“There’s something about you.” Her eyes held him. “I can’t explain it, but you make me feel like … like I’ve been waiting for you forever.”

Had she waited? He had no right to expect her to have. He had no right to ask.

“Have you been?”

“I don’t know.” Her brow crinkled. “What is it that people wait for, Clark?”

He crushed her mouth with a kiss.

He whispered, “Lilleth …” in her ear. He kissed her again, this time slowly savouring her.

“Well,” she murmured at last, when he allowed her a breath. “You’ve just made it clear to me that in some ways I am still a virgin.” She curled her fingers into his shirt. “Come with me into the bedroom, Clark.”

AUTHOR NOTE

Are you like I am? Does your heart beat a little faster for a mysterious hero?

When I was eight years old I sat in front of the television set and fell madly, completely in love with Zorro/Don Diego. The humour of the Don made me laugh, but when the dashing protector emerged I melted. I carried that torch for a few years and, to be honest, there’s still a bit of the flame left.

Who can resist the lure of Superman/Clark Kent? Or Batman/Bruce Wayne? For me, the hero in disguise is an irresistible character.

For the longest time I’ve wanted to create one of my own. I hope you enjoy reading about Trace Ballentine/Clark Clarkly, and that just maybe your heart will beat a little faster.

Three cheers for heroes in disguise!

Best wishes and happy reading.

Rebel with a Heart

Carol Arens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

While in the third grade CAROL ARENS had a teacher who noted that she ought to spend less time daydreaming and looking out of the window and more time on her sums. Today, Carol spends as little time on sums as possible. Daydreaming plots and characters is still far more interesting to her.

As a young girl she read books by the dozen. She dreamed that one day she would write a book of her own. A few years later Carol set her sights on a new dream. She wanted to be the mother of four children. She was blessed with a son, then three daughters. While raising them she never forgot her goal of becoming a writer. When her last child went to high school she purchased a big old clunky word processor and began to type out a story.

She joined Romance Writers of America, where she met generous authors who taught her the craft of writing a romance novel. With the knowledge she gained she sold her first book and saw her life-long dream come true.

Today, Carol lives with her real-life hero husband, Rick, in Southern California, where she was born and raised. She feels blessed to be doing what she loves, with all her children and a growing number of perfect and delightful grandchildren living only a few miles from her front door.

When she is not writing, reading or playing with her grandchildren, Carol loves making trips to the local nursery. She delights in scanning the rows of flowers, envisaging which pretty plants will best brighten her garden.

She enjoys hearing from readers, and invites you to contact her at carolsarens@yahoo.com

Previous novels by the same author:

RENEGADE MOST WANTED

REBEL WITH A CAUSE

A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

(part of Christmas Cowboy Kisses anthology)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my daughter, Jennifer Lynne, because sometimes life takes a turn and grants you a miracle.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Riverwalk, South Dakota November, 1879

A splinter jutting from the boardwalk pierced Trace Ballentine’s trousers. He cursed his luck. He growled at fate. How could it be possible that he was facing one of the most pivotal moments of his life with a piece of wood stabbing his rump?

Admittedly, he hadn’t slipped by accident, but he hadn’t intended to take a woman down with him, either. Still, here the lady was, sprawled across his lap in front of the ticket counter at the train depot, with the contents of her valise scattered near and far. Undergarments and shoes, ribbons and hatpins littered the boardwalk, mostly crushed under the stack of books he had been carrying.

He snatched his shattered spectacles from under his knee and plopped them on his nose.

Even through a spiderweb of broken glass he knew this woman. Even after sixteen years of foggy memory and change he recognized his one true love.

“Why, you big...” She seemed to be searching for the nastiest word in her vocabulary.

“Oaf?” he supplied.

“Dolt.”

The accusation didn’t sting; she’d called him worse dozens of times in playfulness. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t wounded to his soul.

Lilleth Grace Preston stared straight into his eyes without knowing who he was.

In every fantasy he’d ever had of their miraculous reunion they had showered tears and kisses all over each other.

He had vowed to love her forever, and damned if he hadn’t. He’d cherished her memory since he was fourteen years old, yet not a twitch of her eyebrow or a blink of her lashes revealed that she recalled him.

To be fair, how could he have expected her to? The last time they had been together he had been gangly, whereas now he was tall and filled out. Over the years his hair had darkened from blond to brown. These days he wore a beard, trimmed short and neat. Back then he had barely sprouted peach fuzz.

He was nothing like the boy he had been, while she looked very much the same. With her red curls, snapping blue eyes and mouth that went from a grimace to a smile in a flash, he’d have known her even if he hadn’t been cursed with a mind that remembered nearly everything.

“Kindly remove your person from under me, Mr....?” She arched one brow.

It’s me. It’s Trace.

“Clark,” he declared. He wrinkled his brow, then added a hiccup.

“Mr. Clark, your—”

“Clarkly, that is. Mr. Clark Clarkly, at your service, miss.”

“Mr. Clark Clarkly, kindly remove your knee from my bustle.”

“Your...? Oh, my word, I beg your pardon.” He straightened his leg and reached for her hand, desperate for just one touch, even if that touch was through a leather glove.

She allowed him to help her to her feet. He then made a show of being a buffoon by attempting to straighten her skirt.

Curse it, he was a buffoon, and he didn’t even have to act a part. Of all the disguises he could have chosen for this assignment, why did it have to be Clark Clarkly?

Had he ever dreamed that he might run into Lilleth Preston he’d have made himself a lawman or a cowboy. Anyone but good old Clarkly, the bungling, bookish librarian.

But Trace was good and stuck now. Most of the citizens of Riverwalk had made the acquaintance of Clarkly—run into him, quite literally. He couldn’t change identities midassignment. Too much was at stake. The innocent inmates at the Hanispree Mental Hospital depended on Clarkly.

He ought to thank his lucky stars that Lilleth hadn’t recognized him. It broke his heart, but it was for the best.

Hot damn, he was stuck in a muddle of his own making with no way out. There was nothing for it but to dive in headfirst.

Lilleth slapped his hand where it attempted to straighten that fascinating, if tweaked, little bustle behind her skirt.

“Mr. Clarkly! Have you no shame?”

Good girl, Lils, he thought, you still hold your own against anyone.

“Why...yes. Usually, that is. Miss, you pack quite a wallop.” He shook his slapped hand, then stooped to gather her belongings from under his books.

She would think he was an idiot for plucking up her lacy, pink-ribboned corset, but that was as close to intimacy as he was likely ever to get with her.

Lilleth crouched beside him, her hand already in motion to deliver another swat. He shoved the garment at her, but not before he noticed that it smelled like roses.

“Don’t you lay a finger on those bloomers.” Lilleth leveled a glare at him, snatched up her belongings and stuffed them into her valise. She snapped it closed, then stood up.

November wind, blowing in the promise of the first snow, swirled the hem of Lilleth’s skirt. Her toe tapped the boardwalk with the one-two-three-pause, one-two-three-pause rhythm that he remembered. She was struggling with her temper.

He gathered up his books and, in true Clark style, layered them in alphabetical order. He’d intended her to notice that, and she had. She rolled her eyes and sighed.

“It has been a pleasure, truly.” He offered his hand. “I’m sorry about the little knock-you-down. My deepest apologies, and welcome to Riverwalk.”

Most women wouldn’t accept his apology, given that he’d been clumsy upon stupid upon rude, but he left his hand extended just in case.

Lilleth stared at his face for a long time, studying, weighing, judging.

“I’m ever so sorry, Miss...?”

“Well, accidents do happen, after all.” She shook his hand. The smile that had haunted his dreams pardoned him. “I’m Lilly Gordon.”

Gordon? Married? No! Sixteen years ago she had taken his hand, pressed it to her twelve-year-old heart and vowed to marry him and only him.

“Hey, Ma, Mary’s getting hungry.”

A boy, no more than ten years old, walked up to Lilly Gordon carrying a baby.

“Cold, too,” the boy added, frowning and shooting Clark an assessing look.

The baby didn’t appear to be hungry or cold. In fact, it was bundled against the chill so that only a pair of blue eyes—Lils’s eyes—and a pert little nose peeked out.

Trace admired the boy for stepping up. Some big galoot had just knocked his mother down.

“Make Mr. Clarkly’s acquaintance, Jess.” Lilleth took the baby from the boy’s arms. “Then we’ll be on our way. There’s the hotel, just up ahead.”

“A pleasure to meet you, young man,” he said. And it was, too, now that the shock was wearing off. He extended his hand.

The boy cocked his head, studied his face as his mother had done, and then, like her, made up his mind in an instant. He shook Clark’s hand.

“Well, good day, then, Mr. Clarkly,” Lilleth said.

A spray of red curls tumbled out from under her hat. Her smile warmed him in places that hadn’t been warm in forever.

Jess picked up his mother’s valise, his own, and carried a smaller one tucked under his arm.

Trace watched Lilleth and her little family walk toward the Riverwalk Hotel. It was a good thing it was so close, for the temperature seemed to be dropping by the minute.

He was proud of Lils. She had grown to be a fine and beautiful woman. Even with a baby riding her hip the sway of her gait would be enough to catch any man’s eye.

It was a lucky thing for him that she was married.

He had his mission, one he was dedicated to. Mrs. Gordon had her family. Life would go on.

Yes, it was very lucky that she was married. He hadn’t really thought Lilleth would remain his Lils forever. Everyone grew up, everyone changed. No one remained a child forever. Not him, and most certainly not the lovely woman walking away from him.

Lilly Gordon glanced back. She arched one brow and smiled with the shadow of a question crossing her face.

He gripped his armload of alphabetized books tight.

It’s me, Lils. It’s Trace.

* * *

Blessed heat poured from the fireplace in the lobby of the Riverwalk Hotel. Lilleth walked past the check-in desk, pointing Jess toward the big hearth.

November in South Dakota was a beast.

“Sit there, Jess.” She pointed to a big padded chair, one of a pair flanking the fireplace. “Get your sister out of that blanket so the warmth can reach her.”

Lilleth removed her coat and gloves. She stood before the fire, letting it warm her, front then back. It took a few moments, but the bitter cold finally quit her bones.

She glanced about, relieved to see the hotel lobby empty of patrons. Through an open door to her right she heard the ting of utensils against plates. An aroma of fresh warm bread swirled throughout the lobby, mixing with the scent of burning wood.

The moment she checked into her room, she would take the children to the dining room for dinner. They had to be hungry. The strenuous travel they had been forced to endure left little time for leisurely meals.

Riverwalk in November was not a place she would choose to be, but choice had been taken from her some time ago.

The hotel clerk bent down behind the tall counter. Lilleth took that moment to attempt to straighten her bustle. It had been crushed and bent beyond repair. No amount of yanking or pulling made a whit of difference to its appearance.

By all rights Mr. Clark Clarkly ought to pay for it. The man was beyond clumsy. Thank goodness it hadn’t been Jess he had bowled over. He and Mary might have been injured. Mr. Clarkly ought to take his stroll with a warning to fellow pedestrians tied about his neck.

But there was something about him...something almost familiar. She couldn’t at this very second imagine what it was, though.

“I’ll be back, Jess. I’m going to check in, then we’ll get something to eat.”

Frigid wind huffed against the windowpanes, but the hotel lobby was lovely and warm. Thank the stars that she had been able to wire ahead and get reservations on short notice.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Green.” Lilleth read his name from the plaque on the counter. “My name is Lilly Gordon. I’d like to register for my room, if you please.”

Mr. Green looked her over with interest, as men tended to do. It was a fact of life that nature and her mother had bequeathed her a figure that attracted men’s attention. She had quit taking offense to their reactions years before. Men were men, after all, for good or ill.

“Mr. Green?” she asked, returning his attention to her face. “My room?”

The man blushed, ran his thumb down a list of names on the hotel register and then frowned.

“That’s Mrs. Gordon,” Lilleth said, feeling uneasy. The clerk ought to be smiling and handing her a key by now. “Mrs. Lilly Gordon.”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, then ran his forefinger over the register one more time. Halfway down, his finger stopped. He withdrew a pair of spectacles from his pocket, placed them on his nose, then bent low to peer at the page.

Lilleth tapped her foot.

Mr. Green closed the book and pressed his long, thin fingers on top of it. He cleared his throat.

“I do apologize, Mrs. Gordon. There appears to have been a mistake.”

“Kindly check again.” Tap tap, tap. “My reservation was confirmed.”

“I see that, yes.” The man shifted his weight. “But it appears that your room has been given to someone else.”

Lilleth took a breath, slowly and calmly. She let it out, drawing deep down for a smile. You catch more men with lace than you do with homespun, she reminded herself. This philosophy was also something bequeathed by her mother.

“I’m sure you can provide them another room. Certainly they will understand once you explain the mistake.”

“I’d like nothing more, Mrs. Gordon, but the couple in question are the elderly parents of the owner of this hotel. I can’t rightly send them out in the cold.”

Tap, tap...”I’m not asking you to do that. I’m simply asking that you give them another room.”

“There are no others. I’m sorry.”

“No other rooms?” There had to be another room; she had reserved one! “Do you see my children over there, Mr. Green? Mary’s only a baby. Would you send her out into the cold?”

He truly did appear remorseful. She brightened her smile and forced her toe to be still.

“Not by choice, no, I wouldn’t. But it’s out of my hands.”

“Whose hands would it be in, then, Mr. Green?” This error would be corrected or she was not Lilleth Preston. “We’ll wait right here in the lobby until you find the person who can correct this error.”

“It won’t do any good. No rooms means no rooms. The hotel is booked up long term. There won’t be a room here or anywhere else for a good while.” Mr. Green reopened the register and flipped through a few pages. “Look for yourself. There’s the Grange meeting in town. All the farmers and their families are here for it.”

She would not take the children back out in the cold. They had only now quit shivering.

“Be that as it may, I do have a reservation.” Lilleth looked about. There was nothing for it. “We’ll take the lobby, then. The chairs by the fire will do well enough for now.”

It served Mr. Green right to be choking on his Adam’s apple.

“Come along, Jess,” she called toward the fireplace. “Let’s have a bite to eat before we settle into our chairs for the evening.”

“May I be of service in some way?” said a low voice from behind her.

A deep breath, hands planted on her hips and a slow pivot brought her about to face a well-dressed man standing beside Mr. Green.

“And you would be?” She arched a brow. This had better be someone who could fix the situation.

“The owner of this establishment. Is there a problem?” he asked.

“There most certainly is, Mr....” She shooed her hand between them, since he hadn’t felt it necessary to reveal his name. “My reservation has been given away. According to Mr. Green, my children and I have no place to go but out in the cold to freeze to death.”

“There is the meeting of the Grange. The whole town is booked.”

“And I am one of the people who booked.”

“I understand your frustration, ma’am. Let me think on it a moment.” The hotel owner frowned and twirled his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “There is Mrs. O’Hara’s. She might have a room.”

For some reason this made Mr. Green’s eyes go wide as dollars.

“Very well, I suppose that will have to do.” If it didn’t she’d be back to camp out in this lobby. “And where will I find Mrs. O’Hara?”

“A few streets north of here will be a saloon. Make a right and go three blocks. That will take you near the edge of town. You can’t miss the place. It’s the only building around.”

She’d rather not walk the children past a saloon, but there appeared to be no help for it.

She bundled Mary up tight. Jess took the bags.

“Give my regards to Mrs. O’Hara,” Mr. Hotel Owner called as she hustled the children out into the first snowfall of the season.

“Auntie Lilleth,” Jess said, his shoulders hunched under the burden of the bags. “I hope Mrs. O’Hara’s place isn’t far. It’s so cold I can’t rightly feel my toes.”

“Careful, Jess, ears are everywhere.”

* * *

Trace opened the front door to Clark Clarkly’s Private Lending Library, stumbled inside and then closed the door with the heel of his shoe.

He shivered from the chill lingering in his coat and dumped the load of books on his desk, letting them fall out of order. He tossed his broken glasses on the pile.

Ordinarily, he would light a fire in the big hearth that took up most of the wall behind his desk, but not this afternoon. Snow drifted past the window, growing heavier by the minute, and he needed to get to Hanispree Mental Hospital.

Unless he missed his guess, the staff wouldn’t venture away from their cozy quarters to make sure the inmates were warm. It was back out into the cold for good old Clarkly.

Over the years, as an investigative journalist for the family paper, Trace had uncovered plenty of nasty secrets. Hanispree Mental Hospital had some of the worst. It was a stink hole of corruption. The more he poked around, the more determined he was to expose the malignant soul of the place.

To the casual observer, Hanispree looked like a resort where the wealthy might come to relax. Its gardens were manicured and the marble staircase inside gleamed. Expensive wood floors reflected layers of polish.

The truth that he had discovered ate at his gut. Polished floors and gleaming marble were a facade. Hanispree Mental Hospital was little more than a prison for the cast-off members of wealthy families. He was certain that some of them had no mental illness whatsoever.

A movement beyond the window caught his attention. He figured he’d be the only one foolhardy enough to go outdoors with a storm blowing in. He walked to the window and pulled aside the filmy curtain.

What the devil? Lilleth and her little brood were making their way down the boardwalk, their bodies leaning into the wind. He’d assumed they would be settled into the hotel by now.

He started to reach for the doorknob, to run after her and find out if there was something amiss.

But she had a husband, no doubt a fine man who was at this moment coming to her aid. Trace would do well to remember that he was not himself at the moment, but Clark Clarkly.

If she discovered who he was it might spell disaster for the exposé he was writing. If his true identity was revealed, what would happen to all the folks at Hanispree? He needed to keep his distance.

Trace peered after Lilleth, his eye to the windowpane trying to see up the street, where Mr. Gordon no doubt waited with open arms.

The investigative journalist in him began to gnaw at something. It was trivial, really. But Lilleth detested being called Lilly. He’d witnessed her wrestling half-grown boys to the ground for teasing her with that name.

A knock low down on the front door brought his attention and his eye away from the window.

He opened the door to let in a flurry of flakes and young Sarah Wilson.

“Little Sarah.” He closed the door behind her, then brushed an inch of snowflakes from the brim of her hat. “What are you doing out in this weather?”

“Good day, Mr. Clarkly. I’ve come to borrow a book.”

Bless her heart, coming out in the elements. He was familiar with Sarah. She was a nine-year-old bundle of curiosity, as well as a dedicated reader. Her mother was in frail health, and Sarah escaped into stories as often as she could.

Clark Clarkly and his lending library did have their uses in the community. He wasn’t a complete waste.

“As luck would have it, I picked up a shipment of new books just an hour ago.” Trace lurched toward the desk and snatched one up, along with his shattered spectacles. “I’ve just the thing for a girl your age, Miss Sarah.”

He opened the ledger on his desk and Sarah signed her name in it, her promise to return the book.

“I’ll bring it back real soon,” she said.

“Not until the weather clears.” He would give her the book to keep, along with a few others, when his assignment was finished and he went back home to Chicago. “Come along, I’ll see you home.”

Trace put on a heavy coat, picked up his collection of new books and gathered Sarah’s mittened hand in his.

Outside, he closed the door behind him and glanced in the direction that Lilleth had gone, but she and her family had vanished.

Met up with her husband, no doubt, the lucky man. In his mind’s eye, Trace saw the pair of them snuggled in front of a snapping fire. He wished his Lils and her man the best, truly he did.

“You’re going to like this story, little lady.” Trace walked in a direction away from Hanispree Mental Hospital, but there was no help for it. “It’s the tale of a girl just your age.”

* * *

Main Street was deserted, the silence profound. Only the shuffle of Lilleth’s and Jess’s footsteps on the boardwalk disturbed it.

Wisely, the folks of Riverwalk had withdrawn into their homes. Tendrils of smoke curling out of fireplaces made the cold outside seem that much worse. Only yards away, people were tucked into houses and fully booked hotels, enjoying warmth and companionship.

With any luck, Mrs. O’Hara’s place, whether it be a boardinghouse or private home with an extra room—Mr. Hotel Owner hadn’t offered that information—would be warm and have food for the children.

Biting cold wasn’t the only thing troubling her about Main Street this afternoon. The utter stillness was almost spooky. Out in the open, with no one else about, it seemed that eyes observed her every step. It was silly, of course, as she’d been careful.

A block back, she had been startled by a curtain being drawn aside. Her gasp had nearly woken baby Mary, who slept sweet and warm, against her breast.

“It’s all right, Auntie Lilleth,” Jess had said. “It’s probably Mr. Clarkly. The sign over the door says that place is his lending library.”

“It makes sense that Mr. Clarkly would be a librarian, the way he stacked those books in alphabetical order.” For some reason it didn’t bother her that he might be watching. Funny, when for the last two weeks she’d done nothing but live in fear of folks who stared too intently at her family.

“And Jess, don’t forget, call me Mother. Anyone might hear you.”

“Uncle Alden won’t come to Riverwalk.” Jess shifted the small valise under his left arm to his right. “He’s too afraid of ghosts.”

True, Alden Hanispree had an unnatural fear of them. It was probably the very thing that had spared her sister’s life. Had he not been such a fearful little man he might have murdered Bethany instead of having her committed to his haunted mental hospital.

Still, just because Alden Folger Hanispree was a cowardly man didn’t mean that he wasn’t dangerous.

Dangerous, and greedy for their inheritance, he was a powerful enemy to her niece and nephew.

“He might send someone, though.” Lilleth stopped. She lifted her nephew’s chin in her fingers and looked him in the eye. “I’ll protect you, I swear it. But Jess, we can’t be too careful. Watch every word you say and don’t trust anyone but me.”

“I wish my father was still alive. Uncle Alden couldn’t hurt us then.”

“I wish that, too.” Lilleth traced the curve of Jess’s cold cheek. It had been only six months since his father’s death. Too little time to keep Jess’s eyes from becoming moist. “But he sees us from heaven, I’m sure of it.”

“Do you think, somehow from way up there, he can help us sneak Mama out of the mental hospital?”

“Well, if he can, you know he will, and if not, maybe he’ll send someone our way who can help us.”

She couldn’t imagine who that would be, since she wouldn’t allow anyone close enough to be able to help. She wouldn’t say so to Jess, but it would be she who would have to figure a way to get Bethany away from Hanispree.

“Everything will turn out fine, Jess, don’t you worry.” Lilleth shifted the baby in her arms. She was small for a twelve-month-old, but nonetheless the weight was beginning to take a toll on Lilleth’s back. “We’d better get to Mrs. O’Hara’s before we freeze.”

“Sure, Ma.” Jess stepped forward with a long stride.

If her brother-in-law was watching from above, as she firmly believed, he would be proud of his only son. Jess was a brave and intelligent boy.

Praise the saints, they were nearly to the saloon, then only a few more blocks to sanctuary.

“Jess, come walk on the far side of me.”

Things went on in a saloon that a ten-year-old didn’t need to be privy to. It would take a heavier snowfall than this to keep men of low morals and women of loose values from their amusement.

Despite the cold, the front door was open to let out the choking smoke that built up in those places. If it were up to Lilleth, Jess would never be old enough to witness mostly exposed bosoms and the men ogling them.

“When we walk past the front door of the saloon, squeeze your eyes closed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, but a grin crossed his face. And weren’t his eyes cracked open a slit?

Well, a grin was better than tears. Blooming adolescence would be something for Bethany to deal with once they set her free.

All would be right when she was Auntie Lilleth again, free to spoil and coddle.

They had taken only a few steps around the corner of saloon when the wind began to howl. Cold air bit through their wool coats. Mary whimpered in her sleep. The three blocks to Mrs. O’Hara’s couldn’t come soon enough.

It became difficult to see through the swirling snow.

Just in time, Lilleth spotted a house in the distance.

“That way, Jess.” She pointed through the shifting white veil.

In another moment a front porch came into view. A front porch with a red lantern hanging from the eves!

It couldn’t be. Mr. Hotel Owner would not have sent her here...he couldn’t have. Maybe Mrs. O’Hara simply liked red lanterns.

In any case, there was nothing for it but to knock on the door. The children couldn’t take much more of the cold. Lilleth’s own feet were becoming icy stubs.

The door opened after the third knock. Dim light and warmth spread over the porch.

“Is there something I can do for you, missus? Are you lost? And in this weather!”

Jess didn’t bother to hide his grin or squeeze his eyes to respectable slits. Clearly, he was bedazzled by the woman with nearly purple hair, clown-red cheeks and eyes lined with black. Or more likely it was her mostly exposed bosom that made his eyes pop wide in wonder.

“No, not lost.” Lilleth took Jess by the shoulder and turned him to face the street. “The owner of the Riverwalk Hotel directed me here after he gave away my room.”

Well! Mr. Hotel Owner would not insult both her and Mrs. O’Hara by his little joke. This would not be the last he heard of it.

“On occasion I do rent upstairs rooms. But this wouldn’t be the place for you and your children. It wouldn’t be seemly. I’m sorry.”

“I understand, Mrs. O’Hara. We’ll find another place.”

“I hope you do. I wouldn’t turn you away, but there’s the children, you see.”

Yes, there were the children. Lilleth hustled Jess down the steps. Mr. Hotel Owner would be well aware of them before this night was through.

Chapter Two

One mile outside of town, Trace opened the gate of Hanispree Mental Hospital and walked through.

Apparently neither Dr. Merlot nor Nurse Goodhew had braved the weather to come outside and lock it for the night. Good luck for Trace—it saved him having to scale the tall stone wall surrounding the place.

The grounds of the hospital looked like a winter playground. The pristine snow covering everything resembled a sparkling blanket. Now that the storm had blown away, the moon shone down to make the area glisten.

But the wind was cold as needles.

To anyone who didn’t know better, which would be nearly everyone until he finished his exposé, Hanispree was a lovely place to house the mentally ill. Benches and flowerbeds, bare at this time of year, were connected by a series of winding paths. The building itself was made of the same stone as the wall, with three stories of windows overlooking the elegant park.

To Trace’s knowledge, no inmate of the hospital had ever set foot on the paths or sat upon the benches, even when the park was at its loveliest in the spring.

A shiver took him from the inside out. One day soon he would have this place shut down. The patients would be better off away from here, housed in institutions where their well-being was important to the caregivers.

Trace walked across the grounds toward a wide front porch, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow. The verandah, lined end to end with rocking chairs, welcomed him forward.

Through the front window the glow of a fire in the hearth cast golden light into the night. Too bad the aura of comfort was a lie.

Unseen in the dark, he watched through the window for a moment. Nurse Goodhew dozed in a fireside chair with her stocking-clad feet stretched toward the flames.

To call Mrs. Goodhew a nurse was like calling a grade-schooler a professor. From what he had learned, she was there for appearances only. Well, also to keep Dr. Merlot entertained of an evening.

Ah, here came the good doctor now, tiptoeing toward the snoring Mrs. Goodhew and touching her where a gentleman shouldn’t.

Spy time was over; if Trace didn’t get inside now, he might be shivering on the porch until they finished their tawdry business.

He rapped on the door. When a few moments later Nurse Goodhew opened it, she was wearing her shoes and a sour-looking smile. Dr. Merlot was nowhere to be seen.

“Good evening, Mrs. Goodhew. I’ve come with a delivery of books.” He stepped inside, then stomped the snow from his feet. He took off his hat and thumped it against his thigh.

“Mr. Clarkly! Really, this floor was spotless. Who do you think will clean it now?”

“Why?” Trace lifted his spectacles an inch off his nose and peered at the floor through the broken glass. “I do beg your pardon, Nurse Goodhew. I didn’t mean to create a mess.”

He shook his head, adding a few more splatters to the floor.

“You must be a madman, coming out in this weather to bring books to people who can’t even understand a word on the page.”

“Yes, but I’m certain they will enjoy the pictures.” He pulled the book on top of the stack from under his arm, opened it and extended it for her to see. “Look, we’ve got animals of every kind, frolicking in water.” He turned the page. “Or nibbling grass.”

“Give them here, then.” Nurse Goodhew took the stack. “I’ll see them delivered first thing in the morning.”

She wouldn’t, of course. She never did.

“Thank you. I’m sure your patients will be grateful for your kindness.” Trace shook his shoulders, dropping more globs of melting snow on the floor. “Oh my, beg pardon again. If you’ll allow me, I’ll clean this up before I go. It’ll just take an instant.”

“See that it does. That water will leave a mark if you’re not quick about it.”

“To be sure, Mrs. Goodhew.”

“I’ll be back with cleaning rags.” She frowned at him authoritatively. “Don’t move from that spot.”

“Oh no, not an inch, I swear it.”

Half a second after she stepped out of the room, Trace slipped off his boots and coat. He hurried to the desk where the key to the back door of the inmates’ cells was kept. The second drawer down, he recalled, under a bottle of whiskey.

Tonight, there was only the bottle of whiskey.

He hurried back, stepped into his boots and put on his coat, and waited two full minutes for the nurse to return with her cleaning rags.

She shoved them at him with another frown. He made quick work of drying the floor. He’d lose some time now, having to figure a new way into the patients’ wing.

He walked toward the gate in case anyone was watching, then followed the brick wall around the back of the building.

His first stop was the woodpile. He shoved his useless glasses in his pocket. He loaded his arms with firewood, then made trip after trip to a window that he knew had a broken latch.

The trouble was, the window was eight feet off the ground. The snow was only a foot high. While scaling something seven feet tall wouldn’t be hard, scaling and opening at the same time would be impossible.

The only thing to do was stack the wood under the window, climb the pile, then open the window. After that, he could go in and open the back door and bring the wood in that way, or he could avoid all those steps by tossing the wood through the open window, then climbing in after it. Tossing and climbing would take more effort, but going though the door would take more time.

Since the folks inside were probably shivering, he decided on tossing.

In all it took twenty minutes, but he didn’t fear being discovered. Inmate care was more of an afterthought here, especially at night, with only Goodhew and Merlot in attendance. From Trace’s experience, they tended to disappear from their shifts between the hours of seven and nine.

It was now seven-ten, giving Trace the time he needed.

He scooped up a load of wood and carried it to old Mrs. Murphy’s room. There was a bolt on the outside of the door to insure she did not get out.

He slid it open and stepped into her room.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murphy.” The old woman lay on her bed, curled up and shivering under a thin, dirty blanket.

Anger burned hot in him to see her treated so carelessly. Because she was frail and forgetful, her family paid Alden Hanispree a huge amount every month to keep her here. Chances were they were not aware of her meager conditions.

His research had uncovered a miserable truth. Visits by family and friends were by appointment only. An hour before the call the patient would be transferred to a luxurious suite for the duration of the visit. If a few patients did complain to a visitor, well, they were mentally ill. Who would believe their word over a doctor’s?

Lies and secrets were the shadows darkening these halls. Soon Trace would have all the evidence he needed and the truth about Hanispree would be told.

Trace lit a fire in the old woman’s fireplace, then watched to make sure it burned good and hot.

“Good night, Mrs. Murphy. I’ll see you again soon.”

The gray head nodded under her cover. “You are quite considerate for a ghost, young man. I’m sorry you passed before your time.”

He had told her many times that he wasn’t a ghost, but it was just as well that she didn’t remember. The lighting of unexplained fires and the appearance of extra food were easily blamed on the supernatural.

In under an hour he had brought warmth to every room but one. That door didn’t have a bolt. A heavy lock made it impossible to get inside.

The investigator in him wanted to know what was in there. He’d heard stories of other institutions where the inmates were actually tortured in the name of research. One of these days he’d find a way into that second-story room.

Having done everything he could for the inmates, he went outside. He stepped beside his own footprints going away, thinking that it was a good thing for the old ghost stories. A spirit would be credited with all manner of strange happenings.

* * *

Had she not been homeless, freezing and responsible for two children, Lilleth would feel quite pleased.

Dinner at the hotel could not have gone better. In the end they had been kicked out of the restaurant, but she and the children had caused a bucketload of complaints to be served up to Mr. Hotel Owner.

Mary, having been confined to Lilleth’s arms for much of the day, wanted to crawl about on the floor. She wailed and carried on because she was not allowed to do so.

Jess accidentally spilled his milk on the tablecloth three times. Naturally, Lilleth had insisted on fresh linen with each accident.

And, by the saints, why could the kitchen not prepare her steak correctly? The waiter had to return it several times before it was cooked just so.

As annoyed as the other patrons were at her little family, they were aghast when the owner, with his own hands, escorted them out into the elements with orders not to return. Surely the fellow deserved every frown cast his way.

But what to do now? It was not that Lilleth couldn’t afford a room, there simply were none to be had. Perhaps the livery would have a stall, but wouldn’t that cause a stir? It might be fodder for gossip from one end of town to another. Poor frazzled mother of two, denied rooms at both the hotel and the brothel, ending up in a pile of straw?

She had slept in worse places than a clean pile of straw before, but she couldn’t afford the attention that it would draw to her. She needed to remain in the shadows.

Oh, dear, she should have considered that during dinner.

While delivering Mr. Hotel Owner his just rewards had been deeply satisfying, the little show had drawn the attention of every diner in the hotel restaurant. She would have to be more discreet in the future.

“At least the snow has quit,” Jess said, fitting his sister into the curve of his elbow.

The poor little thing continued to squirm and fuss. She hadn’t been out of her or Jess’s arms in ever so long.

Pain cramped Lilleth’s fingers. They felt like frozen claws clutching the handles of the valises. “That’s a mercy, but the wind! Make sure to keep the blanket over Mary’s head.”

“She keeps pulling it off.”

It wouldn’t take long for her tiny ears to freeze, even covered by a hat. They needed shelter and they needed it now. The dark and the cold were swiftly becoming mortal enemies.

A church, then. Perhaps they would find sanctuary there, if only for this night. Lilleth scanned the rooftops of town, looking for a steeple. Where could it be?

Every town had a church! Hopefully, she’d find one with someone in attendance.

“Look there.” Jess pointed down the street. “There’s a lamp on in Mr. Clarkly’s library.”

“Hurry, Jess, we’ve got to get there before he puts it out and turns in for the night.”

Doing so took longer than she dreamed it would. The boardwalk had grown icy. Jess half slipped a dozen times. In the end, she abandoned the valises in front of Horton File’s Real Estate, Homes for Sale or Rent. She took Mary from Jess’s arms and steadied him.

“The lamp’s just gone off!” Her brave young nephew sounded truly alarmed.

“We’re nearly there. He’ll hear us when we knock.”

She prayed that he wouldn’t turn them away. For all that he was a stranger, Mr. Clarkly seemed a decent fellow.

It took forever, but at last they stood in front of the door of Clark Clarkly’s Private Library.

Lilleth knocked. Stabbing pain shot through her frozen hand. She bit her lip to hold in the agony and keep the tears out of her eyes.

Footsteps sounded inside, coming toward the door. Lilleth would simply faint into his arms if he attempted to turn them away, and it might not be an act.

The door opened.

“Mrs. Gordon!” Mr. Clarkly gaped at her without his spectacles on. Even in her desperation, she noticed that he had uncommonly appealing eyes, blue with green flecks. Bless the man for a saint, those eyes reflected more than a bit of concern.

He reached for Mary and tucked her in the crook of his arm. With his free hand he touched Lilleth’s shoulder and drew her inside.

“Come in, young man,” he said to Jess. “You look frozen through.”

“I’ll just go back,” Jess said with chattering teeth, “f-for th-the bags.”

“Well now, that won’t do.” Mr. Clarkly poked his head out the door and peered at the bags lying on the boardwalk a block down. “They’ll be safe enough until I get a fire going. Here, take your sister and sit on that chair. There’s a book beside it on the table. That should keep her distracted until she’s warmed through.”

Clark Clarkly knelt beside the fireplace, urging a small flame to life. He performed the chore quickly. His shoulders flexed and contracted under his shirt with his brisk movements.

Praise everything good that the man built a fire with more skill than he displayed walking.

He stood up after a moment, seeming taller than she remembered, straighter of form.

“Thank you, Mr. Clarkly.” That simple phrase didn’t begin to express her gratitude. “I can’t think of what might have happened if—”

“No thanks needed, Mrs. Gordon.” He took her cold hands in his big warm ones for an instant while he led her toward a chair by the fire. “Sit tight while I fetch your bags.”

Mr. Clarkly hurried out the door and closed it behind him before the wind could sweep away the warmth beginning to hug the room.

His gait had been quick, efficient. Judging by his swift return, he hadn’t taken a single tumble while he was fetching the bags.

He dropped them on the floor, and then instantly forgot he had put them there. His first step forward brought him stumbling across the room, where he careened off his desk and landed at her feet, with one hand caught in her skirt.

“So sorry...I beg your pardon. My glasses.” He glanced about, blinking hard. “Blind as a bat without them.”

“Mr. Clarkly.” She untangled his hand where it gripped her ankle through her skirt. “I am the one indebted to you.”

One could almost wish, however unkind it might be, that he wouldn’t find his glasses. He had eyes a woman could look into and get lost.

Silly, Lilleth, silly, she chided herself. Getting lost in a man’s eyes. What nonsense!

Clark Clarkly had come to her aid and nothing more.

Still, it was disappointing to see him find his broken spectacles. He frowned at them, tossed them aside and rooted through a desk drawer until he found another pair.

The man did need to see, after all. She’d be a silly goose to believe that staring into a man’s eyes would result in anything more than heartache, even if he did seem uncommonly kind.

Relief eased the iciness from her bones as much as the flames did.

Mr. Clarkly sat on the floor, playing with Mary and speaking to Jess in low tones. The fire crackled, sounding like music in the cozy library. A teakettle in another room began to whistle.

What she wouldn’t give to be able to sing the rest of the tension from her body. But no, that might not be wise. The chances were slim, but her voice might be recognized.

But humming, now that would be a comfort. Anyone could hum and sound the same. So she did. She hummed her favorite tune, one that had comforted her since she was a little girl.

For some reason, that made Mr. Clarkly quit talking to Jess and stare at her with the most peculiar expression on his face.

There was something almost...but not quite, familiar about it. Well, that was silly. She’d never met Mr. Clarkly until today.

* * *

“This ought to warm you.” Trace grazed Lilleth’s hand, passing her a cup of steaming tea.

He didn’t think her fingers looked as blue as they had.

What wouldn’t he give to be the man with the right to hold them to his heart and warm them thoroughly.

After half an hour beside the fire she had only now quit shivering.

Her husband couldn’t be worth much, allowing his family to become wandering icicles.

“I can’t think of how to thank you, Mr. Clarkly.” She closed her fingers about the teacup and shut her eyes for an instant. “I thought I’d never be warm again.”

Trace crouched beside her chair. He had a mind to stroke the ringlets that strayed from under her hat. He’d give up a lot to be able to loop his thumb through one of those red curls, to touch it in the familiar way a man would touch his woman’s hair.

In any event, she wasn’t his woman. Even if she were free, he wouldn’t risk his assignment by revealing his identity. He couldn’t. The patients at Hanispree depended on him.

His family was counting on him to deliver an exposé by the New Year. Being employed by one’s parents added extra pressure to deliver. Not only that, there was sibling rivalry to be taken into account.

All his brothers and his sister worked for the Chicago Gazette. Although, since his sister had become a mother, she had quit the investigative side of the business. On occasion the job became dangerous.

That was one of the reasons that the Ballentines sometimes worked in disguise.

The other reason was that several of their investigations were sufficiently well known that the Ballentines were often recognized. When a case involved secrecy, as this one did, a disguise was called for.

He had picked Clarkly because the character was as unlike his real self as could be. No one could possibly recognize him.

It wasn’t easy living in the skin of someone who wasn’t real. It was lonely, not being able to let anyone close.

Still, his job was deeply rewarding and made the temporary isolation worthwhile. Over the years his investigations had improved the lots of many people. They’d put swindlers out of business and criminals behind bars.

He couldn’t imagine doing anything else for a living.

Trace watched Lilleth sipping from the teacup. He’d always found her mouth to be pretty, but now, as a woman full grown, her lips were a man’s fantasy. Moist with hot tea, they glistened in the glow of the fire.

“Mrs. Gordon.” Crouched down as he was, his eyes met hers over the rim of the cup. Her mouth stilled over a porcelain rose. “There’s something troubling me. I hope you don’t consider this forward of me to ask, but Mr. Gordon...oughtn’t he be—”

Her pretty lips puckered, as though they had tasted something sour...or needed to be kissed.

For the hundredth time since he had run Lilleth down at the train station, he cursed the decision to become Clarkly. He ought to have adopted his favorite identity, Johnny Kaid, fastest cowboy with a rope or a gun.

Curse it! Johnny was daring, but Clark was safer, and safe was all-important at this moment.

“Here? By my side, you mean?” Lilleth set the cup on her lap and stared down at it. “My husband ran off. I don’t know where he is.”

“It was nearly a year back,” Jess said, hugging his sister close. “Mary was only a newborn.”

Poor, brave Lils! On her own with two young children.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” He couldn’t help it; he reached over and held her fingers where they gripped the cup.

“No need to fret, Mr. Clarkly.” Lilleth shrugged. She sighed and looked into his eyes. “It’s been a while now, and to tell you the truth, my husband was a worldly man. In many ways life is easier without him.”

“Pa liked his spirits.” Jess covered Mary’s ears. “More than most.”

Trace’s world bucked and shifted beneath him. Having Lilleth within touching distance had been temptation enough, with a loving husband standing between them. Without him things had become complicated.

He let go of Lilleth’s hands. The man was gone, and no good, but that didn’t make her any less legally wed.

“If I can help you, all you need to do is ask.”

“You’ve been kindness itself already. You did no less than save our lives tonight.” She set the cup aside. “Please, won’t you call me Lilly.”

He forced a smile when he wanted to frown. She hated that name. What had happened to make her use it?

“I’d be pleased if you would call me Clark.” He pursed his lips, about to offer something improper, given that she was someone else’s wife. But he couldn’t see any help for it. “I’ve a room upstairs. I’d be pleased if you and the children would sleep there tonight.”

She took off her hat. Whorls and curls reflecting the fire’s glow broke free of a bun that would never be able to confine them.

“You are our very own angel, Clark, sent straight down from heaven.”

That comment evidently pleased young Jess. He suddenly grinned so widely that the freckles on his cheeks appeared to dance.

Trace was no angel. Not by a yard. An angel wouldn’t be glad that her worthless husband had run away.

A heavenly being wouldn’t fidget in his chair all through this long, blustery night, wondering if the virtueless rogue was dead so that he could kiss his wife. A woman he had no business kissing even if she were free.

Chapter Three

“Say your prayers, Jess.” Lilleth listened to the wind whistle around the dormers of the tidy upstairs bedroom. Mary and Jess lay side by side in a cozy-looking feather bed that Mr. Clarkly had put fresh linens on before retiring downstairs to sleep, presumably, in a chair. “And don’t forget to mention Mr. Clarkly.”

“Do you think my pa might have sent him to us?”

“Who’s to know? I can’t say that he didn’t.” To see the children safe and snug did seem a miracle. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Clarkly’s generosity—well, that outcome didn’t bear thinking of.

She hadn’t had a reason to be truly grateful to a man since she could remember. Not since she was a little girl and believed that princes, knights and cowboys rode to the aid of ladies in need.

In those days she’d had a hero. He was her champion and she’d seen her future in his smile. They’d been as close as berries on a vine the summer that she was twelve years old.

She had loved him with all her young heart, and he must have loved her as well, for he had defended her against a pair of bullies and become seriously injured. Then, to her everlasting horror, before his wounds had begun to mend, her mother had shattered her world.

In the dead of night, she had woken Lilleth and Bethany, packed them up and moved three states away to be with the latest in a constant string of inappropriate beaux.

It wasn’t that her mother was a whore in the normal sense, as her reputation suggested. It was more that she was needy. She let men take care of her in exchange for her affections. Unfortunately for Lilleth and Bethany, their mother’s affections latched on to the wrong sorts of men.

As little girls they had become skilled, yes, even creative, at keeping one step ahead of groping male hands. Because of Bethany, what might have been a harrowing lot became a game. Lilleth’s older sister never let her feel less of herself because of the behavior of men. Together, they practiced ducking, dodging, stomping and pinching. At night they would whisper in bed, recounting tales of near escape and retaliation. Some girls might have withered under such an upbringing, but she and Bethany dodged and ducked through it all.

But life was what it was. Lilleth had been formed by it and so had her sister. Bethany escaped into marriage, while Lilleth took her voice on the road with a traveling show.

Since Bethany loved her husband and Lilleth loved to sing, it had all turned out well enough.

Until six months ago, that is, when Bethany’s husband had died suddenly of a fever.

Lilleth kissed Jess good-night and stroked the curly hair at Mary’s temple. Her nephew would be a good man. Bethany would raise him to be like his father.

“Uncle Alden can’t get to us here. Mr. Clarkly is downstairs.” Jess yawned and turned on his side, facing the blaze that Clark had laid in the small upstairs fireplace. “We’ll get Mama out of that place, just see if we don’t.”

“We will, I promise we will,” Lilleth said. Firelight cast shadows on Jess’s face, making him look like a miniature of his father, Hamilton.

How Alden and Hamilton could be twins was a mind-twisting mystery. Hamilton, older by a few moments, had been a good man, as honorable as he was handsome. Alden was a nervous little fellow who, unless surrounded by a group of fawning minions, was frightened of his shadow. And of ghosts...especially ghosts.

It was understandable that the wealthy Hanisprees, upon their deaths, had willed Alden a monthly allowance and Hamilton their entire fortune.

For a man as greedy as Alden, an allowance was not nearly enough. He coveted his brother’s inheritance, which now belonged to Bethany.

Lilleth was certain that, had he not been petrified that she would haunt him, Alden would have killed Bethany to take control of the fortune. But now, having incarcerated Bethany, all he need do was control her children.

That he would never do. Lilleth vowed it on her life. Why, she would tear him to shreds with her bare hands if he got within arm’s reach of them.

All at once the wind stopped and snow swept past the dormer window, silent and beautiful. She took a cleansing breath to banish Alden from her mind.

She walked to the window, unbuttoning the bodice of her gown and watching snowflakes sailing past. Sometimes when she was stressed she would try to bring her childhood hero’s face to mind. But time had blurred his image; she couldn’t see him anymore.

It didn’t matter, really. He would have changed a great deal. Even if she ran into him on the street he’d be altered beyond recognition, and so would she.

Yes, life was what it was. All those years ago she had cried for weeks, before tucking Trace Ballentine into a precious corner of her heart.

Aside from her brother-in-law, Trace had been the only bone-deep good man—boy, really—that she had ever met.

Until Clark Clarkly, that is. So far he seemed to be quite decent.

The poor man didn’t know he was sheltering a criminal. For his own good, she would have to be out of his house as soon as she could get her bearings. Hopefully, tomorrow morning.

Lilleth Preston didn’t like being on the wrong side of the law. She was a singer, a sister and an auntie. Three things that she adored and had built her life around.

Curse Alden Hanispree for forcing her to kidnap her sister’s children.

* * *

It was late. On any other night Trace would have been asleep hours before. Early to bed and early to rise and all that. But Lilleth was upstairs, abandoned and unprotected.

He lurched out of his chair for the tenth time in under an hour to pace before the dying fire. The fact that she was, for all accounts, unmarried was a torment and a temptation, but he would deal with that.

Unprotected! Now that was a problem more difficult to cope with.

Yes, she had grown to be a capable and resilient woman.

And no, he was no more able to leave her to the whims of fate now than he had been when she was a child.

“Well hell, Lils,” he muttered. “What am I supposed to do?”

He stomped to the front door and snatched it open. Icy air bit his nose and chilled his ears. It did not, however, do much in the way of clearing his head.

He couldn’t give her safe harbor without compromising the secrecy of his mission. He couldn’t send her and the children out into the elements.

He could try to get some sleep. Occasionally, the answers to perplexing problems came to him while he slumbered. More than a few puzzles had knit together in his dreams.

He closed the front door, shook off a shiver and tried once again to fold his body in a too-small chair.

Knees up, shoulders hunched, neck twisted, with eyes closed and sheep counted...this time he would make it work.

“Stars shine bright, sleep tight tonight,” he whispered. His eyes popped wide-open.

From what dusty part of his brain had he remembered that? Years ago it had been Lilleth’s nightly farewell when, far past the time when most girls were allowed out, she would peck his cheek and dash through the trees toward home.

“Stars shine bright, sleep tight tonight,” he repeated, dusting off the phrase and polishing it. Amazingly, he began to get sleepy.

Behind his eyelids he saw young Lilleth in the woods.

Summer heat shimmered off the ground even though it was hours after sundown. Leaves on the trees drooped, looking wilted under the light of a full moon.

She ran toward Red Leaf Pond holding the hem of her white nightgown in her fists.

She didn’t appear to see him sitting on the rotting tree trunk at the edge of the pond. She must have been trying to escape the heat, just as he was.

His own ma and pa didn’t mind their boys running loose after dark. His sister complained to high heaven, but she was a girl, and therefore confined to the safety of home.

But Lilleth didn’t live by those rules. Her mother wouldn’t care that she was out, even if she knew.

Just now, Lils ran barefoot and free. Her red hair streamed out behind her, winking at the moon.

At the water’s edge she waded in past her ankles, then began to lift her shift, clearly intending to draw the thin, worn fabric over her head.

“Hey, Lils!” He stood up quickly and strode into the moonlight. “Mind if I come in, too?”

She dropped the hem of her nightgown and grinned at him. “I’ll race you to the middle,” she called.

She waited for him to strip to his underdrawers before she dived in. She didn’t need a head start, for she swam like a tadpole.

They met in the center, circling around each other and laughing. Moonlight dappled the surface of the pond where they kicked and splashed.

“Oh.” Lilleth ducked under the water, then surfaced again. “The day’s been blistering. This feels so good.”

“Yeah, but Lils, you shouldn’t be out by yourself at night. It’s not safe.”

“Safer than home, I guess.” She brushed her hand across her face, sluicing water from her eyes and nose. “Mama has a new man and Beth and I haven’t got him figured out yet. Besides, I’m not alone, you’re here.”

“I might not have been.” He ducked under the water and came up blowing out a mouthful, pretending to be the spout of a fancy fountain. “What if Horn and Pard Higgins are slinking about?”

“Well, they aren’t. And you are here.”

With that she flipped beneath the water and grabbed hold of his feet. She yanked him under. He caught her around the middle, feeling ribs under cotton, and then hoisted her up. He surfaced in time to see her flying through the air, laughing and sputtering.

They played like that for a long time before Lils began to shiver and they swam for shore.

He put his clothes on while she wrung out her hair.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said.

“I’m going to run.” She flashed him a grin with pond water still speckling her lashes. “You won’t be able to catch up.”

“My legs are longer.”

“Mine are quicker.” She bounced up on her toes and pecked his cheek. “Stars shine bright, sleep tight tonight.”

Then she was off, a streak in the moonlight. He laughed out loud. His longer legs never were a match for her quicker ones, but at least he’d get there in time to see her close her front door safely behind her.

Trace twitched in his sleep. He groaned and woke up.

That night, he never did see Lils open her door. He heard her scream.

Bursting out of the woods, he saw the Higgins boys push Lilleth to the ground. Horn knelt over her, pinning her wrists to the parched earth. Pard laughed and called her obscene names.

Lils spat back oaths that would have sent ordinary mischief-makers running, but Pard and Horn weren’t ordinary. The twins fed off each other, one disrespectful and the other mean. Even adults kept out of their way.

Running full speed, Trace plowed into Horn, but didn’t see the jagged stick that Lils had gripped in her fist, ready to jab her assailant with.

He knocked Horn over. The bully slammed into his brother. Blood spurted, some from Horn’s ear and some from Pard’s nose.

It looked as if the boys didn’t care for having their own blood spilled, because they ran away crying and cursing. And a good thing, too, because Trace couldn’t have moved a muscle to protect Lilleth.

The stick that she had intended to jab Horn with now stuck out of his own chest. Blood pulsed from a long gash across his ribs. Lils looked like a blur leaning over him, pressing his wound and yelling at him. After a moment even her screams sounded like whispers.

Trace sat up in his chair and let his feet hit the cold floor. He’d been sick—close to death, he’d been told. Mostly, all he remembered was a visit from Lils.

She had come to his house weeping, and blowing a kiss at his scar. He told her he didn’t mind it, that the scar was bound to heal into an L, for Lils. She’d laughed and dried her tears.

That’s when she gave him a quick, sweet kiss on the lips, pressed his hand to her heart and vowed to marry him and only him.

Then, suddenly, she was gone, and no one knew where or even exactly when her mother had packed them off.

He’d been right about the scar. From that day until now, all he’d had of Lilleth was her initial across his heart.

* * *

Lilleth stepped cautiously onto the boardwalk. Ice crunched under her feet. Early morning sunshine peeked under her hat and gave the illusion of warmth even though her breath fogged in front of her face.

The storm had blown away with the dawn, and so had some of her worries. She couldn’t help it; she had to sing, if only under her breath.

Horton File, Realtor, had been the most agreeable of men. But then, who wouldn’t have been, receiving such an excessive amount of money to rent the only vacant house in Riverwalk?

Lilleth felt agreeable as well, even though she had been all but fleeced. She and the children had a place to live. A place that Mr. File had assured her was a lovely, furnished cabin tucked into the woods only steps from town.

The privacy of a cabin hidden among the trees was more than she had hoped for. The rent wouldn’t be a problem for the brief time they would live in Riverwalk. With luck, it would be only a month, maybe less, just until she figured out a way to free Bethany.

With sunshine smiling upon the town, Riverwalk appeared to be a charming place. Like many communities in South Dakota it was growing fast, filling with families and their commerce. Between the Realtor’s office and Clark’s lending library she had passed a dress shop, a barber and a baker.

It was only a couple of hours past sunrise and already the sign on the bakery door read Open for Business.

Clean morning air nipped her cheeks and filled her lungs. Lilly Gordon thoroughly enjoyed the quiet hours just after sunrise.

Lilleth Preston had performed her songs late into the night. Mornings typically found her with her head buried beneath her pillow.

She would miss seeing the sunrise once she returned to her life with Dunbar’s Touring Troupe.

Even more, she suspected she would miss the first fresh pastries of the day. She opened the door to Martha’s Baked Goods and was greeted by the aromas of cinnamon, vanilla and yeast.

She purchased four cinnamon buns drizzled with honey. The children would be thrilled with the treat.

Bethany would have provided her children with a healthy breakfast of eggs and milk.

But Lilleth wasn’t a mother, just an indulgent auntie who had never learned to cook. Life on the road, living from hotel to hotel with a group of traveling performers had never presented her the opportunity to learn.

Well, then, that would be one of her goals this month. By the time they rescued Bethany, the children would be eating meals that she had prepared with her own hands.

Lilleth warmed her fingers about the bag of baked goods and hurried the three doors down to Clark’s place, slipping, sliding and wobbling.

Clark had started a fire while she had been out. Warmth wrapped around her as soon as she stepped inside. Upstairs, she heard Jess’s footsteps and Mary’s good-morning coos.

Clark sat at his desk, head down on folded arms and fast asleep with a pair of glasses clutched in his fist. The poor man must be exhausted. He couldn’t have done more than doze in a chair all night.

“Clark,” she whispered. The familiarity of using his first name felt a little awkward, and a lot nice. “I’ve brought breakfast.”

He didn’t wake up, but his mouth lifted, revealing the barest hint of a dimple at one corner. My goodness, the man was appealing.

There was something about him that didn’t quite make sense. He was a complete bumbler, as likely to trip over his own feet as walk a steady line. Once in a while, though, he wasn’t.

Lilleth bent over to peer more closely at his face. She shouldn’t; he was nearly a stranger. She leaned another inch toward him. Something about him called to her. Why didn’t he seem like a stranger?

She had spent the night in his bed. That must be the reason.

He appeared to be dreaming. She watched his eyes move behind his lids. His lips compressed, then relaxed. Thick dark lashes twitched...they blinked.

Sleep-misted eyes opened wide and blue, then blinked again.

“Good morning, Lilly.”

By heavens, there was a dimple. And could she be any more of a ninny, staring and blinking back?

She straightened and backed up, holding the bag of cinnamon rolls between them. “I’ve brought breakfast.”

“Martha’s?” He rolled one shoulder, then the other, stretched...grinned and sat up. “I’m starved.”

An apology would have been called for, could she have found one appropriate to the situation. But just then Jess came downstairs with Mary in his arms.

“Morning, Ma, Mr. Clarkly. Is that sweets?” His eyes grew wide in anticipation. There were some things that Bethany would have to set straight later on. Her children’s diet being the first. “I’m starved.”

“Sit down there on the rug in front of the fire,” Lilleth told him. Jess did so, placing himself between the hearth and his baby sister. “Careful with the crumbs.”

Lilleth sat on the rug and broke off small pieces of cinnamon bun, feeding them to Mary. Clark, with his glasses perched low on his nose, completed the circle. He sat beside her with his ankles crossed and his knees sticking out. He didn’t seem to notice that his left knee bumped into her right one.

Any other man would get a swift boot in the... But this was Clark, and chances were he was oblivious to where his limbs ended up.

“I have good news,” Lilleth announced, scooting beyond reach of Clark’s knee. “I’ve found us a place to live!”

“Why, that’s... Well, it’s...” For some reason it took an instant for his smile to reach his eyes. “Truly wonderful news. Where?”

“We’ll be neighbors, Clark. I’ve rented the cabin in the woods, just down the path behind the lending library.”

He choked on cinnamon and honey.

“That’s just...” He managed to catch his breath despite the crumbs still lodged in his throat. “I’m pleased as can be.”

But he wasn’t. And that was as clear as could be.

* * *

Trace stood on his back porch watching Lilleth and her brood, valises in hand, walking down the path that led into the woods. Cold sunshine winked on the snow and glinted off his fake glasses. He’d have to keep them on, though, even though the glare was making his eyes sting.

At the tree line, Lilleth turned and waved. The confident smile on her face wouldn’t last long. In another five minutes she would discover that her cozy, furnished cabin was barely fit to live in.

Trace waved back, but watching while she vanished among the trees made him feel off-kilter. As if something precious had been given, and then snatched away before he’d even had time to blink at the wonder of it.

Trace was a man grounded in reality. Facts were what he lived and breathed.

Still, it couldn’t have been an accident that his long-lost Lils had spent the night under his roof. It couldn’t have been pure chance that put them both on the same train platform at the same instant in time.

Letting her walk away now felt like an act against their common destiny.

Or could it be that their destinies weren’t common? Maybe letting her walk away was fulfilling that.

It was all just a bunch of fancy thinking, anyway, fate and destiny.

Facts, on the other hand, were what they were, no guessing or wondering involved. It would serve him well to keep them in mind.

Here was a hard and cold fact: Lils was walking into a bad situation and taking her children with her.

Another fact was that Trace was honor-bound to protect the inmates at Hanispree, and the safest way to do that was to let Lilleth take that path into the woods and deal with her problems on her own.

And the last fact on his mental list...he would not do it.

Trace picked up the ax leaning against the woodpile beside his back door and followed Lilleth’s footprints into the woods.

He grinned, considering a fact he had just added to his mental list. It didn’t have a thing to do with fancy thinking; it was as hard as facts go.

Clark Clarkly was going to kiss Lilly Gordon.

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