Kenny came in that night. 'We didn't go skiing, after all. We went to the shop where Mike works.' His face screwed up with concentration. 'They have a new job to do. Putting things in envelopes. Little shampoos. And coupons. It's easy. I tried it. Simon's the boss. He said I could do it if I wanted. I said OK.'

  She looked at him dully. Nodded. What else could she do? He didn't have to ask her permission. Why should he ask her permission? He was over eighteen.

  'When I'm good enough at stuffing the envelopes, I can try the next station. Simon said . . .'

  Charlie listened and didn't listen. For a week, she listened and didn't listen, the sadness spreading its tentacles throughout her like a weed taking root.

  Kenny tried to be sensitive to her feelings, but he was too excited about his life. He talked with animation about the work he was doing, the people he was meeting. And the empty house each day made it that much harder to run.

  She thought Gallagher might call. He did not. She grieved his loss, grieved it and yet knew, this time, she had no one to blame but herself. She had acted defensively, jumped to conclusions, accused him of things on an assumption that he was just like Paul. She knew better. She knew he was not like Paul, but it didn't matter. She couldn't have Gallagher. He had talked once about relationships needing two people who were healthy and whole to make them work. She did not feel either healthy or whole. There was something within her that was ugly and terrible, and she could never have him while it was there. Nor did she have the strength to face it.

  She took to watching game shows in the mornings, soap operas in the afternoons, and anything at all in the evenings, just so that her mind would stay numb. Once she wondered, as she turned on the TV in the morning, if this was the life she had given Kenny. It was awful. She hated it, felt powerless to do anything about it, and was glad that, despite her lack of encouragement, Kenny had managed to pull himself out of the mire she would have imprisoned him in for life.

  'Chuck, Mike's room-mate moved.'

  She glanced up from the TV and her depleted box of freezer Danish. 'So?' She didn't mean to use that tone with him, but she couldn't help herself. Nothing mattered any more, nothing but avoiding the dragon.

  'He asked me to move in with him. I could do it, Chuck. I could. I make enough money. I'd have some left over for food. And enough for a movie once every two weeks. Simon, at work, helped me figure it out. And he said I could apply for --'

  'No!' It came out as a scream, and she saw the shock register on Kenny's face. It was quickly followed by anger.

  'I want to live with Mike,' he yelled. 'I want to be a grown-up, like you. I want to have you and Gallagher over for supper one night, like Mike has Tanya and me sometimes.'

  'Kenny, I'm sorry I yelled. I am. We can't talk about this right now. I can't.'

  'Don't call me Kenny!' he screamed. 'I'm not a little kid! Nobody at work calls me Kenny.'

  'Please. Not now,' she whispered. Not now, when I'm losing the one man in this world I can love. I don't want to lose you, too. Not in the same month. Not ever.

  But Kenny was glaring at her. 'You don't love me, Charlie. You hate me. You hate me!'

  She stared at him. She could feel the blood draining from her face. She found she wanted desperately to deny it, but could not. Her moment with the dragon had come.

  She stood in the darkness, watching the cheery light from Gallagher's barn throw gold across the snow. It was beautiful, like a scene from a Christmas card. So many times, she thought, she had compared scenes in Revelstoke with scenes on Christmas cards. She wondered if that was why she liked it so much. Because she wanted life to be like a Christmas card, beautiful and pleasant, pretty scenes frozen in time.

  She took a deep breath, walked to the slightly ajar door, and slipped in. She stood there for a moment, just watching, engrossed in yet another pretty scene. Gallagher was pitching hay to the horses, almost lost in the mist coming in great clouds out of their mighty nostrils. Despite the chill in the barn, he wore only faded jeans and a flannel shirt, the shirt-sleeves rolled up over the corded muscle of his forearms.

  She could see his profile, and noted that there were weary lines etched around his mouth that she had never noticed before. Even in the dim light, she could see that he looked haggard and bleak, like a man who had not slept often or well.

  'Gallagher.'

  He whirled and looked at her, and her heart caught in her throat. His chest was heaving, his hair curling damply around his head from his exertion. He looked so strong and earthy and healthy, all things which she knew him to be. She knew she had done him a grave disservice to think he had any motive other than Kenny's welfare at heart that night two weeks ago.

  'Hi.' His voice was non-committal. He turned back to his horses.

  She moved to him, stroked a giant nose absently. She suspected that Gallagher was not a man who would forgive easily a lack of trust from one who had claimed to love him. She had not come to try and win him back, though, now that she was standing here, she wondered if that motive did not linger in her mind. She had only come to tell him about Kenny. Everything. She didn't know why. Maybe because she felt that Gallagher Cole had fallen in love with an illusion—a picture on a Christmas card. Maybe it would be easier to walk away from him knowing that once he knew the whole truth he would no longer feel the same for her. The love he had felt, she had felt, would be destroyed, as everything she loved was destroyed.

  'I came to talk,' she said simply.

  'I kind of guessed that.' Again, there was a note of uncaring in his voice. Because she had wounded him, or because he didn't care any more?

  'Let me finish with the horses. We'll go to the house and have some hot chocolate.'

  She nodded, but felt her courage fade as he worked silently on, not mentioning work, not talking to her at all. Why was she here? What difference did it make now? It looked like he had fallen out of love with her as naturally as he'd fallen in. Was there any reason to belabour the point?

  He made hot chocolate as silently as he had fed the horses. He said nothing; he did not look at her. Even when he was seated in the chair across from her, he poked abstractedly at the fire.

  'I want to tell you about Kenny.'

  He shrugged. 'OK.'

  She hesitated. Where to begin? Maybe at the ending, and work backwards. 'He got a job, Gallagher. He's moving out, too.'

  Gallagher's eyes met hers for the first time, and she recoiled from the furious light she saw there. 'So, now that he's looked after, you don't have to worry about the ugly ogre interfering with his life? Shipping him off to a home at the first opportunity?'

  She realised now that his indifference had masked a tremendous hurt. 'Gallagher, there was an ogre. But it wasn't in you. Maybe I just wanted to believe it was so I wouldn't have to look at myself. I had to look at myself, anyway.'

  She stopped. She had promised herself she would not cry—because that would seem like pleading. She had promised herself she would just tell the story, all of it, and let the chips fall where they would. She had not a doubt that any feelings Gallagher had for her would be dead after her admissions. Maybe, she admitted honestly, that was the real reason for the tears that pricked behind her lashes.

  'Kenny wasn't born like that.'

  Gallagher looked up from the fire, startled. 'What?'

  She shook her head, tried to smile. 'He was a perfectly normal little boy. More than normal. Hell, cute as a button, bright, inquisitive. When I first moved in with Aunt Joss and Uncle Henry, I was so thrilled with him. I made him my baby. I played with him. I insisted on being the one who fed him, changed him, put him to bed. He was the family I had always wanted so darn badly.' She was aware that her voice was beginning to shake, and fought to steady it.

  'I did that to him,' she managed to blurt out, and then stopped, fighting for composure. 'I made Kenny the way he is today.'

  The indifference was fading from Gallagher's face, but the look of shared pain he gave her only increased her agony. She wanted him to love her. Yearned for it. Perhaps if she left this story only half-told—left out the dragon—he would love her out of pure sympathy. The idea appealed momentarily, and then she dismissed it. No, he had to love her for exactly what she was. Anything else would be a sham, a complete mockery of what love was meant to be. But she knew it was a pretty tall order she was looking for.

  'He was two,' she said. 'We were out in the yard. I was eight. I was supposed to be watching him. I was. 1 was watching him. He was playing on some steps. But I was also playing with my dolls and the little girl from across the street. I could see that he was eating something. I never went and checked. I don't know, if I had, if I would have known that he shouldn't be eating the peeling paint --'

  'Good lord,' Gallagher murmured. He was getting up from his chair, but she stayed him with her hand. Reluctantly, seeing her face, he sank back down.

  'It was a lead paint,' she said. 'Of course, they're not entirely sure it was that, and nobody ever blamed me, Gallagher. Ever. But I blamed myself. Always. Every time I look at Kenny I wonder what he could have been . . .' She took a deep, shuddering breath.

  'The dragon,' she said softly, 'the fourth dragon is guilt, Gallagher.'

  'The fourth dragon?' He was looking gravely concerned now.

  'Charlie James. There she goes. The saint. Dedicated. Devoted. Self-sacrificing. No, Gallagher, guilty. Trying so damn hard to absolve myself . . . absolve myself, punish myself. Yes, I fought his independence, but I fought it because I was afraid it would just explode a secret longing I harboured to be rid of him, to be free to lead a normal life. I guess I thought that if I pushed too hard for him to work, to live on his own, I thought he would know, the world would know.' She was sobbing into her hands. 'The truth, Gallagher. He knows, anyway. He thinks I hate him . . . and sometimes—sometimes, I'm not so sure . . .'

  Now, she thought blearily, Gallagher would see all that she was. Not a pretty sight. And he would get up and walk away, and she would never blame him.

  Except that he was beside her on the sofa, and he gently touched her shoulders, guiding her into the hard wall of his chest, stroking her hair as though she were a little girl who had just lost her puppy beneath the wheels of a car.

  'You're one brave and beautiful lady, Charlie James,' he finally murmured softly.

  'Brave?' She dared to peek up at him through swollen lids.

  'It sounds like you just got yourself a dragon,' he said gently.

  'Did you hear me?' she asked incredulously. 'Despise me, Gallagher! Despise me for the charade I've played out. Despise me for betraying a poor handicapped kid who relies on me. I despise myself.'

  'Charlie, would your life be any different today if you hadn't been the one who was supposed to be watching Kenny that day? If it had been someone else who had turned their back for a moment?'

  His words sank in, and the crazy roar inside her head slowed. 'Of course not,' she answered in a clear whisper. 'Of course not.' But then she could feel the roar picking up tempo again. 'But it doesn't change anything. Because it's not what happened then that makes me feel so angry sometimes. It's the fact that I can't come and go as I please. It's picking up after him, and yelling at him and constantly reminding him. It's cooking and doing laundry, and explaining things to him over and over again, and spending my days off at games arcades giving him quarters.

  'It's the fact that I've made sacrifices for him that he can't begin to understand, let alone appreciate. I lost my youth to him. I lost a fiancé because of him. Do you hear me now, Gallagher? Do you hear what I'm saying?' She was crying again, uncontrollably, and once again he was unrepelled. He took her and cradled her against his chest.

  'I hear exactly what you're saying. You love him very, very, much.'

  'Gallagher, don't! Don't try and read things into me and this situation that just aren't there.'

  'I've heard a story very similar to yours once before,' Gallagher said evenly. 'From my kid sister shortly after she had her first baby. She came to me weeping. She couldn't bear motherhood. She hated the constant demands. The feeding. The nappies. The never-ending loads of laundry. Getting up in the middle of the night. She resented her lost freedom; she hated the fact that her life would never be quite as free and easy again. And then she told me she was afraid she didn't' even love her baby any more. I told her what I'll tell you—that's exactly what love is.'

  'I'm not following,' Charlie admitted tremulously, but hopefully, and the hope drove back the roar.

  'Don't you see, Charlie? You're human. You hate and resent the drudgery, but not Ken. You wouldn't do what you do for him if you didn't possess the most incredible of loves. Couldn't. It's the strength of your love that enables you to continue to do those things day after day, that makes you strong enough to do them. If it were really anything else, you'd just walk away and never look back. Maybe it's not the kind of love that poets are fond of talking about. It's not the firecracker variety. But it's the strongest kind of all. It's that steady, day-to-day kind of love that just keeps going, even when you want to give up.'

  A dam burst within her, and the tears flooded down her cheeks, washing away the roar.

  'I love him so much, Gallagher,' she finally choked. 'I thought you were going to make me choose. I didn't think I was strong enough to choose him, and that made me think I didn't love him at all.'

  His eyes were gentle on her face. 'Do you love me that much, too? That contemplating a choice I would never ask you to make would tear you to shreds like this?'

  'Do you have to ask?' she whispered.

  He smiled and lifted her chin. 'I only asked because I like to hear the words. I see the answer in your eyes. I'm awed. I'm honoured. Teach me, Charlie. Teach me this kind of love. Teach me how to give it back to you. Time is so short. Only a lifetime . . .'

  She touched the curve of his proud cheekbone. 'You already know, Gallagher.'

  'Yes,' he whispered, his voice husky against her hair. 'Yes, I know about loving you. But I have a feeling that every day I will learn more. Teach me, Charlie. Marry me.'

  In answer, she scattered kisses as delicate as morning dewdrops across the rugged surface of that beloved face. In answer, she pressed her yielding body against the silk-sheathed steel of his. In answer, she wrapped her arms around him, let her fingers dance tenderly across the rippling muscles of his back. In answer, she whispered, her voice as soft as a summer breeze, 'Let's teach each other, Gallagher. Now. Right now.'

  In answer, he scooped her off the couch, and laid her on the deep pile of the rug in front of a dying fire. In his eyes, in his lips, in the gentle lessons of his hands, were all her answers. For all time.

  Afterwards, they lay tangled together beside the fire for a long time. There were no words; there was no need for words. Contentment rose up within her. Peace as she had never known it. Joy as she had not known it could be.

  She thought maybe he slept, his arms wrapped around her as though he would never let go. But then his lips touched hers. It was a kiss that worshipped, and she opened her eyes to see him looking at her with muted intensity, looking at her as though he would never be able to see enough. She thought her joy had reached its bounds in his gentle and tender acceptance of her. All of her. Now she found that joy had no bounds.

  His eyes left hers, and he buried his head in the richness of her hair. He spoke no words, but she felt the depths of his contentment. The joy swelled again within her as it met his, and mingled with his, swelling and swelling and swelling, joy without limit, without end.

  And this was but a moment in a long line of moments that he offered her. Yes, she would marry this man. They would have children. Together they would explore heights higher than most people dared to contemplate.

  Not that she expected moment upon moment of pure joy. No, she knew now that there were different kinds of love, and that they resided side by side. There was the kind of love that saw you through tedium and fights and quarrels. There was the kind of love you felt for your children, and the kind of love you felt in moments of passion, and moments of quiet. No, not so much different kinds. One love. One magnificent force with a zillion different manifestations of its power.

  'Heaven,' she whispered and, unexpectedly, the tears started to flow down her cheeks. She had never cried with joy before this night.

  ' "You will know heaven on earth",' she said softly, quoting Tanya. And she did.

  Charlie turned from the kitchen counter at the slamming of the outside door. Gallagher traipsed in, his boots carrying about forty pounds of snow and straw, mud and manure.

  'Go take off your boots,' she ordered crisply.

  'No,' he shot back.

  She took in the firm set of the jaw, the wide sapphire eyes. He was tired and cranky, she realised. Too bad—she was tired and cranky, too.

  'Right now,' she said with soft warning.

  'Oh, all right,' he said grouchily.

  He came back in and sat at the table. Charlie placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of him, and he slurped it noisily.

  'I want to go to Kenny's house.'

  'Gallagher, we've been through this already today. We can't. Ken is busy with his friends. He'll probably come out at the weekend.'

  'With Helena?'

  Charlie smiled. Helena. The chubby, fun-loving young woman Ken had met at work. He thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He didn't go very far without her these days.

  'I think so.'

  'Good. I like Helena.'

  'Me, too,' Charlie agreed absently, putting the last neat row of chocolate-chip cookies on the sheet, and popping them into the oven.

  'Can I have one of those?'

  'They're not baked yet, Gallagher.'

  'I want a cookie!' he screamed.

  'Well, you're not getting one,' she screamed back, and was immediately mortified. Nobody had told her there were going to be days like this.

  Gallagher threw his hot chocolate on the floor, and went down after it, beating his small fists on the rug. 'I want a cookie,' he yelled over and over again, splashing hot chocolate with each beat of his fists.