“I know.” In the dead of night, Lindsay had found her grandmother weeping for the child she would never hold, grieving for the child she would never know. That had been in August and Lindsay now believed she’d seen her grandmother reliving the birth of the child she’d given up for adoption, mourning her all over again….

  “How do you know?” Gage demanded.

  “Camp was the last week of July—I went for years. So my family was here in Buffalo Valley in August. It was definitely August.”

  Gage glanced at the cigar box. “This is pretty incredible information, but I don’t intend on breaking their secret, do you?”

  Lindsay had only recently made her decision. Unsure at first, she’d reviewed the contents of the box a dozen times. Then she’d called Gage. Now she knew what she needed to do.

  “I want to find her.”

  “Her? The child?” Gage shook his head, resolutely dismissing the suggestion.

  “Yes,” she said calmly. “Whoever she is, she has a right to know about her birth parents.”

  His mouth thinned and he continued shaking his head. “Lindsay, no.”

  “No?”

  “First of all, adoption records are closed.”

  “I don’t need any records. The letter gives me enough information to find her. At least I hope it does.” It probably wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. She’d hoped Gage would be willing to help her, would find the importance of this task as compelling as she did.

  He was silent, then stood and walked to the other side of the room, as though to put distance between them. His absolute rejection of her plan disappointed Lindsay more than she’d expected it would.

  “I’m not going to pry into her life,” she rushed to explain, responding to his objections before he had a chance to speak then.

  “No, you plan to force your way in, uninvited and unwanted. And for what possible reason? What’s done is done. All this happened nearly sixty years ago. What possible good could come out of invading her privacy?”

  “She has a right to know her parents loved her,” Lindsay said as persuasively as she could.

  “Don’t do this,” he pleaded softly.

  “What about the gold locket and the letters? If you were an adopted child, wouldn’t you want those?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” The words were flat. Unyielding. His jaw was hard and his eyes cold in a way she hadn’t seen before. Shaking his head, he added, “Brandon said it last week—and again today. I took his warning with a grain of salt, knowing he’s bitter and miserable over Joanie and the kids being gone.”

  Now it was Lindsay’s turn to feel confused. “What’s Brandon Wyatt got to do with any of this?”

  “You don’t understand us….”

  “Us? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She hated it when he said things like this.

  He held her look. “You aren’t one of us.”

  “Are you saying I’m an outsider?” she asked angrily.

  “You mean well, Lindsay, but you don’t understand. People here believe that other folks should be allowed to make their own choices and live by them. We’re independent. Self-reliant. We don’t interfere in other people’s lives—or want ours interfered with. That’s what you don’t understand.” He walked toward the door, pausing to reach for his coat. “Don’t do this, Lindsay. Leave the woman alone. She didn’t ask for anyone to intrude in her life. She has a right to her privacy.”

  “I’m not going to invade her life—I’m giving her a gift.”

  He glared at her. “Gift.” He spat out the word. “You talk about a scholarship for Kevin and call that a gift, too. Don’t you see? Can’t you understand? You insist on giving people gifts they don’t need or want.”

  Lindsay opened her mouth to argue, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “Your grandmother chose to keep her daughter a secret,” he said earnestly. “If for no other reason, honor her wishes.”

  “I’ll…think about it,” she promised.

  “That’s all I can ask.” He moved to open the door.

  “Gage,” she said, stopping him. She didn’t want him to leave, not like this, not when so much remained unspoken. “I think we should talk some more about Kevin and the scholarship.”

  His back was ramrod straight. She felt a sudden fear of losing him. She could feel it, see it. He was pulling away from her, emotionally as well as physically.

  “I understand about duty and responsibility, and that Kevin’s future is already planned for him—but I also believe strongly that he should apply for the scholarships. If he’s rejected, then nothing’s lost, and if he’s accepted, well, we can all cross that bridge when we get to it. If he is accepted, he’ll never doubt his talent. He’ll know that if circumstances were different, he could have pursued art had he wanted. And still might if the future allows.”

  “You encouraged him to fill out the applications?”

  She nodded.

  “Kevin agreed?”

  “He wasn’t sure… Yes, he agreed after I talked to him.” Heart sinking, she clasped her hands in front of her. Gage looked past her, but she didn’t miss the expression on his face. He thought she’d betrayed him. That had never been her intention, never entered her mind. “I…felt you should know,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “That’s all…”

  “You do what you feel is best, and so will I.” He turned toward the door.

  “Gage!” she cried, stopping him again. “If I were adopted, I’d want to know about my birth parents.”

  He said nothing.

  “I wouldn’t interfere in her life.”

  “Are you looking for my approval? Because if you are, I’m not giving it. Like I said, you do what you feel is necessary and so will I.”

  “But you won’t help me find her?”

  “I want nothing to do with this.”

  She took a step toward him. “I’m going to do some research this weekend. I figured if I found the name of a physician who practiced during that time—a man who was Catholic and had a brother or brother-in-law who was a priest—then I might be able to locate her. I was hoping we could work together.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time. I said I want nothing to do with this. Can I make it any plainer than that?”

  Lindsay felt numb. “No, I guess you can’t,” she man-aged, her voice barely a whisper.

  Gage opened the door and this time she didn’t stop him.

  * * *

  Heath Quantrill hadn’t talked to Rachel Fischer since the night of their dinner date a month earlier. In retrospect, he realized he’d made a mistake in rushing her.

  The women he knew, and there had been plenty over the years, had a more sophisticated and liberal view of life and sex. Often they were the ones who’d aggressively pursued him, eager to take him to their beds. Sometimes he forgot he was back in North Dakota, where the mere suggestion of physical pleasure made women like Rachel blush. She’d lived her entire life in Buffalo Valley, had married right out of high school and settled into a role she’d never questioned. It’d been years since he’d had to charm a woman into his bed—not that he wasn’t up to the challenge.

  Rachel’s sexual experience was probably limited to her marriage. He was sure she had much to learn, and he looked forward to teaching her. He was vaguely aware that his attitude might be a bit arrogant, but it didn’t concern him much. Women tended to like confidence in a man—judging by his observations, anyway.

  He’d been a fool to believe she was like the other women he’d known. Although it’d been difficult, he’d purposely stayed away and allowed enough time to pass for her wounded sensibilities to heal. Now, with Christmas over and the holidays behind them, he’d try again. He’d advance a little more slowly, though.

  Her January payment on the pizza oven was due, and when she brought it to the bank, Heath planned to use the opportunity to make amends. Subtly, of course. He’d be contrite, but not excessively so. He knew what he wanted—and he wanted Rachel, in his bed. Rachel was a woman who needed to be seduced. Persuaded. Courted. If he hadn’t been so distracted by her, he would have recognized it.

  All day, every time the bank door opened, Heath looked up, hoping it was Rachel.

  But the entire day passed and still no Rachel. Before this, she’d always been prompt with her payment. Then, just as the bank was ready to close, a breathless Mark raced inside.

  “Hello, Mr. Quantrill.” The ten-year-old’s cheeks and nose were rosy red from the cold. His flyaway hair stood straight up with static electricity from his knit cap, which he’d yanked off when he entered the bank. “My mom asked me to give you this.” He removed his glove with his teeth, then reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a crumpled check.

  Instead of bringing the payment herself, Rachel had thwarted him and sent the boy.

  “It’s the money for the pizza oven,” Mark explained when Heath didn’t immediately accept the check.

  The paper felt cold against his warm fingers. “Thank her for me,” Heath said.

  Mark nodded. “I gotta go, Mom needs me to help at the house.” He pushed the knit hat back on his head and pulled on his glove. “See you next month, Mr. Quantrill.”

  “Right,” he muttered. So that was the way it would be.

  A few minutes later, Heath locked up, but instead of heading straight back to Grand Forks, he wandered over to Buffalo Bob’s. He wanted to think and didn’t know of a better place than the 3 OF A KIND.

  “How’re ya doin’?” Bob greeted him.

  “Great,” Heath mumbled, “just great.”

  Buffalo Bob paused and stared in Heath’s direction. “Don’t tell me you got women troubles, too.”

  Heath slid onto a stool. “What do you mean?”

  “Seems to be afflicting every man in town.” He held up a beer and Heath shook his head. Buffalo Bob reached for the coffeepot and poured him a mug, instead. Heath had found it to be the best coffee around. Bob served real coffee and not some watered-down version. Or, God forbid, that flavored stuff. After living in Europe, Heath had developed a connoisseur’s taste for coffee. In his opinion, most folks in North Dakota served coffee weak enough to resemble tea.

  “Take Brandon Wyatt,” Buffalo Bob said as he set the mug down on the bar. “I suppose you already heard he and the missus split?”

  “Brandon and Joanie?” Heath hadn’t heard, and the news depressed him.

  “Don’t know what went wrong,” Buffalo Bob added. “All Brandon said was he should’ve known better than to marry a city girl.”

  Heath shook his head and cupped the mug with both hands, his elbows on the bar. “That’s a real shame.”

  “Dennis Urlacher was in recently, all miserable about him and Sarah. Apparently he’s having trouble with that teenage daughter of hers. From what he said, it looks like the girl wants her parents to get back together.”

  “Any chance of that?”

  Buffalo Bob shrugged. “I doubt it, seeing they’ve been divorced for years, but I wouldn’t know.” He poured a coffee for himself. “You got the look, too, Mr. Quantrill.”

  “Me?” Heath didn’t want to discuss his personal affairs, not with Bob or with anyone. Others might, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk about his mistakes. He’d drifted in here for some privacy, a chance to think. “It’s nothing,” he murmured.

  “I thought you and Rachel Fischer were hitting it off.”

  “Not really.” He took one last sip of coffee, put the mug down and left a dollar on the counter. “Guess I’m ready for the drive now.”

  Buffalo Bob seemed surprised by his abrupt decision to leave. “Good to see you,” he said, scooping up the mug and the money. “Come by anytime.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Heath was halfway out the door when he heard a woman’s giggle. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Buffalo Bob and Merrily engaged in a kiss that looked as if it was never going to end. For an instant, he experienced a pang of envy. If he hadn’t been so stupid, Rachel might be kissing him like that right now. Instead, he was slinking out of town, defeated, and wishing like hell for a second chance.

  Sunday afternoon, Heath made his weekly trek to visit his grandmother at the retirement center. He found her asleep in her wheelchair, head to one side, eyes closed.

  As quietly as he could, he made his way into her suite and set the small bouquet of flowers on top of the television.

  “Don’t put those there,” she snapped, fully awake and alert in a split second. She looked at him suspiciously. “When did you get here?”

  “Hours ago,” he fibbed.

  He could tell she was amused by the hint of a smile that tilted one side of her mouth. “You’re late.”

  “Thank you for the flowers, Heath,” he said with humorous sarcasm as he handed her the bouquet. “My, what a thoughtful grandson I have.”

  “What are you doing bringing an old woman flowers, anyway? It’s a waste of good money. You should be giving those to Rachel Fischer.”

  He must have made a revealing gesture, because she caught on right away that there was a problem between him and Rachel.

  “You are seeing Rachel, aren’t you?”

  “Not recently,” he said, taking a seat some distance from her. If she found out what he’d done, she might decide to beat him over the head with those flowers.

  “Why not?”

  His grandmother had always been one to get straight to the point. It was a characteristic they shared. “I didn’t come here to discuss my personal life with you.”

  “Then what the hell good are you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How old are you now? Don’t you think it’s time you got married?”

  “I will. All in good time.” He leaned back and spread his arms across the back of the couch.

  “In good time,” she scoffed. “Who’s to say how much time any of us has? Max always said he had lots of time, too, and now he’s gone.”

  Heath tried not to think about his brother and how sorely Max was missed by both his grandmother and him.

  “You’ve been frittering away your life for years. Climbing mountains, living like a Bohemian. I blame your parents for this. I told them that sparing the rod spoiled the child.”

  “Grandma,” Heath said, struggling to curtail a laugh. “I received my share of the rod.”

  “Not near enough for someone as stubborn as you. I should’ve taken the paddle to you myself.”

  At that, he laughed outright. His grandmother was all bark, and he knew it.

  She wheeled around to face him. “Tell me what happened with the widow.”

  He hesitated, then figured he deserved whatever criticism she gave him. “I tried to rush her into bed.”

  Lily Quantrill made a disapproving sound, but she didn’t explode the way he’d figured she would. He could tell by her scowl that she considered him a fool, and frankly, Heath agreed with her.

  “What’s the outlook now?” she demanded.

  “Not good, I’m afraid.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “You giving up on her?”

  “No.” He’d never been a quitter in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

  “You going to marry her?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  Lily snickered. “So, you wanted to bed her, did you?”

  “Yes, but…” He hesitated, thinking better of enlightening his grandmother about the morals and values of modern days. She might take exception.

  “But what?” she asked. “I like her, you like her. My grandparents met when her father went to a marriage broker. It was good enough for them. They were married sixty-eight years. Should I call Rachel, get this matter straightened out once and for all?”

  Appalled, Heath was on his feet. “Don’t you dare do that! I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “Apologize to her.”

  He sighed. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “And remember, wed before bed—it’s worked that way for hundreds of years. Must be a reason for it, don’t you think?” Muttering under her breath, she wheeled over with the flowers and returned them to him. “Do something quick. I want to see you married before I leave this world, and I’m not as young as I look.”

  * * *

  Joanie delayed phoning Brandon until afternoon. She couldn’t put it off any longer, otherwise the kids would be rushing in the door from school. It was a task she dreaded, but she had no choice. There were a number of things they needed to discuss.

  That morning, as soon as the children had left, she sat down and in an organized and methodical way wrote out a list of items to discuss with her husband. All day that list had accompanied her from room to room.

  So far, every contact between them had left her shaken and emotionally drained. Brandon didn’t make it easy on her, but despite that, she had to call. Now.

  The baby stirred as she sat at the kitchen table and reached for the old-fashioned phone. Joanie placed her hand over her swollen abdomen, loving this child already. Poor, sweet baby. He had no idea what was happening to his family.

  Earlier in the month, an ultrasound had revealed the likely sex of her unborn child. The health clinic had ordered the procedure when Joanie experienced some minor complications. Luckily, she’d qualified for free health care. Had he known, Brandon would have bristled at the thought of anyone in his family receiving charity. In the weeks since leaving him, she’d become accustomed to accepting the kindness of others. Her parents, in particular, had been wonderful, but she didn’t want to depend on them any more than she already did.

  Brandon had sent her a check for January and, last Wednesday, one for February, a week early. But it wasn’t nearly enough to meet their living expenses, even with the nominal rent she paid. Her parents had urged her to tell her husband about the pregnancy, and twice now she’d tried, and both times had failed. When they did talk, it was by phone and he always sounded so angry and bitter, and despite her resolve to inform him about the baby, she found she just couldn’t.