Because Marian made him feel again? Or because he knew that she could hurt him as badly?

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean..." She touched his arm so fleetingly he might not have noticed if he hadn't been so aware of her.

For Marian's sake, he tried to smile. "Nah, it's okay. It's been a long time. She died because she wasn't wearing a seat belt. Maybe it's not fair of me, but I blamed her. I wanted to yell at her and shake her and..." He shrugged, still hating his own helplessness. "But I couldn't do any of that."

"You wanted her to be there so you could yell at her."

"Yeah." The anger was gone suddenly, leaving a desire to hold Marian in Susan's place. Or did he mean, instead of Susan? He didn't wrestle with the impossible, just said, "I should probably have told you about her, anyway, in case Emma talks about her mother. She does sometimes."

"I'm glad she does." Those fathomless dark eyes gazed at him for a moment longer, and then she smiled. For the first time, he noticed a tiny sprinkling of freckles on her nose, a disarming counterpoint to the elegance of her translucent skin. "Would you like a cookie?" she asked, with all the practicality that entranced him.

"In a minute," he said. "After I kiss you."

"After you..."

He didn't let her think about it. Instead, he reached up to stroke wisps of dark hair off her forehead, then held her gaze as he bent his head very slowly. John touched her lips the way she had touched him, the kiss of a bee brushing a flower petal, the wind a fragile leaf. Just a taste of sweetness, tantalizing. He lifted his head as slowly, seeing the dark fan of lashes that fluttered open, the quiver of her lower lip, the dreaminess in those night-dark eyes that sought his, the delicate sculpting of cheek and jaw. Unable to resist, he trailed his fingertips along her jaw, then down her graceful neck. Was the rest of her as fragile? As silken and gentle and feminine? She still stared mutely up at him, and he bent his head again on a sudden rush of hunger that was nearly anguish.

But from behind him came a small voice. "Mommy?"

God. John's muscles locked, and he had to will himself to step back. He saw a tide of color wash over Marian's cheeks, the ragged breath she drew in, the confusion in her eyes.

"Jesse?"

The little boy who sometimes seemed like a shadow of his twin sister scampered across the kitchen. One shoulder of his overalls was unfastened and his toes were bare. "Can I have a cookie, Mommy?"

"Is Anna still asleep?" With practiced ease, Marian hoisted her son to her hip. She kissed Jesse's forehead, but her cheeks were still flushed with rose.

"I'd better go back out to the barn," John said, hearing the rawness in his voice.

Marian's gaze met and then shied from his. "You'll check on Emma?"

"Yeah," he said huskily. Damn. You'd think he would have more sang-froid. "And round up that goat."

Suddenly a smile trembled on her mouth and more than shyness was in her eyes. "Good luck," she said, and he realized her voice was a little husky, too. With laughter? Or passion?

His body tightened almost painfully, and he made himself turn away. "Thanks," he growled, and let the kitchen door slam behind him.

He'd come in feeling like a lovesick teenager, and he was going out the same way.

CHAPTER 7

With a sigh, Marian looked around the kitchen. What was she trying to do, win a Homemaker of the Year award? Yesterday, enough cookies and lasagne to feed all of them for a week. Today, homemade bread, blueberry muffins, and a huge pot of chili. She'd also mended a laundry basket full of John's shirts and Emma's clothes. Ragged tears, missing buttons, crumpled and worn—all had ended up hung crisply in closets, while the smell of baking muffins and cookies had floated through the house. She felt like—what else? Mother, of course.

Mother, wife, and lover. The memory of yesterday's kiss popped up like a jack-in-the-box. It even wore a mocking grin.

Marian's hands stilled as she gazed unseeing out the window. What did John want of her? Her body, or her heart? Was she ready to give either?

Hopelessly muddled, scared, sad, and exhilarated all at once, Marian took the last batch of muffins out of the oven. At least he wouldn't forget her in a hurry, she thought ruefully. For weeks he would be taking neat little packages wrapped in aluminum foil out of the freezer and following the directions written tidily on the tags. As though he hadn't been managing nicely without her.

Mother. Who was she kidding?

He had left this afternoon for Seattle.

"I have to spend the night so I get a chance to talk to some of the players and coaches." He'd grimaced. "As if anybody ever says anything new."

"Don't you?" Marian asked, curious at how he saw himself.

He gave a bark of laughter. "Are you kidding? Week after week after week? I just tell the guy in front of the TV set what every player on the field already knows. That's what they pay me for."

"False modesty," she chided.

"Nope. Humility."

She had thought he was going to kiss her goodbye, but Emma came flinging down the stairs just then, followed by Anna and Jesse who slid on their bottoms. The moment, if it had ever existed, was gone, and she waved with the children from the wide front porch as he drove away. Glancing at Emma, Marian saw a look of quiet desolation that wrung her heart before she saw the five-year-old disguise it.

And no wonder! How long had Emma known Marian? Six weeks maybe? And there went Dad, driving off for his weekend in the big leagues, his daughter and house left in the charge of a woman he really didn't know very well. Why? Why was this job so important to him?

Marian had discovered from Emma that Isaiah often had meals with them, so after John left, she nerved herself to hunt him down in the barn and invite him to have dinner with her and the children.

The big black man looked at her in that unnervingly expressionless way, then gave a brief nod.

"Maybe six o'clock?" she said, and he nodded again.

Conversation at the dinner table was going to be stimulating, she thought ruefully, retracing her steps past Snowball's stall so that she could give him the carrot stuck in her back pocket. Oh, well. Emma could fill any silence. In fact, she would be thrilled if there was a vacuum for her to fill!

It didn't turn out as badly as Marian had begun to fear. Isaiah presented himself at six o'clock on the dot, still wearing jeans and cowboy boots but neatly washed.

"Hi," Emma said happily. "I bet you wish you could go watch the football game with Daddy, don't you?"

He shrugged and followed Marian and Emma into the kitchen, where Marian had already set the table. The dining room didn't seem quite suitable for the present company, considering the odds of spilled milk or dribbled chili. She remembered her own kitchen with the scarred linoleum and miscellany of high chairs and booster seats. Cats sitting on the window ledge and dogs waiting hopefully under the table. She had a wave of homesickness that left her feeling even more out of place. What was she doing here? She didn't belong.

She saw the first expression ever on Isaiah's face when she handed him a basket of sourdough biscuits fresh out of the oven. Just a flicker, but undeniably pleasure.

"Help yourself," she said, before going back for the chili. When Isaiah ladled himself a bowlful, Marian apologized. "It's not very spicy. Anna and Jesse like it better this way, and I guess I've gotten used to it…

"Smells good," he said.

"Well...thank you."

No wonder he had needed a partner in the horse business! He would be hopeless with potential customers. Which reminded her...

"Do you and John show your horses very often?" she asked curiously. Somehow the subject hadn't yet come up with John.

"Daddy says I can ride in the costume class when I grow up," Emma announced. "I want to wear purple and silver."

Another flicker of expression showed in Isaiah's dark eyes. Amusement. "We show 'em," he agreed. "Have to, if you want the foals to be worth anything."

Downright talkative, Marian thought. And maybe she was the one who had jumped to conclusions.

"When I was growing up, I always wanted an Arab," she said. "I read quite a bit about them. The Polish and Egyptian and Spanish..."

Isaiah nodded. "Ours are Polish descendants. Bask."

Marian recognized the name of a famous Arabian stud. She knew enough to ask a few intelligent questions, which Isaiah willingly answered. She had learned more about the scope of John and Isaiah's farm by the time he was done. They must have invested a huge chunk of capital, she realized. A scary amount. She was left feeling mildly envious, and even more like a poor little girl out of her element.

John McRae was a rich man. The few dreams she had let herself indulge in seemed even more ludicrous now. She wasn't the kind of woman he would give his heart to. She remembered the way he had talked about his wife. Alive, exciting, reckless. Not tired, desperate, and burdened with children. He would want a woman who could travel with him, mix with the wealthy people he must know, think nothing of having her picture in People magazine or Sports Illustrated. So why did he flirt with her? Why had he kissed her?

She had to wonder if he was the kind of man who couldn't resist flirting. Maybe he smiled at all moderately attractive women with that glint in his cool gray eyes.

And maybe she should quit thinking about it—and him—one way or the other. She should concentrate on finding a rental and on being a good mother. To Emma, too, as long as she was here.

*****

The house was too silent. Marian had barely realized that when she heard the first scream.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

She took the stairs two at a time, vaguely aware that Emma had popped out of the living room, where she had been watching a cartoon in the VCR. The sobs escalated and Marian reached the top of the stairs in a panic.

Oh, Lord. She saw the problem before she saw her children. Water was running out of the bathroom into the carpeted hall. She stopped dead in the bathroom door. Inside, Anna and Jesse stood screaming, wearing their T-shirts and nothing else. Water poured out of the toilet over their bare feet. Thank heavens, Marian saw no sign they had actually used the toilet.

She was able to turn the water off behind the bowl, though the flow was already slowing. A worse calamity averted, she picked up both almost-naked children. Their bottoms were slippery on her wet hands.

"Okay, okay, it's all right. It's just water. It won't hurt you."

The wails slowed. Emma appeared in the doorway, her face bright and interested. "Wow. You could go swimming in here!"

Marian rolled her eyes. "Don't give them ideas." She went on soothing, "Hey, hush. It's all right. It's just water. Nothing's hurt."

Except the carpet in the hall and the grout between the elegant gray floor tiles and maybe the toilet. None of it hers, she thought grimly. What had happened?

Unfortunately, she had an unpleasant suspicion. The twins had begged to play with Emma's Barbie house for just a few minutes before bedtime. They always had been attracted to water, but they knew they weren't supposed to play in the toilet. Which didn't mean that wasn't exactly what they had been doing.

She finally inserted a question between sobs. "Were you guys playing in the bathroom?"

Jesse cried harder. Anna's lower lip stuck out even further and quivered. Neither answered the question.

"Did you put something down the toilet?"

The sobs rose.

"Guys, answer me," Marian said sternly. "What did you stuff down the toilet?"

"Good question," said a deep voice.

Marian started and turned toward the door. Looking over Emma's shoulder was John. He must have come straight from Seattle, where the game had been played in the Kingdome. He wore a white shirt and slacks, the narrow silk tie still around his neck but tugged loose. In one large hand was a gray felt Stetson. He was startlingly handsome and suave...

Whereas she had water running over her canvas tennis shoes and a wet, naked child on each hip. Worse yet, it was his bathroom. Marian was speechless.

His gaze didn't waver, though one dark brow rose quizzically. The twins' howls rose in response.

"Hello," Marian said weakly.

"Well, I had a good weekend," John said. "Looks like it beat yours."

"It was fine, until just this minute," she said from between clenched teeth. "Let me wade out of here."

She squelched past John without looking at him and stalked into the twins' room. She deposited Anna and Jesse onto the bed and tilted their chins up. "I promise not to get too mad. But you have to tell me, or we can't fix the toilet.

"It was Rabbit!" Jesse began to cry again. "He wanted a bath!"

Marian groaned. A double disaster. John McRae's bathroom, and Jesse's rabbit. He loved that rabbit and wouldn't go to bed without it. She might never have a decent night's sleep again. Although that was the least of her worries. She couldn't afford a plumber and a carpet cleaner. But she had to offer.

Of course, John stood in the doorway. "Rabbit, huh?"

"It's about this big." She held up her hands to demonstrate.

"I hope to God I can reach it." His voice sounded strange. Gruff, as though he were suppressing anger. Or...laughter?

He went on, in that same odd voice. "You know, when I turned in the driveway I thought how good it was to be home. I imagined walking in the door, and the kids all scrubbed in their pyjamas would come meet me, and you'd offer to heat some leftovers, and maybe you'd have coffee and a piece of pie with me while we talked over the weekend."

Marian squeezed her fingers together and waited.

"Instead, I hear these wails. Water's pouring out of the bathroom and you're standing in the middle of it with these dripping kids who are screaming at the top of their lungs. Fantasy versus reality. But..." He shrugged. "What the hell."

His normally imperturbable gray eyes were twinkling. He was laughing. Marian didn't know whether to be offended or grateful. From his point of view, she probably had looked funny.

Something on her face must have been the straw that broke the camel's back, because suddenly he began to chuckle, then laugh heartily. The next thing she knew, Marian was laughing, too. Reluctantly at first, then wholeheartedly. She could just see Emma in the hall behind her dad, gaping at the two adults with such astonishment, Marian laughed even harder. Stunned, the twins had quit crying. There was just John and Marian, howling with laughter.

Finally they subsided. His chest still rumbling with laughter, John said, "Come on, let's get the kids to bed. Emma, have you had your bath?" That struck him as so funny, he started to laugh again. Emma was beginning to look annoyed. She hated being left out of anything.

"I didn't play in the toilet!"

"And you did take a bath," Marian reminded her. Then she sighed and turned to Anna and Jesse. "You know you shouldn't have played in the toilet."

Jesse nodded; Anna sulked.

"It's bedtime now. We'll do our best to rescue Rabbit, but you'll have to do without him tonight. I'll bet Anna will share her flower blanket."

Anna frowned, and Jesse began to cry again.

It was a long half hour later before Marian tiptoed out of their room to find John in the bathroom, sloshing up the mess with a mop. At least he had changed to jeans.

Horrified, she said, "I'm sorry! Please, let me do that."

"I'm not hearing another apology, am I?"

"I owe you one," she said resolutely.

He gave a dismissive gesture with one hand, then began squeezing the mop out into a bucket. "Emma did the same thing once. Caused a mess you wouldn't believe. This is nothing."

Marian picked up the bucket. "At least let me go empty the water. We sure can't pour it down the toilet."

He frowned. "It's heavy."

"And I'm capable," she said firmly.

Their eyes met and there was an instant charge in the air. "I know you are," he said. "I've never doubted it."

She had to wrench herself away, as though he were a magnet and she a tiny sliver of metal inexorably attracted. Marian didn't like the feeling. She had survived the last man in her life by being strong. John had such charisma and strength of his own, she felt powerless in comparison.

They got the bathroom floor dry, and John produced a metal snake to probe down the toilet. Rabbit was stuck just out of sight, thank heavens, and at last John pulled the stuffed animal out to hold him dubiously up by one ear.

"Is he beyond salvation?"

"He was pretty pitiful to start with," Marian said, lifting up the bucket for the soggy, faded white rabbit with drooping ears. "I'll toss him in the washing machine. A bath won't hurt him."

"Good." John dropped the lid of the toilet and said, "Well, how about that piece of pie and coffee?"

"I..." Marian stopped, feeling hopelessly inadequate. "Thank you."

"Kids do things like that. No harm's done."

"Except the carpet."

"I'll call a cleaning service. No big deal."

"Maybe not," she said, "but we're not exactly the perfect housemates."

"Damn it, Marian, if you don't quit apologizing..."

Her stomach clenched. "What? Are you going to throw us out if I say I'm sorry too often?" Oh, God, why had she said that? Marian wished desperately to call the words back.

His eyes were no longer clear at all, but a dark, smoky gray. "You know better than that."

She turned jerkily away, scarcely realizing that she stared at herself in the mirror. "I have to thank you! It's all I have to give!"

John took one long stride and his reflected image towered over hers. "I don't want your gratitude."

"Then what do you want?" She turned her head to stare up at him, feeling as though she were begging, but unable to prevent herself. "Why are you doing so much for us?"

"Because I like you," he said roughly. "Is that so hard to believe? Because you're good for Emma. Because I'd be asking you out to dinner in any other circumstances. Because I'm attracted to you."

Marian was stunned into silence. She had expected either platitudes or bluntness that would kill her dreams. Not a kind of honesty that scared her instead. "But you haven't..." she whispered.

His voice had become raw. "Because it would be blackmail. You said yourself you couldn't say no, didn't you? There's a time and a place, and this isn't it."

There was no answer. Could she have said no? Had she hoped she wouldn't be able to?

"I'm sor—" The words weren't all the way out before she saw his violent response. His eyes blazed and he slapped one hand on the tiled counter.

"God damn it, Marian! Are you trying to provoke me?"

"No! I'm sor—" and she covered her mouth with her hand. When he glowered at her, she glared back and let her hand drop to her side. "If I can't thank you and I can't say I'm sorry, what am I supposed to say?"

A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched and then he closed his eyes. "What if I apologize?"

"Please don't!" she said, appalled.

When he looked at her again, the fire in his eyes was damped, though it still smoldered. "Then how about if we start over? I'll pretend I just walked in the door. Is there anything I could warm up for dinner?"

"I'll do it," she said quickly, then realized he might prefer to be alone so that he could pretend he wasn't stuck with her and the horrible twosome. She tacked on a belated, "Unless you'd rather..."

"I'd like to have company." He actually smiled, but ruefully. "Just so you don't want to talk about football."

"No." She took a deep breath. "We watched you yesterday."

"And?"

"I hardly understood a word you said."

"Then I'll have to conduct a workshop one of these days. You might find some of the terminology useful."

Without thinking, she said, "Like home field advantage?"

He grinned, his face lighting with that wicked, dangerously masculine charm. "Exactly. Speaking of which...what do you say we move this game to someplace besides the bathroom?"

"I..." Marian glanced around, startled to realize that they were still squeezed in the relatively tiny room, then felt herself smiling back at him. "The kitchen," she agreed. "And maybe we should call a time out."

He made the referee's signal, a T, with both hands. "See? Your vocabulary isn't as limited as you think. There's hope for you."

"Thanks," she retorted, and gingerly stepped across the wet carpet to head down the hall. "But don't forget who's going to cook your dinner."

From uncomfortably close behind her, John said, "I don't have a worry in the world. You have to express all that gratitude somehow, right?"

The worst of it was, he was right. But though it might be blackmail, she knew now how much more ruthless he could have been.

*****

John insisted on taking the kids grocery shopping Monday while Marian checked out the couple of new rentals that had been listed in the Sunday paper.

"Are you sure?" she asked dubiously, watching him buckle the herd into his car. "I can take the kids. We could do the shopping on our way home."

Inside the car, Jesse declared, "I want Rabbit!"

Rabbit's bedraggled face popped furtively up from the front seat, then disappeared.

"Mine!" Jesse bellowed.

"We're playing peek-a-boo," Emma said. "See? There he is. Now he's hiding."

Jesse began to scream.

Marian and John said at the same time, "Emma!"

"Oh, all right!" Sulkily, she flung the stuffed animal at the red-faced two-year-old. "You're no fun!"

"Are you absolutely sure?" Marian repeated.

"I'll bribe 'em," he said blithely. "You can deal with the sugar buzz when you get home. I'll go hide in the barn."

"If you're really positive," she said. "John, thank you."

He just grinned, gave her the thumbs up, and hopped in behind the wheel. "See ya."

Watching them disappear, Marian felt peculiar. It wasn't very long ago that she'd longed for a day to herself. Even a few hours! Now she had them, and instead of kicking up her heels she felt rootless. Unsettled. Maybe she couldn't walk anymore without twin weights hanging from her hands.

"I can't afford to get spoiled," she told herself. The excitement of being able to get into the car without fastening numerous seat belts and checking for essentials like bottles, diapers, blankies, and rabbits was almost too much for her. She'd have sworn even the car was lighter bouncing over a rut and onto the narrow country road.

A mostly discouraging two hours later, she returned to find John and the kids having macaroni and cheese for lunch. She was grateful to be able to announce brightly, "I found a place."

John's expression didn't change one iota. Why she was watching to see what he thought, Marian didn't know. Jesse and Anna ignored her announcement and continued squishing the macaroni on their plates. Emma's was the only response.

"I don't want you to go."

"I know, sweetie." It felt so natural to hug her. "But you understand why we need our own house, don't you?"

Emma pulled away and wouldn't look at Marian. "I guess," she said flatly.

Marian leaned against the counter and talked fast, trying to sound cheerful. "It's bigger than the last one. And the backyard is fenced, so I don't have to do that. Don't you miss Aja and Rhodo? And the cats? I'll bet they miss us."

Emma pushed her bowl away, ignoring the spoon that clattered to the floor. "You could have had them here," she said. "Daddy wouldn't have minded."

"Touche’," John murmured.

"We're imposing enough as it is," Marian said briskly. "Your dad was nice enough to have us, but adding four more animals would have been too much. And you know Crystal is enjoying them." Even if her parents aren't, Marian thought. Perhaps it was wrong of her, but she resented having to feel so hopelessly in debt to so many people. She had always made it on her own. She could have managed, if she'd had to. She refused to confront the scariness of the thought. It would be too easy to be terrified about the future and about the next time her shaky props were kicked out from under her.

Emma stayed sullen for the rest of the day, making a point of rejecting any advances Marian made. The twins stayed oblivious. Marian wasn't sure whether they were simply too young to understand, indifferent about where they lived, or had ceased believing her. Over the last couple of months she'd made several announcements. The only one that had actually come true was losing their home—and the last-minute move to Emma's house.

John didn't mention the subject again until dinnertime. He disappeared out to the barn as he'd promised and came in just before six o'clock, dirty, tired, and sweaty.

"Let me grab a quick shower," he said, and vanished again.

"Emma, do you want to set the table?" Marian called.

She wasn't surprised when the response from the living room was no.

"That'll teach you to ask," Marian said aloud to the empty kitchen. She felt sad, though, because Emma had been eagerly helping her with housework whenever she would allow it. She had suffered pangs from the way the eager gaze followed her, the way the small hands imitated what she was doing. She had known the role Emma was assigning her, and allowed it to happen. Marian had wanted to play mother. Now she wondered if she had been fair to Emma.

At the dinner table, John glanced at her. "Did you put a deposit down on the rental?"

Marian exhaled a silent sigh at the reminder. She had been desperate enough to pay an even more outrageous amount than the last landlady had demanded. She'd hesitated for only a bare second before she remembered John's kisses—and knew she had to run away while she still could.

"Yes," she said. "The house is empty, too. I'm going to need to spend a few hours over there cleaning, but then we can move in any time. You're probably already sorry you offered to help us move, but I hope once more will do it. Whatever day is convenient for you..."

"Any time," he said brusquely, and began to eat without further comment. The meal was a silent one, since neither Emma nor her father were speaking, and Marian felt too deflated to make an effort.

The camaraderie of the last few days was gone that evening. Marian tucked Anna and Jesse in, then went in to Emma's bedroom to kiss her good night. Against the lace eyelet pillowcase, her small face was stiff, and tonight her arms didn't come up for a hug. She accepted Marian's kiss, then turned her face away.

Her stomach churning, Marian slipped out. John stood at the bottom of the stairs when she started down.

"I'd better go watch some game films," he said. "Will you be okay on your own?"

"Sure," she said casually. "I'm in the middle of a book." But she was achingly aware that this was one of her last evenings here; by Tuesday, he would help her move, and then she would be a baby-sitter again and John a parent who was friendly when he picked up his daughter. If he kept bringing Emma to her at all. Sooner or later he would hire a housekeeper, some woman who was eager to be his dependent. Then Emma would transfer her affections, as she should.

The image was unexpectedly depressing.

Marian read on the plush suede couch in the living room for an hour or two, then went upstairs to take a long hot bath before bed. She hadn't seen John again and the house was quiet. Drying off from the bath, she glanced at herself in the steamy mirror, to see cheeks glowing and hair tumbling damply out of the knot she had fastened on top of her head. Oh, well. No one would see her anyway. Wrapped in a quilted robe, she stepped out of the bathroom almost into John's path.

The shock of his unexpected appearance paralyzed Marian. Hers seemed to have the same effect on him. They stared at each other. The recessed lighting in the hall had been dimmed and the scene was dangerously intimate. John's face looked gaunt, shadowed beneath the high cheekbones, and his eyes were dark. He wore jeans and a polo shirt open at the collar to expose his brown throat, and his feet were bare. Marian's own toes curled into the carpet and she struggled for a breath.

"Good...good night," she managed, her voice little better than a whisper.

He didn't answer for a long moment, in which something perilously close to exhilaration unfurled in her chest. But it had no chance to spread its wings, for she saw the exact instant that he collected himself. His mouth tightened and he nodded curtly.

"Good night." And he continued down the hall, leaving Marian to flee to her own room.

She lay awake too long, restless and angry at herself. She didn't want—couldn't afford!—a relationship with a man as dominating as John McRae. She'd fought too hard to stand on her own feet to knuckle under now and accept his charity. Even if he saw her as an equal, if she could feel an equal, the price for those hours and days of joys would be the loss of everything she had worked for—and heartbreak. He could hurt her so easily, so casually. All she had to do was remember Mark's slow withdrawal after her exultant announcement of her pregnancy, her confusion, his anger—and then, horrifyingly, the day she came home to find him gone, leaving no more of himself than a note on the kitchen table and the unborn children in her womb.

Never again, she thought, her heart clenching. She would not risk that.

She couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour when the sound of a crying child yanked her awake. Disoriented, she realized the pitch of the voice wasn't quite right—not one of the twins. Emma.

But by that time her mother's instinct had her out of bed and halfway across the room. She slipped into the hall and saw no sign that John had awakened yet. Emma's door stood open, the faint glow of her nightlight showing around it.

"Emma, honey," Marian soothed, hurrying to the child's bed. She sat upright, huge sobs shaking her. Marian switched on the bedside lamp and sat down, drawing Emma into a comforting embrace. Her cheek against the five-year-old's soft hair, she hugged and murmured and gently rubbed Emma's back.

The first coherent words out of Emma's mouth were a wailed, "I don't want you to go!"

"Oh, sweetie." Marian's arms tightened and her eyes prickled with unexpected tears. The sadness she'd felt all day tore open, exposing something huge and desolate. Guilt, because she had let Emma love her. Hurt of her own, because she had come to love Emma.

"I missed Helen so much," the little girl mumbled against her breasts, "but Daddy said she couldn't come back and I knew she didn't want to come back..." A hiccuping sob interrupted her. "And Daddy says he'll hire a new housekeeper, but I don't want a new one! I want you! Why can't you stay? I'll be good. I promise I'll be good. Even better than I was for Helen."

Marian's face was wet with tears when she tilted Emma's chin up so she could look into the overflowing brown eyes. "Helen didn't leave because you weren't good, Emma! You are a wonderful, sensitive, funny child. Helen needed somebody of her own to love, just like your daddy loves you. My leaving has nothing to do with you! You could be a monster all day long and...and spill grape juice on the carpet and stuff up the toilet and roller skate on the wood floors and color on the walls, and I'd still like you! Oh, Emma, I'd give almost anything to stay."

A huge fat tear dripped off her chin. "Then...then why?"

Marian stared down at Emma and realized she didn't know the answer. Why was she so determined to leave? Because she needed to prove something to herself? Because it hurt to pretend something was true that wasn't?

Or were those only excuses, designed to hide her biggest terror: that Emma's father would break her heart?

Whatever was the truth, they were all selfish reasons. Anna and Jesse would be happier and safer here. Emma needed her. And her own life would be easier. She wouldn't have to work from six in the morning to ten at night. The possibility of losing even that fragile security would no longer be lurking one step away.

All she would risk was her heart. And what did that count for, compared to Emma's?

In a voice that cracked, she said, "I guess I was afraid to love you." And your dad. I'm still afraid to love your dad. "But I was wrong. If you still want me...if your dad still wants me to stay, I will."

"You will?" Emma said disbelievingly. "You really will?"

Marian hugged Emma hard. Her smile trembled, but she said, "I really will."

"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"You're welcome," Marian whispered. Through a fresh sheen of tears she looked over Emma's head and saw John, standing silently in the bedroom doorway. Her gaze locked to his, and she realized he had heard every word.

CHAPTER 8

Emma never realized her father was there. The storm of tears had tired her, and she was now contented enough to let Marian soothe her to sleep.

John disappeared from the doorway, and Marian prayed that he had gone back to bed. She knew it was a futile prayer, however. He would be waiting, and she was in no state to talk to him. Her tears had dried, but her heart felt sore. She sat here on his daughter's bed in a filmy nightgown that left her shoulders bare but for thin straps, and, in the right light, hid very little else. Why hadn't she grabbed her robe?

Finally, Emma's slow deep breaths became childlike snuffles and snores, and Marian had no excuse to delay any longer. She stepped out of Emma's room, easing the door shut behind her. With a sense of inevitability, she saw John waiting, just as she had known he would be. He wore only pajama bottoms, and even in the hall's dim light she could see that his chest was sleek and muscled. Marian quit breathing when his hungry gaze trapped her.

They simply looked at each other for a long moment. Then he said huskily, "If I still want you? What do you think?"

All she managed was his name. "John..." Was she protesting or begging? She hadn't any idea.

But it was enough to bring him to her in one long stride. The tension that had simmered between them all day crackled into searing life. There was no gentleness in him this time; no tentativeness, no chance for her to escape. He yanked her up against him and took her mouth in one devouring move. Instinctively she lifted her hands to push him away, but when they found powerful, bare shoulders with muscles that jerked at her touch, her fingers curled to hold on instead of reject. Blood tumbled madly through her veins when she felt John's tongue slip inside her mouth, tasting, pleading, demanding, until her own met his. He had her backed against the wall, the length of his hard body trapping her as effectively as one look from him had done. This madness between them was like a squall at sea, rising with frightening suddenness and sweeping all before its ferocity.

Marian had forgotten—had she ever known?—that she could feel this way. Her body had become boneless and pliable. Pleasure at his hungry touch had her shivering with delight. One big hand cupped the back of her head to hold her mouth for his to plunder, while his other hand moved restlessly over her waist and hips, pressing her against the obvious evidence of his arousal, kneading her flesh through the thin fabric until she whimpered against his mouth. It was insane, terrifying, and yet so perfect.

And then she heard another whimper. From her? She wondered, suddenly confused. John's hands stilled, and she realized the sound had come from Emma's room, through the closed door just beside them. John lifted his head and took a shuddering breath that Marian echoed.

She wanted him to kiss her again, to sweep her into his arms and carry her to that huge bed in his room. She wanted his hands on her breasts and his weight over her. She wanted...

To lose everything? Marian heard the voice of sanity as clearly as if someone had spoken aloud. She was unbearably tempted. Above her his face was taut, his gray eyes smoldering, his breathing harsh. All she had to do was smile or lift a hand to touch his rough cheek. All she had to do was press her lips to that sleek chest, taste the saltiness of his skin... All she had to do was ask.

Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and took a sideways step, pulling free from his grip. When she opened her eyes and saw the flare of frustration in his eyes, Marian took another involuntary step backward.

She had to lash out to defend herself, not from John, but from her own need. Her voice was raw. "Do you think I agreed to be your mistress? Is that what this is about?"

His eyes darkened. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I said I'd stay for Emma's sake. Not yours. If this is what you expect..."

"I'm not in the habit of keeping lovers in the same house as my daughter," he said grimly. "And I've never made love with a woman who didn't come to me wholeheartedly. But I'm not going to lie, either. I want you, Marian, but only when you're ready."

Ready? Oh, Lord, if he only knew!

"I..." Abruptly the words died. What could she say anyway? She was no more willing to lie than he was. She did want him. Her body was achingly, recklessly, ready for him. But her mind was confused, her heart afraid. "Can we talk about it tomorrow?" she faltered.

"Go to bed," he said wearily. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, as though he wanted to shut the sight of her out. "Now."

She went, fleeing both him and her own desperate need.

John didn't watch her go, but he could feel the hall's emptiness when she was gone. His heart was still slamming against his chest and he was sweating, though the night air was cool. He hadn't wanted a woman this badly in years, or been as frustrated. It would have been funny, if he'd had any sense of humor left.

Had he just implied that he wouldn't make love to a woman in his own bed, in his house, because his innocent daughter lived here? God! He did laugh, mirthlessly, at the perversity of it. He had fallen in love, but he couldn't touch her until he was invited and he couldn't make love to her in his own bed. Without going out of his mind, how the hell was he going to court Marian?

*****

Somehow they managed breakfast without ever quite meeting each other's eyes or addressing each other directly, but also without the children noticing the tension. Emma bounded into the kitchen after John had rousted her from bed. Marian, heavy-eyed and head aching from her sleepless night, was setting cereal and milk out on the table.

Emma's huge dark eyes were touchingly vulnerable. "Are you really going to stay?" she asked.

Marian smiled, but heaven only knew how. "Well, your dad and I haven't talked about it yet..."

"You are." She hurtled across the kitchen to hug Marian fiercely. "I thought maybe I dreamed it. I dreamed once that Helen came back, but she didn't."

"Well, I'm here," Marian said firmly. "Tired and cranky this morning, but definitely here."

"I'm glad, I'm glad, I'm glad!" Emma caroled. "Anna...Jesse!" She whirled away. "Where are you? Did you know you get to stay? It'll be like you're my sister and brother. Not really, but we can pretend."

John came into the kitchen, his face drawn, and Marian hurriedly turned away to look in the cupboard for bowls. How could she stay, after last night? How could she not, after she'd promised Emma?

With Emma safely off on the school bus and the twins settled in front of the television in the living room, Marian gave a wide berth to John, who still sat sipping his coffee and gazing bleakly out the window toward the barns. As quietly as possible, she piled dirty dishes in the sink and was about to sneak out of the kitchen when his voice stopped her.

"Marian, we need to talk."

She hesitated, her back to him. "Now?"

"No." His voice was tight and very controlled. "I propose a neutral setting. Sort of like the arms talks. I'll get a baby-sitter and we can go out to dinner tonight."

Out to dinner? "But..."

"We can't be honest with each other if the kids are in earshot."

She didn't know if she wanted to be that honest. But she pushed her hair back from her face and said in a constrained tone, "Yes, that would be fine."

"Six o'clock?"

"Fine," she said again. "Do you know a babysitter?"

A hint of humor crept into his voice. "Actually, I was hoping you could recommend someone."

She had to turn, though meeting his clear grey eyes was one of the hardest things she had ever done. "Crystal has an older sister," she said. "I've never used her, but they're a nice family."

"Do you want to call, or shall I?"

"I don't mind," she said.

John pushed back his chair. "Then I'll get to work."

Crystal's sister, Lisa, was happy to baby-sit, with the result that four-thirty found Marian hopelessly studying her meager wardrobe, hung in the oversize closet. She hadn't bought a new dress in—what?—four, five years. Before her pregnancy, anyway. Of course, what she looked like shouldn't make any difference. She didn't want to attract John McRae. Did she?

Marian finally dragged out a suitcase that she hadn't bothered to unpack for their short stay here, and reluctantly settled on a featherweight wool jersey with a softly draped neckline and a skirt that swirled. Ruby red, it flattered her more than she remembered. She finally left her hair loose, except for clipping it back from her face. It hung to her waist, a heavy silk curtain that rippled with her every movement. Walking downstairs carefully in the unfamiliar high heels, she felt horrendously self-conscious. This was worse than her first date! Suppose John intended to take her to the pizza parlor. Or MacDonald's. What if he had on jeans and a sweatshirt? What if...

But he waited at the bottom of the stairs in a dark suit, his jaw clean-shaven and his hair still damp. His expression was inscrutable, but when he saw her, something incendiary flickered in his eyes. A blush warmed her cheeks, and she hurried past him to kiss the kids good night.

"We won't be gone long. You be good for Lisa."

John had the front door open and his car keys in his hand. Marian turned to the teenager. "I made a casserole..."

"Mr. McRae told me. I already put it in the oven," she said.

"Do you have John’s phone number?"

"Yep," John said. "Ready, Marian?"

Wishing desperately that she had some excuse not to be, she finally nodded. He held open the door for her, and then the car door, before going around to get in on the driver's side. They had driven in silence for several minutes before Marian finally asked, "Where are we going?"

"I made reservations at Giulia's. Unless you hate Italian food?"

The restaurant was elegant and expensive. It was also a twenty-minute drive. And, she realized, this was the first time she had ever been totally alone with John. "No, that's fine," she said hurriedly. "I enjoy almost any kind of food."

"You don't look like it."

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't seen you put away a good meal yet. You're too busy waiting on everybody else."

She turned to look at him, but his attention appeared to be on the road. "Is that a criticism?"

"An observation. I wish you'd relax."

Marian opened her mouth to snap, "Of course I'm relaxed!" when she realized that she was taut as a bowstring, with tension that ran up her neck and tightened like a band around her forehead. She was the farthest thing in the world from relaxed.

She would still have lied if she'd thought she could get away with it. Unfortunately, she had too expressive a face. So she did something worse. She babbled. "I'm...just nervous, I guess. I'm sorry. This is difficult for me. These last few days..."

He let the apology pass. "I've put a lot of pressure on you, haven't I?"

"No." Marian heaved a huge sigh that drained some of the anxiety away. "I don't know what I would have done without you. The trouble is, I hate admitting that."

Without taking his eyes from the road, John reached for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. The gesture was undoubtedly meant to be kind and reassuring, but didn't have quite that effect.

"My mother came to stay with Emma and me after Susan died," he said conversationally. "I was grateful, but after a couple of weeks I realized that I felt like I had to explain myself every time I stepped out the door or told Emma what to do or wandered into the kitchen for something to eat. I love my mother, we're good friends, we talk on the phone regularly. But living with her..." He shook his head. "It just didn't work. I regressed about twenty years in age. No adult likes to depend on anyone else."

She gave him honesty for honesty. "I feel like a guest," she said. "Always uncomfortable. Your house isn't...isn't home.'"

He shot her one unfathomable look. "The way I kissed you hasn't helped things, has it?"

She was surprised to feel a tiny spark of amusement. "The way you kissed me? I don't know if there would have been any better way."

His mouth curled into an easy grin, and Marian was suddenly light-headed. She could fall in love with him so easily.

She was in love with him. She was shocked by the truth. It was already too late. She loved John McRae.

Of all the impossible times to fall in love. Of all the impossible men! A stubbornly fair part of Marian insisted on reminding her that he wasn't impossible at all. He was gentle, good with the children, kind, humorous, fun to talk to, and sexy. He also thought nothing of parking his lonely daughter wherever he could whenever it was convenient. Maybe she wasn't being fair about that—he certainly hadn't deserted Emma like Mark had done to his children. But he wasn't there for her as a normal father would be, either. And especially, as a single father should be.

They reached the restaurant a few minutes later, and John escorted Marian in as if she were one of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit models. He held open the door, steered her gently after the waiter with a hand on the small of her back, pulled out the chair for her before the younger man could get to it.

Marian had to keep reminding herself that this was not a date. She was an employee receiving instruction on her duties. Except that she couldn't kid herself that it was usual for him to have taken a new housekeeper to a place like this. But then, he didn't think of her quite as he did his usual housekeepers—unless there had been more between him and Helen than he or Emma had ever hinted at.

John was well aware of Marian's mixed emotions. So far, so good, he thought. She'd let him con her into a dinner away from the kids. While they'd have to talk about real life—her role as a housekeeper—he had told her the truth: he really didn't have much idea what Helen did. Marian was great with kids, a superb cook, and, as far as he could tell, a decent housekeeper. That covered the job as far as he was concerned. What he wanted was to learn more about her. About the woman, not the mother, day-care provider, housekeeper.

So he selected a wine from the list and poured her a glass despite her protests. "Don't drink it if you don't want it," he said.

Marian eyed the glass as though it held poison, but after a few minutes of very casual conversation, she took a cautious sip, then a longer one.

As naturally as possible while they ate pasta and tender veal, John steered the conversation toward parenthood, which made the jump to his marriage not too startling.

He hadn't talked about Susan in a long while, except to his daughter and the once to Marian. And Emma wanted to hear about Mommy, not her dad's lover and wife and friend. Talking now, he realized how very long ago his marriage seemed.

"We were young," he said, shrugging. "I don't know what Susan would have thought of the move up here. She liked the city. We went riding sometimes, but somebody else saddled up the horse for her and groomed it when she was done. I don't know how she would have adapted."

"But she liked to garden," Marian said softly.

"Yeah." He gave a twisted smile. "So she did. What the hell, maybe she wouldn't have minded a goat peering in her kitchen window."

Marian winced. "But if your wife was still alive, you would never have met up with Esmerelda. I don't suppose that would have broken your heart."

Screw Esmerelda. He would have never met Marian. The thought came like a jab to the solar plexus. For the first time, John wondered if his marriage would have lasted. He had loved Susan and mourned her. But his emotions toward her had been simpler than what he felt for Marian. Less protective, less tender. He'd found his wife sexy, but had his passion for her ever been as explosive as last night's kiss? Had he ever looked at her and felt the way he had tonight when Marian started down the stairs? That red dress had swirled and reformed itself so that he could see and yet not quite see Marian's long, slender legs and gently rounded hips and breasts that he ached to touch and kiss and weigh in his palms. He'd dreamed of seeing her hair loose, of tangling his fingers in that dark silk and watching it slip over her white shoulders like rivers of night. Did she have any idea how provocative she was, coming down the stairs to him?

Had he ever watched Susan come to him and known he would have paid almost any price to have her?

A year ago he would have felt guilty for wondering at all, for not remembering; now he'd accepted Susan's death and the fact that she wouldn't be back. In one violent instant, their forever had ended.

"What about you?" he asked finally. He tried hard to sound casual. "You never mention the twins' father. I assume you're divorced?"

She hesitated, and he realized that he had probably sounded like a prospective employer. He didn't care, if she would only answer.

"Yes," she said at last. "It's been a while."

"It can't be too long."

As though in refuge she took a sip—no, closer to a gulp—of wine. "I was pregnant when he...when we separated."

"Pregnant?" John repeated incredulously. What the hell...?

Her fine dark eyes were clouded with turbulent memories, though she sounded no more than wry. "I was the only woman at the Lamaze class there by myself."

Anger stirred in John and shook itself awake. What kind of bastard would let his wife go through childbirth alone? "Is he involved with the twins at all?"

He had never heard her sound bitter, but now she gave a short, sharp laugh. "Involved? He left me because I was pregnant. No, that's not exactly true. He grudgingly accepted the fact that we were going to have a baby, even though he really didn't want children. I knew he wasn't very interested in the idea. I mean, you talk about things like that when you're dating. But people change. Don't they?"

John nodded, his fury held grimly in check.

"The pregnancy was an accident. But I was happy. And I was dumb enough to think he would be, too. When he wasn't..." She bit her lip. "And then just a few months later I had an ultrasound and the doctor broke it to me that I was having twins. I went home and told Mark. I remember him just looking at me. He didn't say a word. He was quiet all evening. The next day I went to work—at a child-care center. Isn't that ironic? I chose to work with kids all day, and then I married a man who didn't want any." She was looking everywhere but at John. "Anyway, I came home and he was gone. He left a note on the table. 'I'm sorry, but I can't face it. I'd go crazy. I'll be in touch.'" Marian drew a shuddering breath. "Most of his stuff was gone. The next day I discovered that most of the money in our bank account was gone, too. And that's it. I've never heard another word from him. I don't suppose I ever will."

"The son of a bitch," John muttered.

"I think so, too." She gave another laugh, sounding as though it had been wrenched from her by force of will. "I don't know why I told you all that. I'm sure you didn't want to hear the history of my life."

"I asked," he said. He realized his right hand was curled into a fist that he wanted badly to slam into the bastard's face. He pried his fingers open and reached across the table for Marian's hand. "Did you try to get child support out of him? The court is on your side, you know."

She seemed unaware that her hand had turned in his to return his clasp. "They tried," she said simply. "He'd left the state. There was a limit to how far they were willing to go. If I could have afforded a lawyer..." She shrugged helplessly. "Do you have any idea how many women there are like me? Hardly any men pay child support faithfully. I'll never understand. Don't they care?"

What did she want from him? he wondered, looking into her bewildered dark eyes. Reassurance that some men did care? Or that he did?

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't know why a father wouldn't want to help raise his children. Maybe with some divorces the kids get forgotten in all the anger. With your husband just walking away like that..." John shook his head. "I don't know."

"He did have good qualities." Marian gently disentangled her hand from his and reached for the wineglass. Instead of picking it up, she ran a fingertip around the fragile rim. She sounded...far away. "I have to keep reminding myself of that. If Mark wasn't...decent, I'd feel like a terrible fool now."

"Why did you marry him?"

She gave a sad shrug. "He was handsome, charming, funny. He didn't mind my animals, though he never paid much attention to them. We enjoyed the same things. At least, I thought we did. I try to remember everything I liked about him. I need to be able to tell Anna and Jesse something. The children have to believe their father was a good man."

John was left without a word to say. Good men didn't walk out on pregnant wives. But he understood why she clung to her belief, even though he wanted her to consign the bastard to hell. He wanted to be Anna and Jesse's father.

But he wasn't going to have a chance, John thought. Not while Marian needed her pride so badly. But at least he'd gained something from tonight. He understood why Marian had such shadows in her eyes. Why she was too thin, too tired, too desperate. And why she wouldn't accept any more from him than she had to.

Bleakly he realized the truth. Marian wouldn't be ready to give herself to a man until she could do so with the confidence that independence would allow her. Until she didn't need him, Marian would not let herself want him.

Well, he couldn't change the past. Maybe he couldn't even banish her shadows. But he could do one thing for her. He could track the son of a bitch down and make him pay the child support he owed. The money could free Marian from her constant worry.

The irony was, it might also free her to walk away from him. If she hadn't let herself feel anything for him, what would hold her? Emma wouldn't be enough, not if she could afford to give her children a home of their own.

He'd never gambled, not with money. But on the field, he'd taken risks all the time. Mostly they paid off. A few of them had given him scars on his knees and the end of his career. But if he hadn't taken risks at all, what would he have had? A nine-to-five job and a lot of regrets, that's what.

This was another risk he had to take. Or maybe he shouldn't think about it that way. Maybe he should see this one for what it was. A gift, for the woman he loved.

Nearly an hour later, on the way home, Marian realized that somehow they never had discussed her duties, though John had told her what the salary would be. When she protested that it was too much, he insisted that he'd paid Helen the same amount, and Marian managed to swallow her pride.

Taking advantage of the darkness in the car, she braved herself to ask whether he'd prefer if she and the twins ate dinners earlier so that he and Emma could have some time alone together.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said.

"I just don't want you to feel you have to include us in everything. We're not guests. I work for you."

"Which reminds me, why don't you go ahead and collect your menagerie. God knows we have plenty of space."

"Are you sure?" she asked again. For some ridiculous reason, she felt like crying. Here she'd talked about Mark without a sniffle, accepted the fact that she was going to be paid an absurdly high salary, but now this one last kindness crumbled her walls.

"Do you have any idea how often you've asked me that?" he said mildly.

"Sometimes I think you must be nuts," she said, digging in her purse for a tissue.

"Maybe Sleeping Beauty thought Prince Charming was nuts, too. Did you ever think of that?"

Her heart contracted. Why had she ever asked him that ridiculous question about whether all men fancied themselves as Prince Charming? She swore he used it to get under her skin. Did he have any idea how successful he was? She wanted to believe in fairy tales.

Then maybe you should believe, a small voice in her head whispered. Sleeping Beauty had let herself be awakened, had known her true love the moment she opened her eyes. What if she had squeezed her eyes shut and kept snoring? Would the brave young prince have gotten bored and ridden on in search of more adventure?

Of course, the fairy tales never went on past the romantic first kiss. Maybe he had ridden on, once he became bored with marriage. Maybe Sleeping Beauty had been a fool not to take a better look.

And maybe Marian was just tired. "He probably was crazy," she retorted. "Either that or mercenary. Risking your life to rescue some woman who's been asleep for a hundred years doesn't exactly sound sensible. But marrying for a nice fat kingdom—that might be worth taking some risks for."

"What a romantic!" John said in amusement. "Do you provide footnotes when you're reading fairy tales to the kids?"

"No," she said, in a voice that sounded odd even to her. "I let them dream."

He gave her a quick look but didn't comment. Marian wondered then what he was thinking, and she still wondered in the days that followed.

Life settled into a routine, bittersweet because it was so close to what Marian both wanted and feared. In the intervening days he hadn't kissed her again, though he smiled at her often with rakish charm. He touched her, too; nothing she could object to, just a hand on her shoulder, his body brushing hers as he passed in the kitchen. And they talked—comparing tastes in movies, books, and horses, friends and jokes. She discovered that he thought no more about washing Jesse's face and lifting him down from the booster seat than he did of making Emma's lunch. So, after a joyous reunion with her pets, Marian did her best to settle in. She gradually unpacked her possessions, acclimated the cats to their new home, and tried to convince the dogs that there were some parts of the house where they didn't belong.

The hardest part was calling her day-care customers to let them know she wouldn't be going back into business. Each call represented a child she had grown to like or even love. She'd baby-sat a couple of them for over two years now. She had taught four-year-old Lizzie her letters, Crystal how to get along with other children. She had read them stories, hugged them, rocked them to sleep. And now she was letting them down.

Of course, they were growing up and would have left her someday anyway. But kindergarten was a milestone, something they and she would have been ready for. This was too sudden. She couldn't even hug them good-bye.

Lizzie came on the phone to say good-bye herself, and by the time Marian hung up she was crying. She had convinced herself that Emma needed her more than the others, but what if she was wrong?

She was wiping her cheeks and didn't know John had come into the kitchen until he said gently, "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Oh, I was just talking to...to Lizzie. One of my kids. Do you remember her?"

"The one who wanted to give her breakfast to the dogs?"

Marian gave a watery chuckle. "Yeah, that's her. Lizzie was my first child. I'm going to miss her."

"Maybe she'd like to come over and play one of these Saturdays. Ride Snowball."

"Do you mean that?" she asked, then flushed. "Good heavens, I sound like I expect you to be Scrooge. And you like children, don't you?"

"Sure I do." He gave her braid a tug. "Have 'em all over. Have a party. Do whatever you want. Speaking of which, you're on your own in about one hour. I'd better go pack. Kansas City this weekend."

The juxtaposition of topics chilled Marian. I love children. So take good care of mine for a few days. Sometimes she could almost kid herself that he was her Prince Charming. Only then Friday would roll around. And Fridays meant a casual flip of the hand, a kiss on his daughter's cheek, and his car disappearing down the lane. John McRae was a wonderful father only until he'd rather be somewhere else. She couldn't help wondering if he would be the same kind of husband.

CHAPTER 9

"What do you think?" John asked proudly.

Marian inspected the six-foot-high wire pen. It looked like something designed for a prisoner-of-war camp. "I think you can keep her in this time," she conceded. "At least, if you fixed the latch so she can't get her nose through... You did. Congratulations," she teased, applauding. "Of course, she can't eat too many blackberries in there."

"She wasn't eating the damn blackberries, anyway." He scowled at Esmerelda, who stared through the wire at them. "She likes the grain I buy for the horses better."

"Not to mention my compost," Marian said. She had started a discreet pile behind the barn in hopes of adding it in a few months to the small flower beds she had begun digging out around the house. She had wondered why her pile wasn't growing, until she circled the barn one day to find the goat happily crunching away on carrot peels and wilted celery.

John tapped his knuckles against a corner post. "Solid construction. I've foiled her now."

"My hero," Marian murmured, batting her eyes.

"Hey, watch it," he said in mock threat. "I'll let her in your garden if you don't behave yourself."

Marian wrinkled her nose. "Do you suppose she'd like rosebushes?"

"Are you kidding? An animal that eats blackberry vines for breakfast? She must have a mouth like industrial-grade sandpaper."

"Pretty close," Marian admitted, poking her fingers through a wire square to scratch Esmerelda's rough head. "Has she ever licked you?"

"I don't let her get close enough." He sighed and picked up his hammer and bag of nails. "I'd better get back to work."

"Me, too," Marian said. "The twins will be waking up any time."

Neither of them made any move to leave. Marian knew why she didn't want to, but John was usually more decisive. At last, in a surprisingly diffident tone, he asked, "Any chance I could talk you into going riding tomorrow?"

"Horseback riding?" she asked, foolishly.

His brows rose. "Is that so strange? We do breed horses here, you know."

"Well, of course I know..." She threw up her hands. "It's just that I haven't been on a horse in...heavens, probably ten years. I outgrew Snowball a while ago, you know."

His grin was crooked and disarming. "No kidding. What were you in, first grade?"

She made a face at him. "Maybe third."

"So? Are you trying to tell me you haven't ridden since?"

"I rode regularly with a friend until I got married. But that's been a long time." She stopped. "Am I making excuses?"

' 'Mm-hmm.''

Marian surrendered. "I'd love to go riding. As long as you realize I' m better at leading a fat little pony around the pasture than I am at staying on one of your Arabians."

"Rafcarah is gentle as a lamb. Trust me."

Did she? Of course, she knew the answer: up to a point. She trusted him Monday through Thursday; Friday she wavered, Saturday she was angry, and Sunday she longed for him to come home. She'd only been here two weeks and already it was a pattern.

"When the twins are at playschool?" she suggested tentatively. They had started at the cooperative preschool the previous week, giving Marian a couple of mornings a week on her own.

"You're on."

*****

Which was why she found herself atop a dainty dappled gray mare the next day, heading out on what John called "the two-hour loop."

"It won't take longer than that, will it?" Marian asked nervously. "I do have to pick up Anna and Jesse."

His grin flashed. "Won't take that long if we hurry."

Considering that she had ridden regularly once upon a time, Marian felt ridiculously precarious in the saddle. Rafcarah was mannerly, but every so often she tossed her head so that her silver mane foamed across her sleek neck, or the mare danced sideways just a step or two to let Marian know that she was eager.

"I don't know if I'm ready to hurry."

"Not even for a nice lope?" he coaxed.

Really, she wasn't any likelier to fall off now than she would be in ten minutes. "What the heck," she agreed, feeling reckless.

There was an approving glint in John's eyes. Or was it the way he looked at Marian that made her feel reckless in the first place?

"Lead on," he said, gesturing like a gendeman escorting a lady onto the dance floor.

Marian didn't even have to squeeze her legs around the mare. The loosened reins were enough of a signal. The lope was gende, smooth, exhilarating. The pasture, green turning to gold with winter nearing, sloped down toward a creek and the stand of white-barked alders mixed with darker cedars that rose from its other side. The leaves of the alders were brilliant yellow and orange, falling in drifts that covered the trail and made Marian think fancifully of the yellow brick road.

John urged his horse ahead of hers, and both Arabs splashed into the creek without hesitation. Marian grabbed for the saddle horn when Rafcarah bounded up the other side.

"Race?" John challenged. His hair was windblown, his lean face relaxed. In faded denim he looked like the cowboy he was, as graceful on horseback as he ever was on a football field.

It suddenly occurred to Marian that she couldn't remember the last time she had done something impetuous, foolish, glorious. Or when she had been so happy. That thought was a wondering one. This was one of those rare moments when she was aware of her own emotions with every fiber of her body. She wasn't just content, but radiantly, blissfully happy.

So she held on tightly to the saddlehorn and kicked the mare. "Let's get 'em, Rafcarah!"

The words were snatched away by wind as the mare sprang forward. She caught one glimpse of John's startled face, then heard him laugh.

It really wasn't much of a race. For the most part the trail was too narrow for John's gelding to pass, anyway. But the run—the wind tugging Marian's hair from her braid, the power of the animal beneath her, the muted thud of thundering hooves, the crisp air and peaceful autumn countryside—conspired to make her laugh with joy. When at last the trail came out of the woods onto a dirt lane, Marian pulled Rafcarah up. Her legs ached and she knew she would regret this gallop tomorrow.

John eased his horse to a stop beside her. "God, you're beautiful," he said abruptly.

Marian's cheeks were already glowing, but she would have sworn they became hotter. "More like the wicked witch of the West," she protested, trying to keep the moment light. "My hair..." She reached up to run her fingers through the tangled, wind-whipped mass in an unsuccessful search for the ponytail holder.

"Beautiful," he repeated, his voice a notch huskier. "Don't you believe that?"

"I..." His disturbingly intense gaze robbed her of coherent thought. "I don't know."

He reached out and gently lifted her chin, his touch a potent caress. "That husband of yours has a lot to answer for."

"I don't know what you mean..." she said self-consciously.

"This is what I mean," he said, and urged his horse close enough to Rafcarah for him to bend his head and kiss Marian. The kiss was brief but thorough, and as exhilarating as the gallop.

When he raised his head, there was a molten glow in his eyes and his mouth was tender and sensual. He looked down at her for a moment, during which she couldn't breathe or think, and then as suddenly as the interlude had begun, John kicked his gelding into a trot, leaving Marian and Rafcarah to trail behind.

He scared her, Marian thought, her feelings as tangled as her hair. No, she scared herself. When John kissed her, when he touched her, she didn't care what kind of parent he was. She didn't care if he was too much like Mark for comfort. She knew only that she had been sleeping, and he had awakened her.

*****

John had set his lawyer to the task of finding Marian's husband the morning after the dinner when he'd coaxed her story from her.

"What we want is a private investigator," said the attorney, George Browder. "If you're willing to take my recommendation, we have one who does work for our firm regularly."

"Hire him," John said. "I'll try to get some more information from her, but no matter what happens, she isn't to find out I'm behind this. I want the SOB to pay, but she'd never agree to my taking on the expense of finding her ex-husband. That's a condition for the investigator. Got it?"

"Got it," the attorney agreed.

John hung up the phone with the unpleasant awareness of having taken an irrevocable step. He sat behind his desk brooding, facing the fact that he almost hoped the PI couldn't find Marian's ex-husband.

"Damn," he finally said softly. "Damn."

*****

The tension between Marian and John came out into the open that Friday. It started when Emma's teacher, Mrs. Rogers, called at ten-thirty in the morning.

She introduced herself and said, "May I speak to Emma's father?"

Alarmed, Marian said, "Is something wrong? He's out in the barn. I'm Marian Wells, the housekeeper."

The teacher's voice relaxed. "No, no, nothing serious. The thing is, we're on a field trip at the TV station..."

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, Emma isn't feeling very good. We've had a flu going around, and I'm afraid she has it. Fortunately, we'll be ready to board the bus to go back to school in just a few minutes, but I'm hoping you or her father can come get her once we're there. She's thrown up only once, but..."

"Of course I'll pick her up! Can I meet you there in Seattle?"

"No, really, we're about to leave. You couldn't get here any faster than it'll take us to get back. Probably just a little over an hour, if that's convenient."

"Of course," Marian said again, and rang off. Poor Emma! For the first time, she'd invited a friend from school to come over Saturday to play and ride Snowball, and Emma had been so excited. At the very least they would have to cancel her friend's visit, and at worst Emma would be stuck in bed feeling wretched. After which Anna and Jesse would undoubtedly catch the bug, and then Marian probably would, and then John and then...Isaiah?

The barns seemed to be deserted, with even Isaiah nowhere to be seen. The two stablehands must have left for lunch, which came early after the horrible hour they started in the morning.

"John?" Marian called, when she slipped in the huge double doors to the smaller stallion bam. Her voice echoed, and she was answered by the thud of hooves against a wooden stall door.

The next moment, John appeared in the doorway of a stall halfway down the aisle, wearing jeans, high rubber boots, and a heavy sweater. A pitchfork twined with straw was in his hand. "Yeah?"

Marian hurried toward him. "The school just called, Emma's sick."

Frowning, he leaned the pitchfork up against the wall. "Seriously?"

"Well, no, the teacher says probably the flu, but she wants me to pick Emma up as soon as they get back from their field trip."

"Oh, Lord, the TV station. She was hoping they'd recognize her as a star on sight so she could give up school and be in a sitcom. She's going to be crushed if she had to sit it out."

Marian laughed, despite her worry. "She said she'd settle for a commercial. Maybe for Barbie dolls."

John laughed, too, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. Catching sight of his watch, he said, "Damn, I've got to get cleaned up."

"Cleaned up...?" she began, then remembered. Friday. His time to cut and run. How could she have forgotten? "But you're not leaving yet, are you? Surely you'll want to see Emma."

"I don't have time," he said decisively. "Anyway, it's not the first and it won't be the last time she has the flu. She'll live without me."

His tone was so offhand, Marian was chilled. He had established his priorities all too clearly.

He reached for the pitchfork, then stopped when he caught sight of her face. "What's wrong?"

Anger made her voice brittle. "I just can't believe you aren't going to wait long enough to be sure Emma's okay."

His own voice became crisper. "Marian, there's a reason I have a housekeeper instead of depending on day-care. This is it."

"In other words, that's what you hired me for. To take care of your daughter when you're unable or unwilling to."

"Unwilling?" He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell does that mean?"

"That means I think Emma should come first." Marian felt as though all the blood had left her face, and her lips moved stiffly. "You're a single parent. Emma doesn't have anyone else to take responsibility for her."

Very quietly, he said, "Are you trying to tell me I don't?"

Marian knew she had long overstepped any right she had, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. "Sometimes that's the way it looks to me."

John's tension showed in the rigid set of his neck and shoulders, though he still didn't raise his voice. "But then, you have a slight bias, don't you?"

The air seemed to crackle, making it hard to breathe. "Maybe," she said, sounding stifled.

"Let's make sure all the cards are on the table here." He crossed his arms. "You think, because I have a job that takes me away a couple of days a week, for maybe five months a year, that I'm a lousy father."

"I didn't say you were a lousy—"

His interruption sliced across her protest like a sharp knife. "Just irresponsible."

Marian felt suddenly panicky. "Not irrespon—"

"No?" he said coldly.

"Why couldn't you stay home while Emma is young and needs you so much?" she burst out. "Why couldn't you have waited?"

"You think I should have been a full-time parent for a few years."

"Yes!"

"And it never occurred to you that your perception might be a little warped by that son of a bitch you were married to?"

"I..." The words died. Had she been so grossly unfair? Or had Mark's ultimate irresponsibility only opened her eyes to lesser forms of it?

John's cool abruptly cracked. "God damn it, Marian, I'm not your ex-husband! I haven't walked out on my daughter and I never would! And, by God, I wouldn't walk out on you, either!"

She licked dry lips. "I'm not the issue."

"Oh, yes, you are! Don't tell me that hasn't crossed your mind."

Again, she couldn't lie. Marian stood there, frozen, horrified by everything she had said and by the anger he radiated.

"Well, since you asked, I'll tell you why I work."

"Please…"

But she was far too late. "I was a low draft choice. At twenty-one I was still tripping over my own feet. I was so glad to make it with the Rams, I signed a contract that didn't pay me a hell of a lot more than the bag boy at the grocery store gets. Yeah, I had a few high-paying seasons before the last knee injury, but not enough." The muscles in his jaw clenched and he gestured tightiy. "You know how much a place like this costs to set up?"

She shook her head, mute.

"A bundle. Took everything Isaiah and I had. And it's not going to pay back for a while. Those little weekend jaunts foot the bill for the ranch. And you want to know something else?" He stalked a couple of strides away from her, then swung back. "I wasn't ready to do nothing but muck out stalls. Does that make me a lousy father, because I still wanted to accomplish something with my life?"

Marian shook her head. Doubt clutched her, and it was all she could do to hold her head up and meet his eyes.

"What the hell was I supposed to do?" he demanded. "I was thirty-four years old, my career gone to hell, and my wife dead in a car accident. Was I supposed to live for parenthood? Would that have been right for me or Emma?"

Again she shook her head. Faced with her own prejudice, she was badly shaken. Had she seen the entire world through the filter of her own bitterness? How could she have let Mark do this to her?

"No," she said, squeezing her fingers together so tightly they hurt. "No. I didn't know enough about you to make a judgment. I'm sorry, John. I was...it was none of my business anyway. I...I don't have any excuse..."

"No. Don't do this, Marian." Suddenly he was in front of her, his hands gripping her shoulders. His gaze was so intense, it stripped her of defenses. "I want it to be your business."

Marian felt raw, frighteningly vulnerable. Was he saying what she thought...? But she quit thinking, because he abruptly bent his head and took her mouth. She moaned, and the kiss deepened. Her blood sang in her ears, deafening her. Under her hands, automatically raised to brace against his chest, she felt his heartbeat, somehow in time with hers like a chorus of African drums, primitive and compelling.

She wrapped her arms around his neck so that she could hold on. His body was long and powerful against hers, both familiar and strange, comforting and terrifying. How could a kiss be so tender even as it asked so much? Marian couldn't think clearly enough to answer, but her body seemed to be doing it for her.

Desire was a heavy warmth inside that weakened her even while it gave her strength. If there was a decision to be made, she had already made it. She heard herself moan again as she kissed him back, curled her fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, pressed herself against him.

He shuddered, and then, without breaking the kiss, he swung her into his arms and carried her into the empty stall. He lowered her to the thick bedding of straw and followed her down. She had dreamed of him above her like this, his eyes blazing down at her before his mouth captured hers again. Now his hands were free to rove, to touch and caress and sample the gentle curves of her body. When his hand went under her shirt, her bare skin shivered in reaction, and when he cupped her breast over the lacy bra, she whimpered.

But when he groaned and lifted himself enough to start tugging her shirt off, she foggily realized what they were doing—and where they were doing it.

"What if somebody comes?" she whispered.

"They won't," he said raggedly. "They just left for lunch."

"Oh." She hated the reminder of mundane reality. He must have felt her hesitancy, because he stilled, his fingers curled around her shirt. He held himself up on one elbow, his breathing harsh and his face taut with restraint.

"Am I going too fast?"

She wanted to cry, Don't make me choose! But that was exactly what he wanted: Her to come to him freely, to be certain that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

And somehow she found the courage to whisper, "No. Please. Kiss me."

His eyes blazed, and then he took her at her word. This kiss was passionate, starving, physical hunger out of control. Pleasure shuddered through Marian, blurring reality. All that counted was this moment, John's touch and kiss and weight heavy on her:

Her shirt was gone, the straw scratchy under her back. John unfastened her bra, lifted his head to look at her bare breasts, creamy skin, and puckered pink nipples. If she had not been lost before, she would have been when she saw the expression on his face. Wonder, heat, desperation. His calloused fingers were rough against her sensitive skin, but his touch was as gentle as he could make it. And when he bent his head to kiss her breasts, to nip and taste and tease, she cried out. It was she who tugged his sweater off so that her hands could travel over the damp, strong expanse of his back, feeling the muscles tighten at her exploring touch.

And then he was kissing her again, stroking between her jean-clad legs until she squirmed under him and tried to pull him onto her. He half laughed, half groaned.

"That's it, love," he murmured. "I want you around me. All around me."

She had imagined this so many times, dreaming and awake. She didn't know which she was this time, didn't care. His body was more beautiful even than she'd imagined, the muscles long and supple, his chest broad and his hips narrow. When he raised himself to kick his jeans off, she sucked in her breath, and he said hoarsely, "Look all you want, love. I'm going to disappear inside you any minute."

Her stomach clenched at the thought and a ripple of excitement ran through her. His hands gentled her like a fractious filly as he slowly eased her jeans and panties off. He touched the matted dark curls, slid his finger into her, and then said in a voice that sounded nothing like his, "I want to go slow and I can't. Sweetheart, I'm sorry..."

In answer Marian smiled and arched her hips. "Now," she whispered. "I want you."

He groaned again, deep in his throat, and accepted her invitation. The first stroke was long and slow; sweetness and agony, pleasure piercing her like a revelation. This was like galloping with the wind, spending herself with laughter, dying of thirst and swallowing ice-cold water, holding her newborn babies—all the joys of her life in one, and surpassed. She did wrap her legs around him, held on to him for safety in the whirlwind, and let herself be blown away.

She was spun in the power of their lovemaking until she was hopelessly, helplessly dizzy, spiraling to the end. Her convulsions were joined by his, and she knew the heady satisfaction of giving as much as she had taken.

Dreamy, drained, Marian became conscious in only tiny bits of their surroundings. John's weight first, then the straw scraping at her back. The warmth of the bam, a soft whicker a few stalls away. The rich aroma of hay and horse. Something tickling at her nose, and then the rumble as John chuckled against her neck.

"Maybe the bed would have been better, Emma or no."

"Mmm," she said incoherently.

"Am I crushing you?" He turned his head to brush a tender kiss over her swollen lips.

"Mmm," she said again, refusing to let go of the mindless peace.

At last he rolled off her onto his back, pulling her with him. In surprise, Marian shook her hair back from her face and sat astride him. He smiled at her, a deep glow in his eyes, and reached up to cup her breasts in his palms. "Beautiful," he said huskily.

She smiled back with unconscious sensuality and said, "You, too. Except..." she wrinkled her nose, "maybe those scars on your knees."

His grin deepened the creases in his cheeks. "I didn't think you ever got below the, uh...waist."

Startled, Marian laughed. "I guess not," she admitted.

"Care to look your fill?"

"I thought I already did that."

His chest vibrated under her hands when he laughed. Marian felt deliriously wanton—and increasingly conscious of the passing time and the broad aisle just beyond the open stall door. She needed to pick up Emma. And John's flight... "I hate to say it..." she began.

"But we'd better get dressed and respectable. I know." His big hands came up to frame her face and his expression became heart stoppingly tender. "I wish I didn't have to leave, but I owe them..."

"No." She covered his mouth. "It's okay. I know you do. Emma will be fine, and I'll be waiting. I promise."

"I'll call you," he said.

Marian leaned down to give him a quick kiss. "I like your phone calls," she said softly.

His eyes darkened. "Then I'll call once an hour."

"And I'll watch you on TV," she promised.

"You can watch me any time," he said, and pulled her down to him for a kiss that was neither tender nor quick.

*****

He was his usual self on television: sharp-witted, funny, knowledgeable, relaxed. Marian watched the half-time show with the kids at her feet turning the living room into a giant city peopled by princesses and kings and one Tyrannosaurus Rex. Watching John the first time on television had been disorienting enough—she knew him, he'd stood in her living room the day before. But this time she gazed at the screen with two images wavering over each other: the man who was comfortable, smiling, charismatic, talking on about intensity levels and the number of holding penalties and similar incomprehensible stuff, and the man who'd held her astride him, his hands on her breasts and his face taut with passion.

The man she knew, and the man she didn't.

Of course, on Friday, once he had left for the airport and poor flushed Emma had been soothed to sleep and the twins fed and tucked in, Marian had had second thoughts. She had grounds for her wariness of him. She might have been unfair—she had been unfair—but that didn't change the fact that he was wealthy, successful, and famous, while she was just like a million other women whose husbands had walked out on them. Poor, tired, and frantic. Why was he attracted to her? Would it last?

And could he have made other choices about his job? Maybe the ranch could have waited for a few years, or he could have done endorsements or television commercials that wouldn't have taken him away from home so often. How had Emma felt, when she had just lost her mother, to have her father disappear for several days of every week? Did Marian want to love a man who hadn't put his daughter first? Did she have a choice?

But then she remembered his hands on her breasts, the look on his face, the heat of his kisses, and flushed. And she remembered his anger and his accusation. She would not let Mark taint her relationship with John.

“I wouldn't walk out on my daughter, and by God, I wouldn't walk out on you, either.”

John wasn't the same kind of man as Mark. If she loved him, if she really loved him, maybe trust had to be part of the package.

On Sunday afternoon, she had barely turned off the TV set when the phone rang.

Emma beat her to it. "Daddy!" she exclaimed joyously. "I'm all better. I even ate breakfast. And Marian let me have a 7-Up while we watched you on TV."

She prattled on happily and insisted on Jesse and Anna whispering hello into the phone before she passed the receiver to Marian, who took it and smiled.

"Would you like to speak to Esmerelda, too?"

John's response was unprintable.

"Didn't the game just end? Are you calling from the stadium?" Marian asked.

"It's a taped delay on the West Coast. I'm back at the hotel, throwing my stuff in a suitcase so I can get home."

"Good," Marian said softly. She glanced at the kids, but they were no longer paying any attention. Tyrannosaurus Rex was wreaking havoc.

"Uh..." John cleared his throat. "I wanted to ask you something."

"That's ominous." She tried to speak lightiy.

"I'd like to take you out to dinner tomorrow night."

Her pulse accelerated. "You mean, like a..." She hesitated.

"A date. Exactly. Maybe we could go whole hog and make it all the way to Seattle. The Comedy Club? Or do you like jazz?"

Could he possibly sound nervous? "I'd love that," she said.

A moment later, she hung up, smiling but trembling a little inside, too. A date. A real, honest-to-good- ness, old-fashioned date, like she hadn't been on in years.

She could hardly wait for John's good-night kiss.

CHAPTER 10

In the dark auditorium, the sweet sounds of Graver Washington's saxophone floated gently through the air, sank to a whisper, and at last shimmered into a silence as eloquent as the music.

The audience in Seattle's elegant, restored Paramount Theatre sat unmoving, hushed, straining for any last trickles of sweetness, before erupting into applause. Since this had been the second encore, the lights came on then and the audience gracefully if reluctantly began to file out.

John's hand on her shoulder steered Marian through the packed crowd and out a side exit. He had accomplished a miracle in finding tickets to a sold-out concert at the last minute, but maybe that was what fame and fortune did for you, Marian thought ruefully.

Grover Washington's magical playing had only been the cap to a perfect evening. A perfect evening that wasn't over.

"So what did you think?" John asked, once they were in the car and heading toward the freeway on-ramp.

"It was wonderful," Marian said simply. "I haven't been to a concert in...oh, ages. And never one like that."

John reached out and took her hand in a warm clasp. "I like other kinds of music, but jazz is my favorite. I'm getting too old for stadiums. Not much is worth standing in line for. Or, God forbid, standing during the concert."

"Mm-hmm," Marian murmured.

His fingers tightened. "Although I don't feel so old tonight."

"And you usually do?" she teased.

"There's something about children. All that energy. And watching Emma grow up..." In the darkness she felt more than saw his shrug. "The years are passing right in front of me."

"It must get worse when they really grow up," she mused. "In ten years Jesse'll be taller than I am. And then the day comes when they'll die of humiliation if somebody actually sees them out with Mom or Dad."

"And then there's the day they leave home."

Marian secretly dreaded that time, which was ridiculous when her children were still a few months away from their third birthday. She couldn't help wondering if John had deliberately introduced the subject to remind her that their children were only a small part of their lives. That they had to have a life left after the children were gone.

And maybe she should remember that more often. It had been a long while since anything but Anna and Jesse had seemed important. Now she had something—someone—else. At least for the moment, Marian couldn't bear to question or doubt.

They talked comfortably on the drive home, John about the personalities of some of his sports colleagues, Marian about the kids and Isaiah and Emma's stories from school and the field trip.

"She was crushed," Marian said humorously. "Nobody at the station paid any attention to her. She said they were so busy and it wasn't exciting at all. Being a television star looked bo-ring." She drew the word out the way Emma had, and John laughed.

"Poor Emma. She wants the world to fall at her feet."

To Marian it seemed natural that a child who had lost her mother would crave attention, but she said only, "It may yet. She's going to be beautiful. And smart."

John gave her an amused glance. "You're almost as prejudiced as I am."

At home, he used the remote control to open the garage door, then close it behind them. In the silence of the garage, he turned off the car lights. Nervousness and excitement fluttered in Marian's stomach, and she made no move to get out.

John turned to face her, though she couldn't see his expression in the darkness. "I have to drive the baby-sitter home," he said.

"Yes?" Had her voice squeaked?

"I hope you'll wait up for me, but just in case..." One big hand twined in her hair and tugged her toward him. She made a small sound in the back of her throat and went.

The kiss was deep, slow, and satisfying. But not enough. Never enough. Marian almost sobbed when John's mouth left hers, but when she let her head fall back, he trailed kisses down her throat. At the barrier of the dress's neckline, he groaned and lifted his head.

His voice was husky with mixed passion and amusement. "I haven't necked in the car since I was sixteen."

"I feel about sixteen."

"Mmm." His answer was muffled against her lips, though this time his kiss was exquisitely gentle, so tender that tears prickled at the back of her eyelids.

At last he set her away from him and heaved a sigh. "Damn. I wish the baby-sitter could drive."

"It won't take you long," Marian said hopefully.

He sighed again. "Well, shall we go in and face the worst?"

"The kids will have been asleep for hours," she reminded him.

John had no sooner opened the door to the kitchen when they heard the distant wail. "Famous last words," he muttered.

"I want Daddy! I want Mar-Marian!"

Marian's heart sank. Why couldn't they have all been peacefully asleep? Then she felt selfish for her momentary rebellion.

The harassed baby-sitter looked up eagerly when Marian and John appeared in the bathroom doorway. Emma was throwing up in the toilet.

"She woke up sick about an hour ago," the teenager said before adding fervently, "I'm glad you're home."

Understatement of the world. Marian, competent as ever, took over, helping Emma rinse out her mouth and wash her face and change into a clean nightgown. After assuring himself that his daughter wouldn't die, John left to take the baby-sitter home.

Just before he left, John and Marian exchanged a despairing look. So much for waiting up for him.

For the moment, what she would be doing was sitting up with a sick child, bowl in hand. True romance.

*****

Emma's relapse only lasted twenty-four hours, but was exhausting nonetheless. That week Marian began to feel as if she were tripping over children. Every time John cornered her alone, along would come one of the three. Or Isaiah. Or a stablehand. Or even Esmerelda, who peered interestedly in the window at them when they were kissing.

"Why is she out?" Marian whispered.

"I felt sorry for her," John growled. "I didn't want her to get lonely..."

Marian couldn't help it. She started laughing. "The big tough cowboy!"

A reluctant grin tilted one corner of his mouth. "She is the only goat."

"Why don't you get her a boyfriend, then?"

"So they can have sweet little baby goats? Who can dig up some more daffodil bulbs?"

"More?"

"I stuck them back in. I hope right side up. What was left of them."

Marian broke away and headed for the door. This time, John laughed. By the time he quit, Emma and the end of any hope of peace had arrived in the kitchen.

Not once in that week did John suggest, or even hint, that they retire to his bedroom. Marian wasn't quite brave enough to suggest it herself. Even his kisses, at those rare moments they found themselves alone, were gentle, coaxing rather than demanding. He was holding back; but why? Marian couldn't decide whether he was courting her, or living up to his word. What had he said? That he wouldn't take a lover in the same house as his daughter?

Marian wished, very much, that he would.

Except...she had qualms of her own. She felt a little like the beggar maid in love with the king. She overheard John on the phone a couple of times, assertive to the point of being aggressive. He expected the best, and he expected it now. All Marian ever hoped for was just to get by.

John was tactful enough to be sure she never had to ask for money; he paid her promptly, unemotionally, and left cash for housekeeping on the kitchen counter for her to find. She was grateful for that. She would have hated to stand in front of him and say, "Please, may I have money to go to the store now?"

With the weekend, John left again. Philadelphia, this time. Emma had her friend from school out, and though it drizzled, Snowball was a big success. Patient as ever, he plodded around the covered arena for over an hour, taking all four children in turn, chased by Aja happily yapping.

"You're lucky!” Emma's young friend said ardently when her mother arrived to pick her up.

The mother made a face. "She's dying for a horse. Now she'll never give us any peace."

"Sorry," Marian said apologetically. "She did have fun."

"Maybe Emma could come and visit us next Saturday."

"Cool!" Emma said.

Unfortunately, she'd been spoiled by having someone her own age to play with, and was a pill all day Sunday.

"Anna and Jesse are no fun to play with. I have to tell them what to say," she complained.

"They're only two," Marian reminded her.

"I know, but I wish they knew how to play."

"They're learning from you."

"I don't feel like being a teacher. Can I watch TV?"

"Nope," Marian said cheerfully. "I'm going to watch your dad. Besides, you spent an hour and a half in front of the TV this morning. That's enough for one day."

"You're mean," Emma declared, and flounced out of the kitchen. Marian stuck her tongue out after the five-year-old, then blushed when she turned back to discover Isaiah standing at the kitchen door, looking in through the glass, his hand raised to knock. She actually thought she saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

When John called Sunday afternoon, he asked her on another date.

"What do you think, do you want to go to the opera or a drive-in movie?" he asked, tongue-in- cheek.

"A drive-in movie," Marian answered without hesitation. "That sounds like fun."

"A woman of true refinement," he teased, and she hung up a minute later, smiling.

*****

John had called his attorney a couple of times for progress reports on the search for Mark Wells. Skip tracing, the investigator had called it. On the Tuesday after the concert, George Browder announced that they'd found him. "In Atlanta. Turns out he has grandparents there. Doing well, according to the investigator. Does something in quality control for a small airplane manufacturer. Good money, has a sizable savings account." He named a figure, then added, "Remarried, too."

John swore savagely. "And he hasn't sent her a cent. God, I'd like to get my hands on him."

"I'll turn the screws," the attorney promised, sounding as though he'd do it with pleasure. He had kids of his own, teenagers. He said, "I could add some teeth to it if I had her okay."

"No." John was implacable. "She has to think he's come through on his own."

"You know, she might be grateful to you."

"I don't want her grateful." He was also increasingly dreading the day the first check arrived from her ex-husband, and Marian realized that with it supplementing her day-care business, she didn't need John or this job. But that was the risk he had chosen to take at the beginning. "Tell him he'll find himself in court if he doesn't suffer an attack of conscience and start paying."

"Including a retroactive sum," Browder agreed. "He's in no position to fight it."

So when John took Marian to the drive-in, he knew his time was running out. On the football field they called it crunch time. He was tempted to push her, to make love to her until she didn't know which way was up, to exact promises of forever from her. But he didn't want her keeping a promise because she felt honor-bound; he wanted her coming to him free and clear, following her own heart.

Most of all, what he didn't want was to wonder for the rest of his life whether his home and money, the security he offered her, even his daughter, might be what attracted Marian as much as he personally did. It couldn't be conscious on her part; he knew her better than that. But love was complicated, never simple. And his doubt was an ache he couldn't quite forget, however much he might want to.

So this last week he'd let himself court her, kiss her as often and as long as he could without ripping her clothes off, and enjoy her company. Her soft, startled ripple of laughter, the heavy dark silk of her hair that swayed with her every graceful movement, her gentleness and patience with the children, the recklessness that had allowed her to give Rafcarah her head—and the generosity with which she'd given herself. The last was an uncomfortable memory, one he exorcised in hard, sweaty work in the barn.

Darkness was falling Monday evening when they pulled into Marysville's Thunderbird Drive-in and found a spot off to one side. John tested the creaky sound of the speaker, then grimaced and turned it off.

"What d'ya say, shall we get some popcorn?"

"After pizza?"

"I'm hungry," he said simply.

Marian succumbed. "Oh, well, why not?"

They were cozily ensconced back in the car with soda and popcorn by the time the credits began to roll. On the giant screen, the car chase was blurry, and already their windshield was fogging.

"My parents used to take me to a drive-in sometimes," Marian said nostalgically. "I'd be in my pajamas, and they'd fold down the back-seat of our wagon so I could stretch out with my pillow and sleeping bag. About halfway through whatever we saw, I'd fall asleep. I don't think I've been to a drive-in since."

John snaked a long arm around her shoulder and pulled her comfortably against him. They had come in the pickup, which didn't have bucket seats.

"So we can cuddle," he'd explained.

Now he kissed the top of her head and said, "We're regressing together. First we date like we're twenty-five, then we neck like we're sixteen, now we go to the drive-in like we're..." He stopped. "Hell, I still feel like I'm sixteen. I can hardly wait until the windshield fogs up enough so nobody can see in."

Marian blushed, grateful for the darkness. She felt exposed with glass all around them and another car only a few feet away and an occasional dark figure passing the truck toward the snack bar. On the other hand, this was the closest to being alone they'd managed all week.

And when, half an hour later, John gave her braid a gentle pull, Marian didn't have the slightest idea what was happening in the movie. The sound wasn't very good, and the feel of John's long, hard thigh pressed against hers was considerably more exciting.

When she turned to smile at him, his mouth covered hers. The kiss was masterful, seductive, and intoxicating.

"You don't kiss like a sixteen-year-old," she whispered breathlessly.

"Neither do you," he murmured, and kissed her again.

Who cared about the movie?

*****

On Wednesday morning the attorney phoned. Marian called John to the phone. "It's a George Browder." She didn't sound curious, but John felt guilty anyway.

"I'll take it in my office." When he picked up the receiver, he said, "Okay," and heard the click as she replaced the kitchen extension. "Hello, George. What do you have?"

"Nice voice," the attorney said, his own tinged with amusement.

"She's a nice woman," John said.

"She's going to be a happy one pretty soon, too. Her ex agreed to pay up. I talked to him on the phone. I think he's glad I found him. I've run into that before. The longer he went without paying, the harder it was to call her and say, 'I'm sorry.' But he swears he'll write her and send a sizable check. And he swears he won't mention me or my client."

"Yeah, he'll look better that way," John muttered. "I wish we didn't have to make it so easy for him."

The lawyer grunted. "The only thing to be said for it is that he's more likely to keep paying without constant prodding this way. Anyway, I just thought I'd let you know you've done your good deed. Call me if he doesn't come through."

Half an hour later, John was still brooding over his own mixed feelings when Marian returned from taking the twins to their morning playschool.

"You're not out at the barn," she said in surprise, when she walked in to find him sipping coffee and leaning against the kitchen counter while he gazed out the window.

"I was waiting for you," he said with a shrug, and meant it. God, did he mean it. "Come here."

She dropped her purse and came. "Maybe if you tried 'please,' " she murmured and flowed into his arms.

"Please," he said, just as he bent his head and captured her mouth. Something unpleasantly close to fear was churning in his stomach. What if she thanked him, packed up, and left? What if she didn't love him enough to stay, given a real choice? What if...?

He buried that ache in the kiss—intense, passionate, all-consuming. Nothing like his kisses lately. He felt surprise tremble through her, and then her answer. Wholehearted and generous, she kissed him back. Her arms came around his neck, her mouth opened softly, her body melted against his. And he had to have her. His need was a drive so powerful he didn't even try to fight it.

John swung her up into his arms. When Marian gasped and tightened her hold on his neck, he lifted his mouth from hers long enough to say huskily, "I lied. I'll take you for a lover any time or place."

"I'm glad," she whispered, and smiled at him with dazzling warmth.

"God, I love you," he said, the words wrenched from him.

Her eyes widened, but when she started to speak he kissed her again. He didn't want to hear it, not if she loved him, not if she didn't. She had to have a choice. That's what love was, he thought, before he couldn't think anymore. A life with all its burdens and joys, freely chosen. Right now, she wasn't free.

Upstairs, across the threshold of his room, as though he were the groom and she his bride, he laid her down on the huge expanse of his bed and paused, one knee braced on the edge. She was glorious against the black coverlet, and he remembered his first sight of her and his fancy that she had stepped from a daguerreotype. The hair that shone against the black background was close to the same color, but caught by something brighter, as though a stream of moonlight had touched her. Her eyes, dark and glowing, were dreamy, and her lips were parted and sensuous. Skin like porcelain, her neck long and graceful, her hair slipping from the knot at the nape. He had never seen anything in his life as beautiful as Marian lying on his bed.

He wanted suddenly to see her naked there, the silk and curves and creamy skin in contrast to the dull black spread. Without a word he lifted her and pulled her sweater off over her head, exposing a simple white bra that was innocently seductive in a way black lace wouldn't have been. She watched him with those wide eyes as he unfastened her bra and spread his palms over her breasts, unbearably aroused by the textures. Then he tugged off her canvas tennis shoes and socks, jeans and panties. A strip tease that he orchestrated. She accepted all wordlessly, her gaze fixed on his face.

Her body matched the delicacy of her face. She was so slender he couldn't imagine her bearing twins. He sat beside her, looking, tracing with his fingertips the plump curve of her breasts, the long slim line of her waist flaring into her hips. Her gorgeous legs—he remembered them wrapped around him. The dark springy curls at the apex of her thighs were as silky as the hair he spread across the coverlet. And between her legs was heat and dampness and pleasure. When he touched her there she closed her eyes, then stretched languorously so that her back arched and he felt the tension run through her.

His own hand was tanned against her white skin, clumsily large. It was the contrast that was so erotic. Bulk against slenderness, sun-roughened skin against the protected silk of hers, the bluntness of his arousal against the creamy sheath of hers.

"I love to touch you," he said hoarsely.

She was breathless. "I love...having you touch me. I love...touching you."

And her hands, strong and supple, slipped under his sweatshirt to run experimentally over the hard planes of his back and chest. He groaned, then shrugged out of his shirt. Marian sat up and kneeled, then bent her head to whisper kisses against his neck, to nibble and taste the salty skin of his shoulder and chest. His breath rattled harshly in his throat, and suddenly he lifted his hands to tangle them in her hair and hold her still.

"I'm going to explode."

"That's the idea, isn't it?" she said mischievously, and he gave a husky laugh.

"Eventually," he agreed.

"I'm just setting the charges," she murmured, and spread her hands over his chest, flicking the nub of his nipple with one thumb. A jolt ran through him, and a smile quivered on her hps.

"You're asking for it," he warned.

"Mm-hmm. " There was that smile again, lilting, laughing, tempting. He would kill for that smile.

The laughter on his own face fled and he lifted her chin so that his mouth could plunder hers. He was driven by only one thought: he had to have her.

Have her he did, as soon as he could kick his jeans off. She waited for him, sprawled on the black coverlet with her cheeks flushed rose and her mouth a luscious soft curve.

He felt dangerously out of control as he locked her legs around his waist and plunged desperately into her warmth. But her hips rose to his and she made a sound deep in her throat of such pleasure, it ripped any last shreds of restraint from him. Harder, faster, sweeter. She was with him all the way. When she convulsed around him, John growled his satisfaction.

His first thought, when he could think at all, was, What if I lose her? But she couldn't leave! She couldn't hold him like this, accept him like this, give herself like this, and then leave.

But what if she did? He turned his lips against her throat and felt her pulse dancing there, beneath that translucent skin. Fear and love knotted sickeningly in his chest and were transformed into passion. She still lay stretched beneath him, and he wanted her again. He wanted to possess her, not just now but forever. Forever he might not have, but the present was here, in his grip. He wouldn't let it go.

When he nipped at her neck, she murmured wordlessly, and her hands moved on his back, sliding over the sweat-slick muscles. And when he kissed her, he felt her smile. She was his. Now, at least, he thought triumphantly, she was his.

*****

The phone call came as a total surprise. Frank Dellino was the head of football programming, so John talked to him almost weekly. Frank was just the messenger boy this time, though. Although John didn't know the network higher-ups well enough to remember their faces, apparently they did know his.

"Taggart would like to meet with you," Frank said. "Let's see, you go to Cleveland this week. Why don't you fly to New York tomorrow." It was a statement, not a question. "You can go on from here."

What the hell...? "Are you going to tell me what this is about?" John asked.

"Let's save it for a face-to-face," Frank said blandly.

John leaned back in his office chair and swung his feet up on the desk. "Do I need my agent?"

"Why don't we see whether our proposition interests you first?"

Translated: they thought they were giving him good news, not bad. Okay, then, he'd fall in line.

"All right," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Good." Never one for the amenities, Frank hung up without a good-bye. John did the same.

Okay. Why the mystery? The only thing he could think of was the Super Bowl. Well, that was one job he'd like to have. Why not? He'd been there on one side of the camera. Being there on the other...

"What the hell," he said aloud. He wouldn't get the same charge out of it as when he was playing, but he wouldn't mind confirmation that he'd made it to the top in this profession, too.

He tracked Marian down in the living room, where she was dusting. Her hair was bundled up sternly, she had a streak of dirt on one cheek, and a pair of faded jeans so snug he wanted to tear them off her. Instead, he leaned casually against the doorframe and told Marian about the call, watching closely for her reaction.

She said only, "Then you'll have to leave today?"

"Or middle of the night."

"You don't want to do that. Hadn't you better call the travel agent?"

He found he was looking at the back of her head. She'd gone back to swiping at the top of the fireplace mantel.

He swore inwardly, but did as she suggested. Of all times to have to leave! He'd wanted another day, another night. However long it took to hold her and bind her.

And, by God, he'd wanted to be here when that check from her jerk of an ex-husband showed up. He did some rough calculating and decided he ought to be safe until Monday. If the bastard had waited damn near three years, he wasn't going to use Federal Express now.

But when the moment came to leave and he'd tossed his suitcase into the trunk, John was seized with an irrational dread. She might be gone by the time he got home on Sunday. No, she wouldn't desert Emma. But she might be ready with her notice and already have started to pack.

The kids were bouncing on the front porch and pretending to ride Rhodo, the big black shepherd, even Emma hardly paying attention to John's departure. Only Marian stood dutifully at the bottom of the porch steps, still wearing those jeans but her hair slipping from the knot. She looked just as she did every Friday—like a wife seeing her husband off.

"I'm going to miss you," he said.

"You'll call?"

"So often you'll have to unplug the phone."

Her smile dawned, and a wave of hunger washed over him. He didn't care why she stayed, just so she did. He'd take her any way he could have her.

"Will you marry me?" he asked roughly. The minute the words were out, he knew they'd come too fast.

Marian's eyes widened, and she stared at him with what looked like consternation.

"Don't say anything." He stepped forward and gripped her upper arms. "Just think about it. Will you promise to do that?"

Her tongue moistened her hps. "I... Yes, of course. Of course I will."

"Good." He gave her a quick, hard kiss, then made himself turn away. "I'll see ya." He raised his voice. " 'Bye, pumpkin. Bye, J and A."

The twins giggled, his daughter flew to him for a hug, the dogs barked, and he got in the car and drove away. Until the house was out of sight, he could see Marian in his rearview mirror, just standing there at the bottom of the steps, gazing after him.

CHAPTER 11

Marian stood in the driveway long after John's car was out of sight. A pickup truck pulling a horse trailer turned in shortly afterward, rattling as it passed her, but she scarcely noticed the driver's curious stare.

John had actually asked her to marry him. The second chance at love she hadn't even wanted was hers. John loved her. She was staggered by his proposal, even if he'd said before that he loved her.

The truth was, she hadn't quite believed him. Love was an easy word to say in the heat of passion. She'd opened her mouth to say it, too, but he had stopped her. Why? she wondered again. Why, if he really loved her, hadn't he wanted the words, too?

And what about the way he had proposed? No candlelight and wine, but instead, "Will you marry me? By the way, I'll see you in a few days." Would he be there when she needed him? Or would Friday afternoons spell the tenor of their lives?

But football season wasn't far from over, she reminded herself. Then came the playoffs, of course, and at last the Super Bowl. Still, even with exhibition games added in, professional football lasted less than half the year; the other half would be theirs. She could bear that. Couldn't she?

Or did her biggest fear run deeper yet? Marriage was such a huge step. She would be completely vulnerable again. Could she trust John? Could she trust any man again?

"Hey, Marian!" Emma called. "Watch!"

Marian turned to see the twins sitting astride the too narrow porch rail, where they teetered while Emma said, "Giddyap!"

Marian sprinted for the porch while Jesse started to wail. She took the steps in a couple of bounds and snatched her son and daughter from their perch. "Emma, that wasn't safe," she said as calmly as she could, setting them to their feet. "I know you sit up there sometimes, but Jesse and Anna are too small."

"Don't blame me," Emma said mulishly.

"I'm not blaming you," she said. "But I hope you'll watch over them. They're too tittle to know what'll get them into trouble."

"Well..." Her frown faded. "I guess..."

"Fun," Anna said, struggling free of her mother's arms and heading for the railing.

"No," Marian said firmly. "Shall we go saddle up Snowball for a ride?"

"Cool," Jesse said in a little voice.

Marian's tension dissolved, and she chuckled. She gave Emma a hug, then reached for her son and daughter's hands. "They're even starting to sound like you."

"I'm like a big sister, aren't I?"

You just might be a big sister, Marian thought but didn't say. There would be time enough for that later. If...

Her heart caught in her throat. There didn't have to be any ‘if’. John had proposed. All she had to do was say yes. Yes, I love you. Yes, I'll marry you. In sickness and in health. Your children and mine. Forever and ever.

"Just like a big sister," she said softly, and blinked back a prickle of tears. Happy tears, the kind she hadn't cried in a long while.

*****

The return address on the envelope meant nothing to Marian; she didn't know anyone in Georgia. But the handwriting... It was sharp-pointed, an angular scrawl that she did know. Before she even consciously identified it, her heart began to slam. Her hands were shaking when she ripped the envelope open. Inside was a sheet of cream-colored lined note-paper. There was something else in the envelope, too, but she was riveted to the jagged writing.

"Dear Marian,

I'm sorry isn't good enough, so I won't even say it. I can't make up for what I did, but I can at least help support the children I'm responsible for. I've contacted the state registry to find out what I owe you. Here's the start. I don't expect— No, I guess I should be honest, I don't even want visitation rights or anything like that. I just want my conscience clean. So I'll be sending you monthly checks. Let me know if you move.

Yours truly, Mark."

Marian still sat in the car, parked in the garage. She had dropped the twins off at playschool and shopped for groceries. Rows of brown paper bags occupied the rear seat. The ice cream was probably melting.

She took a deep breath and pulled the check from the torn envelope. It wavered before her eyes, that same dark writing blurry for a moment. When the number came into focus, she gasped. She read it over again and again. Two years' worth of child support payments. The difference between desperation and life.

Still, she sat there until the wave of dizziness had passed. It took her a moment to realize what she felt. Not relief, gratitude, even sadness. No, she was mad. Furious. The son of a bitch. He wanted his conscience clean. Clean!

"Let him fry in hell," she muttered. Her fingers tightened on the check and she was tempted—God, she was tempted—to tear it up and send him back the shreds. But bitter pragmatism stopped her.

He did owe his children. He might not want them or even give a damn what they looked like, but he owed them, and he was going to pay. Let him think he was clean. She didn't care. If there was a God up there, He knew better.

Maybe He had even moved in His mysterious way to make Mark pay. She couldn't think of any other reasonable explanation.

On the way to pick up Anna and Jesse, Marian deposited the check in her formerly meager account. When John called after dinner, she didn't mention it. She still had to come to terms with what the money meant to her. Until bedtime, she almost succeeded in forgetting it, particularly since John had continued to be mysterious about his meeting in New York.

After the children were asleep that evening, the house silent, Marian was washing her face for bed when a sudden realization paralyzed her. Lightheaded, she stared at herself in the dazzling brightness of the mirror. Her decision about the future was no longer complicated by financial desperation. With Mark's checks added to what she made for her daycare business, she had no more excuses. The choice was truly hers.

She leaned her forehead against the cool, slick mirror and closed her eyes. She had been lying to herself, she saw. She hadn't stayed with John and Emma for the security or even for her children. And, deeply though she had come to love Emma, the child's clinging had only given her an excuse to do what her heart demanded: share as much of John's life as he would allow her.

"I love him," she whispered, then lifted her head to look at herself again in the reflected honesty of the mirror. "I love him. I love him, I love him, I love him."

*****

John's flight was a late one and he arrived home Sunday evening after eleven. Nervous and exhilarated, Marian waited up for him. She heard the garage door, then his footsteps in the kitchen.

She went to meet him hesitantly, but when he saw her in the arched entry to the living room, the weariness fled his face and he crossed the distance between them in a couple of long strides.

"God, I'm glad to see you," he said huskily, his cheek against her hair and his arms tight around her.

"You didn't call this afternoon."

"There were rumors the losing coach had been fired. I chased everybody concerned around. Manager, owner, coach... They all denied it was true. But I knew damn well it was."

"But why would they deny it?" Marian asked, perplexed.

He sounded tired. "They always do. Haven't you noticed?"

"You're a cynic," she said in surprise.

He snorted. "A realist." Then, "To hell with football. I want to kiss you."

She murmured agreement just before his mouth covered hers. When he lifted his head several long, languorous moments later, his mouth curled into a grin.

"You missed me."

"Well..." Teasing, she drew the word out.

John smothered it with a heady kiss. Then he pulled her into the living room and sank down on the couch with a groan, drawing her with him.

"Okay, tell me all about your meeting," Marian said, reveling in the warm circle of his arm.

"Oh, maybe tomorrow," he countered lazily, then grinned when she glared at him with mock ferocity. "Okay, okay!"

"So?"

He sat up and his arm dropped from her shoulders. "They want to expand my role," he said. "They say viewers like me. I have a high Q rating, or whatever the hell they call it." The tiredness had left his voice, and he sounded elated by his news. "The network wants me to cover other sports. You know they won the right to broadcast the next summer Olympics. They want me there, one of the back-up anchors. That's the chance of a lifetime! I'll be at the Super Bowl, the NBA playoffs, maybe the Kentucky Derby. Do you know what this means?"

"No," she said numbly. "No, what does it mean?"

His eyes glittered and he stood, beginning to pace as he talked ebulliently. "That I'm not just another has-been who took one too many hits. That I'm good at what I do. You don't think about retirement when you get drafted by the NFL, but finding out you're washed up at thirty leaves too damned many years staring you in the face. I wanted to know that I could do something else just as well. Now I do."

"But...what about the horses?"

"Isaiah can handle the business for a few years. I'll be here when I can, and I'll provide the money to back him up. We can hire some more people, buy into bloodlines that were too rich for us. It's one hell of a chance, Marian."

Still she sat there, feeling almost nothing as she saw her dreams washed away. "You'd never be home."

John seemed not to notice her state of shock. "It'd only be for a few years. You can travel with me once we're married. If you go back to college the way you've talked about, we'd need to hire a housekeeper anyway. Wouldn't you like to travel, see Europe?"

Her voice was stiff and rusty, as though she hadn't used it in a long while. "What about our children?"

"They'd adjust," he said blithely.

"Adjust? You mean grow up. The housekeeper would raise them while we were jet-setting!"

His eyes darkened. "We're not back to that."

"Back?" Marian stood, too, her head held high. "I believed you when you said you needed this job to support the ranch. I told myself you were a good father, that I could stand waving good-bye every Friday, because at least the other half of the year we would be a family. I told myself that I..." Her voice broke and she steeled herself. "That I loved you. And now you breeze in and announce that once we're married we can dump the kids on some hired woman who'll take my place."

"That's not what I said."

"No? Maybe you should interpret it for me."

"I said I've been offered a terrific job that'll mean traveling quite a bit for a few years. That I'd like my wife to come with me sometimes. That I need this, and I need you."

Betrayal tightened her throat. "No, you don't need me. You need a new housekeeper. One who'll convince Emma that all daddies disappear every Friday, that being raised by a stranger is normal!"

"By God..." The words were ripped from between clenched teeth and his eyes blazed. "Don't tell me what kind of father I am! You've sacrificed your whole life to two toddlers who'll grow up knowing they owe you. Don't try to tell me that's better than having parents who live interesting, vital fives! Who can show their children what life can be like!"

"Do you know how much you remind me of Mark right now?" Marian asked bitterly. "The biggest difference is that you can have your cake and eat it, too. You can afford to pay somebody to take your responsibilities. And that's what it amounts to, no matter how nicely you dress it up. So don't expect me to be grateful because you want me to abandon my children to go with you!"

Anger radiated from every tense line of John's body when he stalked toward her. "I'm not your ex-husband," he said harshly. "But you're never going to believe that, are you?"

She didn't back down, however much it hurt. "Do I have any reason to?"

He gripped her chin and lifted it, his mouth twisting as he looked down into her eyes. "I love you."

I will survive, Marian told herself fiercely. I will survive.

"I need more than that," she whispered.

The look of agony on his face was more answer than she had expected to receive. But then his lips blotted out her anger and misery and bitterness, searing hers in a kiss of emotions so stark she couldn't respond. She stood passive in his grip, accepting but unable to give.

In an instant it was over and she was left alone, the slam of the front door echoing in her ears. She cried again, but these tears burned her cheeks.

*****

John rode down the demons, working his favorite mare in the indoor arena until her chestnut coat was slick with sweat and she anticipated his every command as though she read his mind.

As he rode, his turmoil simmered into anger, then frustration, and the clarity that told him what a fool he'd been. What else had he expected from Marian? He knew her ex-husband had walked out because he didn't want the responsibility of children. He knew she'd had to devote her life to Anna and Jesse because she'd had no choice. He'd wooed her with such care, easing past the barrier of mistrust. And then what did he do but sweep in and announce that he was taking her away from it all! Forget family dinners and PTA meetings—imagine Paris, London, New Orleans! And he was surprised that he'd scared her off?

But he'd meant what he said, too. Maybe that made him selfish, but he wasn't ready for a life that held nothing but PTA meetings and leading a stallion around the show ring. If nothing else, he'd loved being an athlete. Next to the emotional highs he'd felt on the football field, life could seem pretty flat. Life had seemed flat, John corrected himself, until he met Marian.

If he had to choose, he would do it. He wasn't going to lose her, not so he could sit in a booth and call somebody else's game. But what if it was too late? Her willingness to trust a man was all too fragile; tonight he'd splintered it into shards that had stung. Would he be able to repair her faith in him?

And if he did, would he be able to turn on the Olympic Games a couple of years from now and not feel resentment?

He swore, his voice bleak, and the mare's ears flickered back. He clucked reassuringly and her stride lengthened. For a moment he blanked everything from his mind and let himself feel the rhythm, the contained power, the incredible obedience of an animal who didn't have to obey.

At last he unsaddled her and walked her out in the dark pasture, stumbling on hillocks and clumps of rough grass. When the mare's breathing had quieted and she felt cool under his palm, he turned back to the barn. Somehow he wasn't surprised to see Isaiah waiting, dark and massive but comforting in his familiarity.

"Saw the lights."

John nodded and walked past. Loosely tying the Arabian, he unhooked a bucket of brushes and combs from a nail on the wall and began grooming the mare.

Isaiah laid an arm across her rump and watched John. "Bad trip?"

John concentrated on working the snarls from the flaxen mane. At last he said, "The network wants me to take on more. Some basketball and baseball, special events. They're offering me a damned good contract."

"Did you talk to Malone?"

Pete Malone was John's agent. "He's all for it," John said shortly.

"Nice cut, huh?"

John grunted his agreement. He dropped the comb into the bucket and picked up a brush. When he started in on the mare's shoulder, her skin rippled in reaction and she whuffled softly.

"So what's the problem?"

“Marian."

"Doesn't want you on the road?"

"That's putting it mildly," John said. "She sees it as deserting the kids."

Isaiah didn't say anything for a long while. When he did, he asked the question John hadn't confronted yet. "Do you want to be on the road that much?"

Methodically John worked his way toward the mare's hindquarters. "I don't know," he said. "I'd like to be at the Olympics, the Super Bowl..."he shrugged. "The rest I could take or leave. I get sick of planes and hotels and I don't want to be away from Emma that much." He was silent for a moment. "Well, it's pretty obvious I'll be turning them down."

Isaiah picked up a brush and groomed the horse's other side. The two men worked in silence until John tossed the hoofpick into the bucket and unlooped the lead to return the mare to her stall. Isaiah hung up the bucket and followed him. A minute later, they left the warm darkness of the barn. Above, the moon was full but half obscured by a bank of clouds chased by a chill breeze.

"You know..." Isaiah said, in that Oklahoma drawl he hadn't lost, "seems to me the network wants you to go deep and Marian wants two yards in a cloud of dust."

"So?"

Isaiah slapped a meaty hand on John's back. "There're other plays. You're the quarterback. Call one."

John stopped. "You're suggesting a compromise."

"You were All-Pro, weren't you?"

"For a damned good reason."

"Yup," Isaiah agreed, deadpan. "Me."

John surprised himself with a snort of laughter. "You've got it ass-backward. You were lucky to have me."

Isaiah's teeth flashed white in the darkness. "Whichever, we made a hell of a team."

Abruptly sober, John said, "What do you think? Will I short the ranch if I take on any more assignments?"

"I'm not going to give you an easy out like that. I can handle it. The call's yours," he repeated, then walked away. " 'Night."

John echoed him, but didn't head for the house right away. Maybe Isaiah had something, he thought.

Then again, maybe not. Compromise cut both ways. When you hurt, you didn't compromise. Besides, he wasn't so sure the issue really was his job anymore. He had a feeling it was trust, and trust didn't come with a maybe.

*****

Marian was stung by the sound of the two men laughing outside. She lay rigid in the darkness, listening for their voices, for footsteps on the porch.

She never heard John come in, for which she was grateful. She almost wished one of the twins would wake up and creep down the hall to sleep with Mommy. Jesse especially liked to do that, and right now his small warm body would have been a bulwark against her anguish. He would have reminded her what was important: her children. She had to put them first! They had a right to expect that, especially when they could count on only one parent.

Or was she being unreasonable once again, her fears an indelible impression left by a man whose face she could scarcely picture and whom she no longer cared about?

Staring dry-eyed into the darkness, Marian remembered how happy she had been just yesterday. The fall was more agonizing than if John had never loved her, never asked her to marry him. Was she a fool? she wondered. Wouldn't half a loaf be better than none at all? She'd told herself she wanted to share however much of his life John would allow her.

But she had lied. She didn't want a part. She wanted it all! Was that so wrong, to ask for as much in return as you were willing to give? Why couldn't he want a family, and not just a wife?

Did it matter anymore? She'd been too blunt, even cruel, to have a second chance. She should be very glad for Mark's change of conscience, because one way or another she would have to leave John and Emma. Even if John didn't ask her to go, staying would be impossible. Marian dreaded telling Emma, but she wondered if Emma needed her as much as she had convinced herself the child did. Lately the five-year-old had even seemed to resent the twins, as though she chafed at the new boundaries a real family would provide. Perhaps a childless housekeeper who was paid to give Emma her full attention would be best.

Marian tried to bury her face in the pillow, to shut out the thoughts that gave her no peace, but of course it didn't work. As the hours crept on, she drifted in and out of nightmarish sleep, gratefully conscious when at last Jesse did climb into bed with her and nestle against her back.

When morning poked watery wisps of sunlight in her window, Marian dragged herself up to dress the twins and face breakfast. She winced after a glance at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were heavy and tired, her hair stuck out at odd angles, and her skin was pasty. When she and her children trailed into the kitchen, John was already pouring cereal into a bowl for Emma.

"I'm sorry," Marian said mechanically. "I guess I overslept."

He glanced at her. "Don't worry about it. Emma and I are capable of feeding ourselves."

She couldn't have said another word if her life had depended on it. Silently she lifted Anna and Jesse onto their booster seats, then headed for the cupboard for the other boxes of cereal.

Steam already curled out of the tea kettle, so she poured herself a cup of spice tea, then got down bowls for the twins.

"I don't want cereal," Anna said. "I want syrup."

"Your mom looks tired," John said. "Why don't you settle for some Lucky Charms this morning?"

"Waffles," Anna said stubbornly.

"F'ench toast," Jesse contributed.

Marian was just as glad to have something to do that would keep her from having to sit down at the table and face John across it. "Okay," she said. "But one or the other. Shall we flip a coin?"

Two matching pairs of dark eyes exchanged a look, then Anna said, "Waffles."

Normally Marian would have been bothered by another example of her daughter's dominance, but right now she was grateful for Jesse's capitulation. Mercifully, John stood up and brought his dishes to the sink just as she was ready to sit down.

She avoided meeting his eyes, though she felt his gaze searching her face. He said nothing, however, just followed Emma out. He never appeared for lunch, and at dinner he brought Isaiah with him.

Between them, Emma and Isaiah filled any gaps in the conversation at the dinner table. Marian was astonished at how voluble the big black man could be. What's more, he was tactful enough not to show by even a glance or raised eyebrow that he noticed the tension between John and Marian.

The week fell into a pattern. Marian avoided John whenever she could, and since she managed it easily most of the time, she suspected that he was doing the same. When they had to speak, they did, but as briefly as possible. It was like living in a house with a stranger.

Marian began to read the classified ads for rentals again, and even drove by a couple, but she realized she was hopelessly confused about what she would need. Could she trust Mark to keep sending money? She hated to rent a house as wretched as the two she'd almost ended up with, but what if she got in over her head and Mark's spasm of conscience ended?

And then there was the problem of starting her day-care business all over again. Would a landlord of a nicer house allow a horde of children to take it over? Of course, she would have to be licensed and then advertise in the paper and discover the foibles of new children. Would John let Emma come to her?

Or maybe, she thought dispiritedly, she could afford to pay day-care for Anna and Jesse if she could find a good enough job. And if checks kept coming from Mark. Like a circle, she kept bumping into the same problem.

Hugging Emma when she bounded in the door from school on Thursday, Marian made herself face the truth. She didn't want to go. Already this felt like home. Rhodo had boomed a few barks when he saw the school bus and Aja had yapped a greeting. Fat Hannah lay beside a heat register in the kitchen, eyes at contented half-mast. The twins were the happiest they had ever been, not having to compete with six other children for her attention. Marian couldn't quite convince herself that Emma would be happier without her, either, not when she saw her bright dark eyes and the nonchalance with which she accepted her father's inevitable departures. She was more confident now; she trusted Marian...

Who was about to pull the rug out from under her. All because Marian wanted more from the man she loved than he was willing to give.

When Friday came again, Marian realized that she had managed to dawdle an entire week away. Was she hoping that John would admit undying love and throw the job over? She was lucky he hadn't asked her to pack instead. If she had any pride at all, she would tender her notice before he did.

Marian was cleaning the oven when she heard John come down the stairs with his packed bags, ready to leave for the airport. She hesitated, then quickly washed and dried her hands and went out to the front porch. Today Emma wasn't home from school yet, and the twins were napping. Even the dogs must be wandering off in one of the pastures. Marian had a superstitious feeling that somebody should see John off.

He had pulled the car out front earlier, and now was tossing his bags into the trunk. When she appeared, he slammed the trunk and came over to the foot of the porch steps. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he wore a western-cut brown suit with a string tie, and hand-tooled cowboy boots on his feet. He was so handsome, tall and lean and effortlessly graceful, that she felt her heart constrict.

"Have a good trip," she said.

"Thanks. I left the name of the hotel on my desk." He put one booted foot on the bottom stair. "Marian..."

"I've been looking at rentals again," she said, hurrying into speech. "My ex-husband sent me some back child support. I can manage now. And this..." She gestured with one hand. "This isn't going to work."

"Marian..."

"I said unforgivable things to you. I want to apologize."

His dark grey eyes never wavered. "But you meant them."

She had to look away, and color rose in her cheeks. "No, I…

"Yes," he said quietly. "And maybe you're partly right. But maybe I'm partly right, too. Can you think about that?"

“I…”

“Give me a few days." The intensity in his voice brought her eyes back to his face. "Wait'll I come back Sunday. Can you at least do that?"

"I wouldn't have left Emma," she said.

"Don't rent a place. Will you promise me that?"

This wasn't the first promise she had made him, and she wished with all her heart that it wouldn't be the last. Speech seemed beyond her, so she only nodded jerkily.

He studied her for a moment longer, then said gruffly, "Okay. I'll see you Sunday."

And so, for what might be the last time, she watched him drive away. The dull ache of the past few days had turned to terror and hope. What had he meant?

How would she survive until Sunday, when she would find out?

CHAPTER 12

"You guys want a snack?" Marian called. She let the back screen door slam behind her as she strolled to the railing of the porch. It was Saturday afternoon, a late, crisp Indian summer day. The small apple trees John had planted were bare now, their yellow leaves scattered and sodden on the grass beneath them. Bundled in jackets, Emma and Anna were swinging, while Jesse came down the long metal slide.

"Sure," Emma said. "Watch this!"

She pumped harder, arcing forward and back, higher and higher, her braid soaring behind her. Then, just at the right minute, she jumped and landed rolling on the grass, where Aja pounced on her.

Giggling, Emma leaped up and ran around to the back of the swing. "Here, I'll push you, Anna."

"Not too high," Marian warned, starting down the porch steps. She was easily thirty feet from the swing set when Anna called, "Mommy, watch."

"Anna, what are you...?" But the sentence was never finished.

Awkwardly, too late in the swing, Anna jumped, just like Emma had. Marian started to run. In horror she saw her young daughter slam down on her back, her head jerking sideways.

Emma screamed as Marian dropped to her knees beside Anna. Right next to her head was a roller skate half hidden in the grass, and blood already soaked Anna's dark hair. Her small body was still, her eyes closed. Saliva ran out of the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, my God," Marian whispered. She wanted to sob and snatch Anna up into her arms, but instead she stood and said in an astonishingly calm voice, "Emma, you stay here. Don't touch Anna, don't let Jesse touch her. Do you understand? She shouldn't be moved at all."

Emma's face was very pale, her eyes huge and dark, but she nodded.

"I'm going to call for an ambulance. I'll be right back."

She ran. Her hand was shaking as she dialed 911. The voice on the other end was supremely calm and reassuring, taking her address, issuing instructions. Marian dropped the receiver and ran again. Jesse and Emma stood beside Anna's still form, staring down at her with identical expressions of shock and bafflement.

This time Marian let herself take Anna's tiny hand. Wake up, she prayed. Please wake up. But the little girl didn't move, except for the barely visible rise and fall of her chest.

Marian looked at Emma. "Can you go find Isaiah, honey?"

The five-year-old's mouth trembled. "I'm scared."

"I know," Marian said quietly. "I'm scared, too. But she'll be fine. I know she will." She has to be. "Most of us bump our head sooner or later. I fell off Snowball once and was unconscious."

"She looks dead," Emma said.

A giant hand seemed to be crushing Marian's chest. If she let herself think—fear—she would fall apart.

Oh, John! Where are you?

But he wasn't here. She had to be strong and reassure Jesse and Emma. There would be time enough for her own terror later... If Anna didn't wake up soon.

"Please," she said. "I need you to do this, honey."

Emma's eyes suddenly brimmed with tears and she ran, tearing around the house toward the barns. Distantly Marian heard her voice. "Isaiah! Isaiah, where are you?"

Marian held out her other arm and Jesse came to her, clinging like a barnacle. He hadn't the words to express his fear, but Marian reassured him anyway, talking as much to distract herself as for his sake.

It seemed forever before she heard a siren approaching, the scream gaining in volume as the ambulance turned into their lane and approached. The dogs ran barking toward the front of the house. Where was Isaiah? Marian wondered frantically, but neither Emma nor he appeared, so she scooped up Jesse and hurried around the house.

"This way," she said, and the two men with a stretcher followed. She couldn't do anything but watch as they slid a collar around Anna's tiny neck and slowly, with comforting efficiency, eased her onto the stretcher. Even her small hand that lay palm up was positioned the same.

Marian wanted desperately to go in the ambulance with Anna, but how could she? A glance toward the barns told her the hands had all gone home for lunch; only Isaiah's truck was there. But where was he? Emma, her face tear-streaked, came running from the barn.

"I can't find him," she cried. "Why did they put Anna in there?"

"So the doctor can look at her," Marian said. She still sounded miraculously calm, though she didn't feel it. To the driver she said, "I'll have to follow you. I'd better at least leave a note, and I have to bring the kids..."

"She'll be fine," he said gently. "Come straight to the emergency room."

Marian tried to breathe slowly. "Yes. Thank you. I'll be right behind you."

She wanted John as she had never wanted anybody in her life—to hold her hand, to hug her, to give her strength. Still carrying Jesse, Marian hurried into the house and John's office. She set her son down. Where was the phone number? Whom had he said to ask for?

She was to call the network if she ever needed him, he'd said. They would get in touch with him.

But there were papers all over his desk, including the mail from yesterday and today that she had tossed there. She reached for a folded letter that had something scribbled on the back. Jesse tugged at her shirt and when she turned, Marian let the letter flutter onto the blotter.

"Potty," her son whispered.

Oh, Lord, not now.

"I can take him," Emma offered.

"Jesse?"

He nodded and accepted Emma's hand, not much larger than his. Love for both children swelled in Marian's chest and tears stung her eyes hody. She was so lucky—she had been so lucky... Please, God... She swallowed hard and made herself take more slow breaths. She had to hold on. There was no one else.

No, wait.  She wasn’t thinking.  Try his cell phone first.  Hands shaking, she did, but he must have it turned off.  She left a message, then studied the clutter on his desk.

The letter she’d noticed lay open on the tan blotter. No, not a letter. A bill. From an attorney. She reached for it, intending to turn it over, but she saw a name. Mark Wells.

For a moment she was blank, unable to find any connection. Uncomprehendingly, she read the bill and the note scribbled at the bottom. The services of a private detective. Atlanta, Georgia. Confidential.

John had hired an attorney to find her ex-husband and make him pay Marian what he owed her. The knowledge was there, in black and white. Incredulously she read it again. The confidential part... That meant he had never intended she know who was responsible for Mark's change of heart.

But she had no time to think about it now. She turned the bill over—no, that was a note about something else. Where was the phone number? Forcing herself to search methodically, she found it on a Post-it stuck to the blotter but covered by the mail she had carelessly tossed.

Once again she had to explain herself, but the woman she spoke to promised she would track John down and give him the message. "But his daughter's not hurt?"

"No, mine," Marian said. "But... I thought he ought to know. I'm taking Emma as well as my son to the hospital now. He can call home, but I don't know when I'll be back."

"I'll get in touch with him right away," the woman assured her again.

"Thank you." Marian hung up. Upstairs, she met Emma and Jesse in the hall.

"He didn't make it," Emma announced. "But I wiped it up with a towel and I helped him change clothes."

"I don't know what I'd do without you," Marian said. "Let's go now."

At the car she had started to buckle the children in when she heard the clatter of horse's hooves. She looked up to see Isaiah gallop around the paddock fence toward her. He pulled the sweating mare up and slid off. His dark eyes displayed a trace of worry as he glanced at the car, as though counting noses, then at Marian.

"Did I hear a siren?"

"Anna fell off the swing and hit her head. She's unconscious. They've already taken her to the hospital."

He touched her shoulder with one meaty hand, then let it fall back to his side. "Leave the kids with me," he said gruffly. "You go ahead."

Marian felt like falling on his chest and sobbing. "Thank you" sounded woefully inadequate, but she said it anyway.

"Shall I call John?" he asked.

"I already left a message for him."

He only nodded. "You let me know how she is and if there's anything I can do."

Marian bit her lip. "Yes. Of course." She hugged the two crying children good-bye and drove to the hospital, operating on some mechanical level that allowed her to shift gears and obey traffic signs and park nearly in the exact middle of a slot in the hospital's parking lot.

Inside she was told that Anna had been taken for an X ray, that she hadn't regained consciousness yet, that Marian should wait for the doctor. In the waiting room she sat, because there was nothing else to do. But now, with no need to maintain a facade, she had to face her fears.

A very long twenty minutes passed before a nurse appeared, smiling. "Mrs. Wells? Your little girl would sure like to see her mom."

Marian shot to her feet. "She's awake?"

"Yep."

Marian heard Anna crying before they reached her cubicle. There, the doctor, a graying, slight man, was checking her reflexes. Anna's face was tear-stained and her nose badly needed wiping, but to Marian she was gorgeous.

"Oh, sweetie!" She reached out and gently hugged her young daughter, closing her eyes as gratitude swept dizzyingly over her. This was all that counted. The worries that so often preoccupied her seemed petty at this moment.

Marian gave the doctor a smile that wavered. "How is she?"

"She's going to have a heck of a headache," he said. "She has a concussion, nothing serious, but I want to keep her here in the hospital tonight for observation. You're welcome to stay with her if you'd like."

"Of course I will," Marian said. Poor Isaiah. She hoped he wouldn't mind accompanying a two-year-old boy to the bathroom.

"What did she collide with?" the doctor asked.

When Marian told him, he shook his head. "That's kids for you. My ten-year-old broke an arm just a couple of months ago, jumping out of a tree house. You know, we can't watch 'em all the time."

"I shouldn't have let her swing without my being out there," Marian said.

"I bet she learned her lesson. Didn't you, Anna?"

Anna cried a little harder. Marian found a tissue on the bedside stand and wiped her tears and then her nose. "It's okay, sweetie," Marian crooned. "You're just fine. The doctor is done. Come on, pumpkin, quit crying. Does your head hurt?"

Eventually they were moved upstairs to a regular room. In between comforting Anna with words and gently rubbing her back, Marian thought about John and about her astonishing discovery.

Why had he gone to such trouble for her? He had already done so much, offering her and her children a job and a home. Why this extra step, which had cost him quite a lot?

There was only one answer. He loved her, just as he'd said. Regardless of what she chose for the future, he'd sought to lift some of the burden from her, in the only way he knew she'd accept. Just as he hadn't told her that he was responsible for Mark's repentance because he hadn't wanted gratitude to hold her.

What he had given her was the gift of independence, Marian thought wonderingly. Could there be a greater expression of love than that?

Two hours later, Anna had been allowed to eat some Jell-O and was napping. Marian tiptoed out to call Isaiah.

"We're getting by," he said. "Don't wony about Jesse or Emma. I'm glad about your little girl. She's a brave one. Sits that pony real well."

Despite everything, Marian smiled. She then settled beside Anna's bed, holding her small hand, more for her own reassurance than her daughter's. Time drifted. She couldn't seem to concentrate on a magazine and mostly just sat there, letting her mind wander.

She heard footsteps approaching, and then the nurse stuck her head around the door. "You have company," she announced brightly, and then disappeared. John took her place in the doorway.

Marian rose to her feet. "John?" she said disbelievingly.

"Not even tape delayed," he said, coming into the room. He took her hand in a warm clasp and looked down at the sleeping girl. "How's Anna?"

"Fine." Marian sniffed, and John handed her a tissue from the bedside stand. She blew her nose, then smiled mistily. "Just fine. I don't know why on earth I'm crying now."

"Because you're glad to see me?" His tone was light, his eyes grave.

His presence had finally sunk in. "Why are you here?" she asked.

"Didn't you expect me?"

"No... Yes," she admitted. "I hoped. I wanted you..."

"Mommy?" Anna's eyes opened and she repeated querulously, "Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

John smiled down at Marian's daughter. With one big hand he reached out to smooth her hair back from her forehead. "How are you, little one?"

"My head hurts," she whimpered. "Where's Emma?"

"Home, worrying about you," John said gently.

"I jumped," Anna said.

"I know." His grin carved lines in his cheeks. "A little too high, from the sound of it."

Her mouth puckered. "Emma did."

"Yeah, but she's bigger than you."

"Can I jump when I get big?"

"When you get big," Marian whispered. The small hand curled around her finger and Anna's eyes sank shut.

They stood in silence beside the bed for a moment before John said, "I guess I'd better go home and talk to Emma and Jesse. They're pretty scared."

"I called Isaiah."

"I know. But they didn't quite believe him."

"Oh," she said, foolishly.

John's hands on her shoulders turned her to face him. "I'll be back," he said. He searched her face tenderly. "Do you know I love you?"

Marian bit her lower lip and nodded.

"Good. We'll talk tomorrow." He dropped a whisper-soft kiss on her lips, then said huskily, "See ya."

Marian touched her lips with her fingertips, not wanting to lose the warmth, and looked after him. In the doorway he winked, gave her a thumbs-up, then vanished.

He was here. Joy blossomed in her chest and stole through her as she slowly sat down again. When she needed him, John had come, just as he'd promised he would. Was she strong enough to have faith that he always would?

*****

Marian played silly games with Anna and held her hand while the doctor checked her over one more time, then slipped away for a sandwich in the cafeteria and finally dozed off herself in the big chair beside the hospital bed as evening advanced.

John's footsteps woke her. She glanced in confusion at her watch, to find that it was nine-thirty. He pulled the curtain around the bed to screen them from the door, then carried a chair from the other side of the room and set it beside hers. Raising his eyebrows inquiringly, he nodded at Anna, who was sound asleep.

"She's fine," Marian said softly. "Her usual self, except for a headache. How are Emma and Jesse? You didn't have to come back."

John lowered himself to the chair and stretched. "Isaiah kicked me out. Said if he couldn't manage two kids less than waist-high, he was ready to retire."

"Jesse didn't mind?"

That disarming grin flashed. "Actually, I already tucked them in. Isaiah's going to sleep in your bed, so Jesse'll find somebody if he goes wandering tonight."

"Poor Isaiah." Then, "How did you know about Jesse?"

"I met him one night. He trundled past, carrying that disreputable rabbit, and turned right into your bedroom. I was jealous."

Marian flushed. "You never tried."

"Big mistake," he murmured, then took her hand. "Go back to sleep. I just wanted to keep you company."

"Thank you," she whispered. "I felt...awfully lonely today."

His intent gaze belied his light tone. "That's why I'm here."

And so they sat there as the hushed hours of the night slipped past. Sometimes they whispered, sometimes they dozed. Even half sleeping, Marian was conscious of John beside her, of his long legs stretched out beside hers and the sound of his breathing, the shadow of a beard on his hard jaw, and the tenderness in his eyes when he smiled tiredly at her.

Morning arrived with a brisk nurse who shook her head. "Didn't we offer you a bed last night?"

Marian pushed her hair back from her face and stifled a yawn. When Anna's eyes popped open and she stared in alarm at the nurse, Marian gave her small hand a reassuring squeeze. "I didn't want her to wake up and wonder where I was."

The nurse nodded approvingly. "That's what parents are for." She took Anna's temperature in astonishingly short order. "The doctor will be in to see her shortly, and then I'm sure you'll be able to take her home."

Home had never sounded better. Marian longed for a bath and Jesse and breakfast, not necessarily in that order. Poor Isaiah, she thought again, then had to concentrate for a moment to remember what day this was.

Sunday. Church and an extra fat newspaper, football and Emma's daddy coming home.

Only...he was already home. Which meant he couldn't be on TV. Had they found a replacement for him? Would he be in trouble with the network?

But the doctor bustled in, Anna's chart in his hand. "Would you like to go home?" he asked her, and she shyly nodded. "Well, tell you what," he said. "You let me take a last peek at your eyes and poke you a little, and I'll bet you'll find something in this pocket for you." He patted his lab coat. "What d'you say?"

She stared at him consideringly from big dark eyes and finally nodded again. Her gaze never wavered while he peered into her eyes and checked her reflexes. Then her small hand crept out and returned clutching a Tootsie pop.

"Nothing like a little sugar before breakfast," he said. "Well, Mom and Dad, you can take your little girl home."

Marian blinked, but didn't correct him. "Thank you," she said.

Anna waited until the doctor left. "Why did he say John was my daddy?"

"Do you think we look alike?" John asked.

She shook her head, then held still while Marian put her socks on.

"Maybe just because I'm here," John said. "That's what daddies do."

"Some daddies," Anna said.

Astonished, Marian stopped with the sweatshirt in her hand. Anna had never asked about her father before, but clearly she had thought about him.

"All real daddies," John said firmly. "The kind that count."

Oh, boy, Marian thought. What timing. She was much too tired to cope with this subject. How did you explain about a daddy who didn't even want to visit and make it not be hurtful?

But Anna startled her by announcing, "Do you want to be my daddy today?"

"Why not?" John shoved a shoe on her foot. "You hungry? How about breakfast at MacDonald's?"

"I think you're a good daddy," Anna decided.

Marian couldn't help herself. She started to laugh. "Sweetheart, you think with your tummy."

John's mouth curled into a heart-stopping grin. "Yeah, but her tummy's got good taste."

Even MacDonald's version of French toast tasted good this morning to Marian, who felt euphoric. Yesterday's loneliness and fear had been replaced by a world set right again. She thought. She hoped.

Marian stole a glance at John, who was gathering up their trash. His eyes met hers and he smiled. She could see the weariness on his face, a few more lines than he'd had yesterday, his unshaven jaw and rumpled hair, but he had never looked better to her. She smiled a little shyly, and something flickered in his eyes. Something profound—and primitive.

When they climbed out of the car at home, Emma and Jesse poured out of the house to meet them. Jesse wrapped his arms around Marian's leg and buried his face against her. Isaiah followed the children, though he waited on the porch.

When Marian came abreast of him, Jesse on her hip, she stopped. "Thank you, Isaiah. I don't know what I'd have done without you."

He shook his head. "Your biscuits are worth some baby-sitting."

"Then I'll make them tonight," she offered. "If you'll come to dinner."

"I'd be pleased to," he said in the soft drawl that contrasted with his bulk and harsh visage. "Your boy had a surprise this morning," he added. The corner of his mouth twitched. "He didn't mind me until it got light and he noticed I was a little broader than Mom."

"Oh, dear."

"But we had a chat and he decided I'd do. So long as you weren't available."

"Isaiah..."

"You two need time for a shower, change of clothes, I'll be here with the kids."

"You're a saint," Marian said fervently, and Isaiah grinned. The sight was quite startling, a flash of gleaming white teeth against his dark skin.

"Can we go swing?" Emma asked.

All three adults turned to look at her. With masterly understatement, John said, "Not today. Okay?"

"Oh, all right!" She sniffed. "I wouldn't push Anna that high again. I'm not stupid!"

"Well, good," John said ironically. "But give it a rest, okay? Play something gentle, like dolls."

She sniffed again. John lifted Jesse from Marian's arms and set him firmly down, then herded her toward the stairs. "Let's get while the getting's good."

Jesse hovered, undecided, but Anna tugged at his arm and said something that made him decide he could live without his mother for a few minutes. Then Marian reached the top of the stairs and lost sight of the children. John's hand in the middle of her back urged her on.

"Hey," she protested. "Do I need a shower that badly?"

"Nope." He stopped abruptly and turned her to face him. "I need you that badly."

A jolt of excitement rocked her. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. Perhaps she had needed a scare to see what mattered. The raw hunger in his face mattered, and the ache in her that only he could soothe.

"No, not here," he said suddenly. "We need to talk."

Talking wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind— nor, she suspected, was it what he wanted, but words could heal where a touch couldn't. She nodded, and his hand on her upper arm drew her into his bedroom, where he closed the door behind them.

He actually let go of her then, and backed up a couple of paces. "I was stupid last week," he said abruptly. "What I offered you wasn't the life for either of us. I was...flattered." His mouth had a rueful twist. "I'm a jock at heart, I guess. The idea of being part of the Olympic Games, the Super Bowl, the NBA playoffs... I felt like a kid on Christmas morning."

"You don't have to—"

But he shook his head. "No, let me finish. The thing is, I don't really want to live in hotel rooms while Isaiah's building a business that's half mine. And I don't want to come home five, six years from now and find my daughter needs a bra and isn't interested in talking to Dad anymore. You were right, and I was wrong."

Marian couldn't bear another word. "No!" She bit her lip. "Listen to me for a minute. I'm the one who was wrong. I was...scared. I thought I'd lose you if you traveled too much. I feel so...ordinary."

"Ordinary." He laughed without any amusement at all. "Good God, Marian, don't you know how beautiful you are? I fell in love with you the minute you opened your door that first evening."

Troubled, she said, "That's not love."

"Love," he insisted. Still he didn't come to her, but his gaze was warm as he looked at her. "You're strong and fragile both. Your hair was slipping out of the band and I wanted to touch it. I remember you blushing. But most of all I remember how gentle you were with Emma and the way you smiled. I'd never seen a smile that sweet." His voice had become rough, and he cleared his throat. "I wanted some of that sweetness for myself."

She crossed the room into his arms, which closed tightly about her. He cradled her as she rested her cheek against his chest. "I said...terrible things," Marian mumbled into his shirt. "I knew they weren't true...not completely, but I said them anyway." She lifted her head and met his eyes, though her own were damp.

His response was quiet. "Do you remember when I said that I thought we were both partly right?"

Biting her lip, she nodded.

"I've already told you the part I think you were right about. The other part... Well, look at Emma. Does she seem unhappy to you?"

Picturing his daughter, confident, bold, sometimes saucy, Marian had to shake her head. She'd seen Emma sad—but was there any child who wasn't sad sometimes?

"I wonder," he said gently, "if you haven't projected some of your own feelings at being abandoned on to the kids. You know, there's a difference between parents who aren't always there, and ones who aren't there when they're needed."

"Like this weekend," she whispered.

"Yeah." He kissed her forehead, his mouth lingering. "Like this weekend."

Marian lifted her head so suddenly she bumped his chin. "Today's Sunday!"

"Yeah?"

"But...the game?"

"A game is exactly what it is," he said quietly. His gaze caressed her face and his hands clasping her arms were warm. "It can't compete with our children."

"You didn't quit?" she asked, disturbed.

"No." With one finger he traced her lips. "They covered for me today. And I cut a deal with the network. Which wasn't hard, given the timing. They wanted me more than I wanted them. It's a compromise for us, Marian. But I hoped..."

Right this minute, her love was so intense it was painful. "Yes," she said, her voice catching.

"Listen to me first," he said urgently. His eyes were dark, thundercloud grey. "I'll cover football, just like I am now. And a few of the big events. But that's all. I won't be a regular commentator. The rest of the time I'll be home. Can you live with that?"

He sounded so vulnerable, so uncertain, that her heart skipped a beat and she felt the sting of tears. "Yes. Oh, yes. I love you, John."

"Thank God," he said, and momentarily closed his eyes. "I don't think I could live without you."

"Just don't..." her voice broke.” Don't leave me.”

His arms tightened. "Never," he vowed, and then he lifted her chin. "We're a team," he said. "All of us."

"Jesse and Anna..."

"Are mine. And Emma's yours."

She drew a shaken breath. "Are you trying to make me cry?”

His mouth twisted. "No. I'm trying to make you happy."

"Happy?" Marian felt as though a hot-air balloon were swelling in her chest. She might bump the ceiling any moment. "I didn't know it was possible to be so happy."

A light flared in his eyes, and his kiss was as inevitable as morning. Passion rose like the sun, hot and golden, but tenderness rippled between them, too, in soft touches and murmured words.

With impatient hands he tugged her hair loose, tangling his fingers in it as it tumbled down over her shoulders. "You know," he said unevenly, one hand stroking down her slender neck and dipping inside her shirt, "you have a lot to learn about my job."

Marian spread her fingers on his chest, reveling in the hammer beat of his heart. "Your job?" she whispered.

"Um." He released the catch of her bra. "You should understand the game of football. Terminology, for example ..."

She began to understand. "Tackling?"

He nipped at her soft lower lip. "We'll start with holding," he said, and thoroughly demonstrated.

THE END

About The Author

Janice Kay Johnson is the author of more than seventy books for children and adults.  Her first four published romance novels were coauthored with her mother Norma Tadlock Johnson, also a writer who has since published mysteries and children's books on her own.  These were "sweet" romance novels, the author hastens to add; she isn't sure they'd have felt comfortable coauthoring passionate love scenes!

Janice graduated from Whitman College with a B.A. in history and then received a master's degree in library science from the University of Washington.  She was a branch librarian for a public library system until she began selling her own writing.

She has written six novels for young adults and one picture book for the read-aloud crowd.  ROSAMUND was the outgrowth of all those hours spent reading to her own daughters, and of her passion for growing old roses.  Two more of her favorite books were historical novels WINTER OF THE RAVEN and THE ISLAND SNATCHERS which she wrote for Tor/Forge.  The research was pure indulgence for someone who set out intending to be a historian.

Janice raised her two daughters in a small, rural town north of Seattle, Washington.  She's an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter, and foster kittens often enliven a household that already includes a few more cats than she wants to admit to.

Janice loves writing books about both love and family — about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life.  Her Superromance novels are frequent finalists for Romance Writers of America RITA awards, and she won the 2008 RITA for Best Contemporary Series Romance for SNOWBOUND.

Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson

ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE

When Abigail McLeod landed the listing for the Irving House, a magnificent turn-of-the-century mansion with a haunted ballroom, she thought her luck had changed.  Selling this house will establish her real estate agency and mean security at last for her and her four-year-old daughter.  So why does something go wrong every time she shows the house?  Could it have anything to do with Nate Taggart, architect and the current renter, a sexy and complex man whose mysterious attachment to the Irving House has turned into a major problem?  How can she fall in love with a man she thinks she may have to kill the next time a hot prospect runs screaming from the house, especially when she knows better than to trust any man?  Falling for Abigail and her delightful daughter isn’t in Nate’s plans, either.  Achieving his own ends means hurting her.  But can he abandon a lifelong dream for Abigail?

DANGEROUS WATERS

Once famous for her gold medal winning triumph in the Olympic Games, Megan Lovell now wants nothing more than to belong in her hometown of Devil’s Lake.  But when she plunges into the lake at twilight to rescue a man she sees thrown overboard from a boat, she jeopardizes the life she holds dear.  FBI agent ‘Mac’ James McClain had been hiding from death threats here in this peaceful town.  Now his enemies are hunting not only him, but also the woman who saved his life.  On the run, in danger, these two battle a compelling physical attraction that scares them both.  Even if they survive, what does a man who lives undercover for months at a time and has never really had a home have to offer a woman who is desperate to be part of the hometown she gave up in her quest for that Olympic gold?  Perhaps it is inevitable that they end up back out on the dark waters of the lake, where their only hope of salvation is each other.

ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE

By Janice Kay Johnson

CHAPTER 1

"You'll be able to catch a glimpse of the house as soon as we go around this next bend."

Abigail McLeod was looking forward to her passengers' reactions. She deliberately hadn't prepared them, not even showing them a picture. That way the impact would be greater. Abigail was convinced that the old Irving House was perfect for the Petersons, a middle-aged couple in the market for an executive home. She had become the listing agent for the historical mansion only two days before, and she was determined to sell it herself. Having the Petersons walk into her office this morning was pure luck. Buyers who could afford the million-dollar plus price tag were few and far between.

The last curve of the narrow country road circled up and around the flank of a small grassy hill crowned with an orchard of ancient, gnarled apple trees. Wild flowers bloomed beneath them. Abigail heard Mrs. Peterson's drawn-in breath, sensed Mr. Peterson's stillness after he'd leaned sharply forward. It was the sight of the first turret that had done it, with the delicate pattern of shingles and the tiny round window high up catching the afternoon sunlight. Abigail smiled with quiet satisfaction, although she didn't take her gaze from the road. It was too easy to miss the drive, which these days was little more than two ruts that cut through the waist-high, golden-green grass of the pasture.

As soon as she'd turned her red Honda Accord into the lane, however, her own gaze stole up to the house. With its conical towers and small balconies, the intricate patterns of the fish scale shingling and the delicate gingerbread, it would to Abigail be forever evocative of princesses and dragons, of Rapunzel letting down her hair from the tower.

"It's magnificent!" Mr. Peterson murmured as the car crested the drive and the house came into full view, down to its granite-block foundation. "When was it built?"

"Eighteen ninety-one," Abigail answered matter-of-factly. "Locally it's called the Irving House. William Irving was a timber baron. His wife was English, and apparently he promised that if she married him, she wouldn't have to give up anything. Remember that Washington had only been a state for two years and the Puget Sound area was still practically a frontier. It probably sounded like the ends of the earth to a well-bred Englishwoman, but when the house was finished in 1893, she married him."

Mrs. Peterson looked enraptured with the story. "How romantic! And did they live happily ever after?"

"They had eight children," Abigail informed them. "Who fought tooth and nail over Papa's empire after he'd died. In the end two of them won. The oldest son took the timber business and the house, and another the railroad and shipping interests. A couple of the daughters married other local businessmen, and several of the children went back to England with their mother, never to be heard of again. The house has been occupied by a member of the family until the old man who owned it died just recently. That partly explains why it's in such excellent condition."

"But you said it's occupied?"

A tiny frown creased Abigail's forehead, although she didn't let her tone reflect her uneasiness. "Yes, by a renter. I called to let him know we'd be coming."

Abigail couldn't entirely explain, even to herself, why she was so worried about the renter. He'd been perfectly pleasant on the telephone, informing her agreeably that he would be there, but he'd try to stay out of their way. The man couldn't help the fact that he had such an unusual voice, low and a little gravelly. Actually, it was rather sexy, bringing to Abigail's mind a fleeting but all too vivid image of the rasp of a shaven chin against softer skin.

Maybe that was the only reason she had this odd feeling about him; he'd unwittingly reminded her of her own vulnerability, something she'd as soon not think about these days. She was too busy supporting herself and her four-year-old daughter, as well as trying to be a good single mother, to waste time on romantic—or sexual—fantasies.

She suspected, however, that the small worry in the back of her mind had originated the day she'd looked over the house with the present owner, Ed Phillips, a great-nephew of the old man who had died. Standing out in front by her car, she had asked him about the signs of occupation. The unwashed breakfast dishes, the faded jeans tossed on the bed, the razor lying by the bathroom sink, had made her wonder if whoever lived in the house had expected this visit.

Ed Phillips was the area's biggest contractor, a strongly built man in his early forties who was starting to put on a little too much weight, although in his case it simply made his presence more imposing. He could be very charming, although Abigail had a feeling that charm would disappear quickly if he were crossed. She wasn't sure she liked the man, but she was very eager to sell this house for him. He'd promised to throw more business her way if she did, business she desperately needed.

At her question about the house's occupant, he had frowned and glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected someone to appear on the porch. It remained empty, of course, but for a moment he continued to stare moodily up at the house. Clearly, Abigail had reminded him of something unpleasant. It was an odd reaction, one that made her apprehensive.

But then, few things were ever as perfect as this deal seemed to be. Wasn't there always a catch? The only question now was what Ed was going to spring on her. Did the renter keep a killer Doberman pinscher roaming the grounds that she would be expected to decoy whenever she wanted to bring buyers out? Or did the man work at night, so that she would never be able to show the house during the hours any sane person would want to see it? Or... She rummaged in her mind through past experiences for something suitably unpleasant.

But then Ed Phillips gave himself a little shake and turned back to her with an easy grin. "Sorry. Did you ask about the renter?"

Abigail raised her brows slightly and nodded.

"He won't be any problem," Ed said. "I'm lucky to have someone to keep the place up. Really lucky. And quite a bit of the furniture in there is his. Dresses the house up a little. So don't worry. It's a good thing he's here."

Abigail didn't probe. She also didn't believe him. He'd sounded too much as though he were trying to convince himself. She could only trust that he would have been honest with her if the renter was likely to present her any particular problem.

Now, as she eased her car to a stop in front of the house, Abigail could see the rear end of a pickup truck in the shadowy recesses of the old clapboard-sided carriage house. She ignored its presence, however, as she switched off the ignition and smiled at Mrs. Peterson, who was in the front seat with her.

"It's too bad that the landscaping has been neglected," she commented, having found in the past that bringing any sore points out into the open worked best. In this case, the knee-high weeds that choked the formal flower beds and the straggling boxwoods could hardly be ignored. "But there are plenty of beautiful old plants here to work with. Well, you can see that for yourself. It wouldn't be at all like starting from scratch with a new house."

It was true. Huge old rhododendrons promised a spectacular spring. Following the curve of the drive was a row of peonies with only a few gaps, the plump deep-pink and white heads showing through the long grass. The scent of the roses that scrambled up trellises beneath the front porch drifted in the open car window along with the faint buzzing of the bees. Abigail didn't make a move for a minute, subtly letting the sheer quiet of the country make its effect felt on the Petersons. At last she opened her car door.

As they climbed the front steps, Mr. Peterson said, "You're sure the place has been completely redone? It's impressive, I'll grant you that, but Betty and I aren't prepared to pour time and effort into the bottomless well I know these old houses can be."

"People do get in over their heads, don't they?" Abigail agreed pleasantly. "But the Irving House is different. As I explained to you, the owner, Mr. Phillips, is a highly respected local contractor. Under his direction, the roof, the plumbing, and the wiring have all been replaced. Mr. Phillips supervised the work himself. All that's left to be done is decorating. I'm sure you'll find the wallpapers old-fashioned, for example. But picking your own is the fun part, isn't it?"

The oval center of beveled glass in the elaborately carved front door allowed a glimpse into the wide hallway laid with a muted rose Oriental rug, while the tall leaded-glass windows on each side of the door scattered the sunlight into glittering shards of color. The door opened easily under Abigail's hand, and she put her key back in her purse.

"Hello?" she called into the silence. The muffled clang of metal against metal somewhere in the far reaches of the house was the only answer. "Hello," she called again, louder, but there was still no response. Abigail hesitated, wondering whether she should track the man down before she started showing the house, but decided not to. He expected them, after all.

A wide, graceful staircase with beautifully turned balusters rose from the elegant entry hall with its marble floor and polished oak paneling. Mr. Peterson went one way, drawn by the beveled-glass-fronted bookcases in the library, while Mrs. Peterson peered into the front parlor. "The ceilings must be fourteen feet high!" she exclaimed, impressed. "And the floors are beautiful. Are they oak?"

"No, maple," Abigail informed her. "The wainscoting and woodwork in here are, too." A magnificent marble fireplace dominated one end of the room, made airy by the extremely high ceiling banded with delicate plaster garlands.

The front rooms were skimpily furnished; Abigail knew that when he'd inherited it, Ed Phillips had emptied the house of the more valuable furnishings, keeping a few treasures and selling the rest. She had to assume the lovely pieces here belonged to the mysterious renter, who clearly had very good taste and loved antiques.

It was while Mrs. Peterson was opening and closing cupboard doors in the kitchen that Abigail first became conscious of the smell. Faint but unpleasant, it had been with them since she first opened the front door, she realized now. Neither of the Petersons had commented yet, so Abigail glanced around casually, wondering if the renter needed to take his garbage out. Something was certainly rotting somewhere. But the bag under the sink was empty, and the sink itself and the new Italian tile counters were spotlessly clean. Abigail frowned, and wrenched herself back with an effort to answer a question from Mr. Peterson.

"Yes, the sink and countertops are new. There is a disposal now, and, of course, a dishwasher."

The Petersons murmured as they wandered through the kitchen with its glass-fronted maple cabinets, and Abigail lapsed into silence again. She liked to give potential buyers the space to really get a feel for what they were seeing. At the moment, though, there was more to it. She was increasingly bothered by the odor, which she was certain was becoming stronger. Mrs. Peterson's nose twitched a little as she, too, looked into the cupboard under the sink as though involuntarily drawn. Another housewife wanting to throw out the trash, Abigail diagnosed.

She cleared her throat, forcing a chuckle. "Smells like the renter must have made egg salad sandwiches this morning, doesn't it?"

They both laughed, too, and seemed to relax. "Is there a bathroom on this floor?" Mr. Peterson asked.

Abigail didn't like the association, but smiled. "Yes, indeed, and three more upstairs. There's a utility room back this way, too, with a chute from both floors above. I'm sure with children you'll appreciate that!" She led the way, her high heels clicking on the polished wood floor.

The instant Abigail swung open the bathroom door, she wished she hadn't. A condensed odor that any pulp mill would have been proud to claim wafted out, a thickness in the air so palpable it should have been visible. Gagging, she stumbled back a step, bumping into Mr. Peterson, who was retreating just as quickly. Abigail had just the presence of mind to pull the bathroom door with her, sealing the worst of the sulphurous stench in.

Her desperate need for fresh air took control, leading her at a trot into the utility room. The Petersons were right on her heels. When Abigail flung open the back door, all three of them leaned out, sucking in the blessed spring air.

Mr. Peterson regained control of himself first, although his expression was still tinged with green. "Did you get a good look? Was something dead in there?"

Abigail closed her eyes and took one more fortifying breath of air before mumbling, "Unfortunately, no."

She'd have almost preferred a dead body in the bathtub to the reality, which was a plumbing problem. An acute one. Her one extremely fleeting look into the bathroom had left her with a vision of the back off the toilet and the floor scattered with wrenches and sundry other tools. Apparently the renter was doing his best to fix the problem. Why the hell hadn't he called her with a warning? However, she was looking forward to finding out what was going on.

"Did I hear someone?"

Speak of the devil, Abigail thought grimly, turning to face the possessor of that very interesting voice. "In here," she answered through a pinched nose.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a moment later the man appeared in the doorway of the utility room, his expression inquiring and a little concerned. Abigail promptly forgot the smell. An odd little shiver ran down her spine, almost as though his fingers had lightly traced it.

He was entirely too attractive for his own good, or maybe it was for her own good. He wasn't handsome in a pretty way like a male model; his looks were grittier than that, wholly masculine. He must have been six feet tall, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and the long, supple muscles of a natural athlete. It was hard to miss noticing, dressed as he was in faded jeans that clung to his hips and thighs and an equally faded sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to expose strong brown forearms. In one long-fingered hand he held a wrench. His dark-blond hair, shortish and pushed untidily back from his forehead, was streaked by the sun. A straight, positively aristocratic nose and beautiful cheekbones were emphasized by the strong grooves that ran to each side of his mouth. And then there were his dark-gray eyes....

Which, Abigail realized with acute embarrassment, were inspecting her just as thoroughly, and with a very disturbing glint in them. More disconcerting, though, was the small frown that creased his brow. He was the one who looked disconcerted, she suddenly realized, as though for some reason she had taken him by surprise and he didn't like the sensation.

She did her best to gaze coolly back at him, although she was certain some color had crept into her cheeks. She couldn't remember the last time a man had looked at her with such blatant awareness. Especially one who made her own blood race. The timing was lousy, though. She was a professional woman doing her job, with her clients standing at her elbow, for heaven's sake. And here she was blushing like a teenager and nervously smoothing tendrils of her curly dark hair back from her face.

Only seconds had passed, although Abigail had the disquieting sensation that she and the man had been staring at each other for minutes instead. Neither of the Petersons had said anything, although when Abigail pulled her gaze away from that dark-gray one, she saw that middle-aged Mrs. Peterson was eyeing him with appreciation as well.

He broke the silence with that unnervingly sexy voice. "Enjoying the view out back?" The question sounded innocent enough, but he was suppressing a smile that showed in his eyes.

That was all it took for Abigail to identify one of the reasons for her strong reaction to him. The moment he'd appeared in the doorway there had been an undercurrent, even before his eyes met hers.

On the surface, his expression had been all it should be, but beneath that facade, she was quite sure he had been hiding amusement.

Even more exasperating, he appeared impervious to the extremely unpleasant odor that had to be filling his nostrils. Abigail gritted her teeth and smiled through them. "Hello, I'm Abigail McLeod. I believe I spoke to you this morning?"

"Yes, I'm Nate Taggart." His expression cleared in an instant, leaving her to wonder if she could possibly have imagined the laughter in his eyes, or the spark. The small frown remained, although he continued blandly, "Sorry about the mess. And the..." he cleared his throat, "er, aroma. It's just a little problem, really nothing to worry about, even though it doesn't smell like it."

"You mean it's not a real plumbing problem?" Abigail’s hopes lifted feeble heads. Please, please, bail me out, she begged silently.

But, not looking at her, he gestured vaguely with the wrench. "Well, I didn't say that."

"But the plumbing is all new!" she wailed, suddenly not caring what she sounded like.

Nate's dark brows rose. "Is it?"

Abigail sensed the cold look Mr. Peterson gave her, and knew damn well what he was thinking. "What do you mean, is it?" she demanded. "Of course it is! Ed Phillips had every pipe in the house replaced! If you know enough to work on it, can't you tell?"

He glanced from her to Mr. Peterson in apparent confusion, although Abigail, suspicious, thought that glint of laughter was back in his eyes. He shrugged. "Maybe it is. I guess, if you say so, it must be. Anyway, like I said, it's not a real serious problem. You know what these old houses are like. They just take a little patching up every once in a while. I'm only sorry you got caught in the draft." Apparently enjoying his own pun, he gave a little chuckle. "So go right ahead and look upstairs. I don't think it's as bad up there."

Abigail tried very hard to sound pleasant. "I'm sorry you didn't give me a call. I could have showed the house another time."

"Maybe it's just as well," Mr. Peterson interjected brusquely. "I had reservations about the idea of buying an old house, anyway. I think Mr. Taggart here is quite right about them. If you're not handy with a wrench and a hammer, you don't belong in one."

"Mr. Phillips assured me," Abigail began, cursing how feeble she sounded, "that—"

The older man interrupted again without apology. "Do you have any other houses to show us?"

Abigail supposed she should be grateful that he was willing to give her another chance. It wouldn't have been surprising if he had come to the conclusion that she'd been trying to pull a fast one on him. "Yes, several," she said, forcing a smile. "The Heights have some beautiful new homes with spectacular views of the Cascade Mountains."

Normally she might have gone on with her sales pitch, but this time she decided to reserve it for the drive. She was much too conscious of Nate Taggart standing there listening with bright-eyed interest. All she wanted to do was escape. The sooner she could forget this last half hour, in which she'd managed to combine abject failure and reawakened adolescent hormones, the happier she'd be.

"Why don't we go on out the back door?" she said to the Petersons. "At least we can enjoy the spring weather."

They didn't need to be asked twice. A polite nod at Nate Taggart and the older couple was gone. Abigail took only the time for a very faint smile. She didn't trust herself to say anything. Although she wasn't sure why. It wasn't his fault that the plumbing or septic tank had decided to erupt at a particularly inopportune moment.

Abigail had to step carefully in her heels on the overgrown brick path that meandered around the house. Just before she reached the corner that would put the kitchen wing between her and the utility-room door, Abigail glanced back. She couldn't help herself.

He was standing on the top step, watching her with an inscrutable gaze. When her eyes met his, he grinned, the grooves in his cheeks deepening. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, Ms. McLeod," he said.

Abigail forced another smile, then hastily put the building between herself and Nate Taggart. Either the guy was remarkably insensitive to atmosphere, or he was slightly sadistic. At the moment, she leaned toward the sadistic explanation.

*****

Nate Taggart propped one shoulder against the wall in the front parlor and crossed his arms. He watched through the small-paned window as the trio walked across the front lawn, the only part of the grounds he'd succeeded in taming, and, with a production, opened the doors of the bright-red Honda and at last climbed in. He could see their mouths moving, and several telling gestures, but couldn't hear what was being said. It was like watching a silent movie. Or being a peeping Tom, lurking in the shadows. His mouth tightened with annoyance at himself as the small car made the circle and departed down the lane. A cloud of dust lingered long after the Honda had disappeared.

He ought to feel triumphant, or at least pleased with himself. Instead, he felt guilty. It had nothing to do with Ed Phillips. That bastard deserved anything he had coming. The woman, though, Abigail.... He startled himself by saying her name aloud, savoring the old-fashioned sound. He liked her name, and he liked her looks. She was tall, with remarkably fine bones and subtle curves in just the right places. He had a suspicion that the soft, wavy dark hair she'd had pinned up so primly would be perfect to tangle his fingers in. And her eyes were glorious, a foresty green-brown that could turn a man poetic. In fact, for just a minute she'd stunned him, and that didn't happen often.

So now he felt guilty for her sake. She'd been upset, and he couldn't blame her. He wished he could explain how important this was to him. Already, though, his defenses were kicking in, and he told himself it wasn't that big a deal. She'd been embarrassed in front of a couple of clients; so what? Any adult would have done that to themselves a few times.

The odds were that the people she was showing the house to weren't even serious. They were probably Lookie Lou's, out for a fun weekend of seeing how the other half lived. Chances were it would be weeks before Abigail McLeod found any other buyers even interested in seeing this old white elephant. By that time, his own problem might be solved.

In the meantime, he'd better get to work airing the place out, if he wanted to be able to eat breakfast here in the morning. Forget dinner. Once he had all the windows open, he'd grab a hamburger out, maybe go watch the baseball game at John's house.

And tomorrow.... He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled. Tomorrow he just might drop into the real-estate offices of McLeod and James and see if Ms. McLeod was any friendlier than she'd been today. Maybe she'd like to have lunch with him, once she found out he really was a respectable guy. If it turned out she was married, well, with a little effort he could forget those magnificent eyes and long, slender legs.

He took one more reminiscent look down the drive, on which the dust had long since settled, then sighed and pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulder. Too bad he didn't have a gas mask. Next time—if there was one—he'd go a little easier on the stuff. Or maybe try something different. Yeah, there ought to be an easier way. He grimaced and plunged back into the noisome depths of the house.

DANGEROUS WATERS

By Janice Kay Johnson

CHAPTER 1

Table of Contents

HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

About The Author

Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson

ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE

DANGEROUS WATERS