Chapter One

Catherine, absorbed in her conversation with the music video's director's assistant, heard the shouted warning too late. She jumped when the unexpected pain hit, her involuntary "ouch" hitting the air at the same time she turned around to see from where the sudden sharp pain in her butt originated.

On his knees directly behind her, in black jeans and black tee, was Clay Aiken, his face alternating between ashen and bright red. He scrambled to his feet, but his gaze continued a furtive search of the immediate area before he turned full attention to her.

Catherine was incensed. "You know, I've had a mental list of things I might say if I ever met you," she said, rubbing the painful spot. "'Bite me' wasn't on it."

"I am so sorry," Clay said, but Catherine's jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed when she saw the glimmer of laughter in his. "I was playing with Raleigh, tossin' her a mini Frisbee. I guess she missed," he added lamely. "I'll pay for any damage she did."

Raleigh chose that moment to bound over to Clay and Clay scooped her up.

Catherine's anger held. "Any damage?" she asked calmly. "Do you mean the teeth hole damage to the mini skirt? No problem. It belongs to the production. Settle with them. If you're referring to the damage sharp puppy teeth do when they sink into soft skin..." Her sarcasm trailed off when she saw Clay's gaze travel downward to her long legs. Or at least to the high thigh of the right one.

Alarm was in his green eyes when they again met hers. "You're bleeding," he said quietly and reached for her arm. "Come on and I'll..."

"No, you won't," she added brusquely. "I'll grab a bandaid."

"But..."

"Forget it," she said stiffly. Catherine lowered her voice and stepped closer to Clay, but stayed clear of Raleigh. "I'm on my last chance not to get booted from this video. If I screw up again the assistant director says I'm fired."

Clay laughed. "It's my video. Trust me, you won't get fired."

Catherine didn't smile. "Okay, I won't get booted from your video. But I guarantee you I'll never get work in another one."

Before she could stop him, Clay placed Raleigh at his feet, pulled his black tee shirt off, leaned down and wiped the dribble of blood from her thigh. "We're on a break," he announced to the crowd in a no-nonsense tone. He extended the crook of his arm to Catherine, his green eyes relaying that her silence would benefit her more than an argument. "Now, let's have that looked at and make sure you're okay."

With Raleigh trotting beside Clay they headed across the wide asphalt lot for Clay's trailer. Catherine didn't want to admit how much her butt hurt, but also didn't want to ignore the bite. She was smarter than that and knew all sorts of complications could result from an ignored bite.

Clay opened the door to the huge white trailer, then ushered Catherine inside. Clay pulled the door shut behind them, closing out a group of extras trying to find out what had happened.

To her surprise, Clay addressed the tall, grey-haired man reading a newspaper as Dr. Parker.

"I've got a small problem, Doc," Clay began, ignoring Catherine when she shot him a look over 'small problem'. "Raleigh missed a Frisbee and, well, she kinda bit this young lady by mistake."

Catherine glared at Clay. "She didn't kinda bite me. She bit me."

Clay raised his hands in a sign of peace, and reached into a drawer for a tee shirt similar to the one he'd taken off. "Sorry." He turned back to the doctor. "Would you take a look and make sure it's minor?"

The doctor looked hesitant, then said, "Um...sure. If that's okay with...?"

"Catherine," she answered, and shot Clay a withering look. "Nice of you to care enough to ask my name," she said to the doctor with a sweet smile, letting Clay know his southern manners had failed him miserably.

Clay had the grace to blush. "I guess I could have handled this a little better," he admitted loudly when Catherine and the doctor moved into the next room. "But you must admit," he called to Catherine, "your reaction wasn't very pleasant."

The door opened so fast Clay knew the doctor had no chance to examine Catherine. She strode to Clay. She folded her arms and daggers shot from her eyes. "Pleasant? You want pleasant?" Her arms shot straight down to her sides and her face was an inch from his. "Turn around, and when I'm done, you let me know how pleasant it feels."

Clay's left brow shot up. "Uh...what?"

"To be bitten," she snapped.

"You're going to bite me?" The shock on his face was priceless and her frustration and anger nearly evaporated. But she was in too much hot water on the set already and was terrified of being fired yet again. Not even Clay could save her, no matter what he thought. Her need of money for rent, car payments and food kept her on edge.

A knock on the trailer was followed by the door opening. The video's head director stepped inside, looked at Clay, then Catherine, finally back to Clay.

"We need to talk about Raleigh being in the video," he began. "We have enough trouble..." he cut off when Dr. Parker entered the room carrying Raleigh.

"Hey, doc," he greeted him. "You here to catch Raleigh up on her shots?"

Catherine was stunned and turned to Clay, barely able to speak. "You...you..." she began and took several steps forward, until Clay was forced to step backward.

"Dr. Parker is a Vet?" she shouted. "You wanted your dog's doctor to examine my rear end?"

Taking another step backward to avoid Catherine's wrath, Clay lost his footing and landed in the tan leather recliner.

"Let me explain..." he protested.

The director interrupted. "Break is over," he informed them flatly. "Clay, you're needed on the set." He turned to Catherine. "I told you that I wouldn't allow another delay because of you. You're fired."

The words rocked Catherine and despite her efforts, tears from a day of one humiliation after another rolled down her face. She heard Clay's angry voice tell the director, "Wait a minute," but without another word she pushed past the director and raced from the trailer.

Clay started after her, yelling, "Catherine," several times but she quickly disappeared among the hundred or so extras milling about.

Clay turned his eyes to the director and his hard voice surprised even him. "You'd better have a way for me to find her."

 

Chapter Two

Catherine paced a nervous path in the burgundy living room carpet, barely aware the sun had started its daily ritual of dipping into the horizon, not hearing at all the waves lapping the shore a hundred yards away. Finally, she reached the point where she had to do something or she'd scream. And, Lord, despite her awkward reach to apply medication and put a bandaid on her butt, after three hours it still hurt, probably would for at least a few days. Like it or not, the smart thing was to see a doctor. But not today. Not tonight.

Using both hands she brushed her long honey blonde hair from her face, then sank gingerly into the soft pink chair and buried her face in her hands. She was beyond tears. Desperate, yes. But desperation didn't solve its problems with tears. For her to have run from that trailer in tears, well...the day had been a long and tough one. Instead of putting her "jinx" image behind her she'd gotten fired.

Worse yet, she had admired Clay Aiken from the first time she'd heard him sing, an admiration that increased when she learned what Clay the man was all about. She would have done anything to not only meet him but impress him enough that he'd offer her a job doing...well, anything. She'd impressed him, all right.

Catherine giggled. Oh, yes, she'd certainly impressed him. The look on his face when he thought she was going to bite him was one she'd never forget. Then her cheeks warmed and shame flooded her. Clay really had cared whether or not Raleigh had hurt her. She was the one who'd handled the situation badly, not him. The timing of the incident could not have been worse. To have a dog's needle-sharp teeth penetrate your butt seconds after you've been warned you're on thin ice to be fired couldn't happen to anyone but her.

The knock on the door brought her head up and that's when she realized the setting sun had left her in semi darkness. She considered not answering the knock. There was no one she was in the mood to see.

The knock became insistent and she called, "Coming". She opened the door and there on the wide front porch sat Raleigh. Alone. With an "I'm sorry" sign draping her neck.

Catherine couldn't help it. She smiled. Raleigh looked so innocent, sat so passively. There was no indication anyone was with her, but the little dog certainly had not tracked Catherine down.

She bent down and ruffled Raleigh's fur. "What do you want?" she questioned. "I'm not a buffet," she warned in a soft, amused voice. "So I hope you're not here because you're still hungry."

Clay stepped from around the corner of the small yellow house. "Raleigh wanted to apologize," he offered.

"Oh? Is that right?" Catherine asked, rubbing the tummy of the dog who'd rolled onto her back. She eyed Clay, still wearing his black jeans and tee shirt.

Clay walked to the porch and up the two steps. He picked up Raleigh and leaned against the door jamb, lifting the small sign from Raleigh and handing it to Catherine. His smile and the twinkle in his eye showed his relief. "Raleigh wanted to bring along the Frisbee, but I told her it wasn't a good idea."

Catherine threw the "I'm sorry" sign onto a table just inside the door, then leaned against the other jamb. "Do I want to know why you told her it wasn't a good idea?"

Clay didn't even blink when he answered, "Last time we played Frisbee she bit off more than she could chew."

Catherine couldn't help but laugh and gave Raleigh a brief pet. "To what do I owe this visit?" she asked lightly, wondering if she'd done something else wrong or if the production company was holding her responsible for the video shoot delays.

"I got your address from the director," Clay offered. "I do care whether or not you're injured." He gestured inside. "May I come in and talk to you for a minute?"

Catherine's heart melted at his first words, but her guard went up at his last. "Am I in trouble?" Lead threatened to form in her belly. Would they find a reason to sue her for lost time and money?

Clay chuckled. "No. But I want you to know how sorry I am about everything that happened and tell you that you're needed on the set tomorrow."

Surprised, Catherine asked, "On the set? Why?"

"You're not fired," he stated and the look in his eyes was emphatic and final.

Catherine saw her neighbor's door open and quickly said, "Come in". Once inside, Clay sat on the burgundy wing chair, Raleigh obediently in his lap. Catherine turned on the floor lamp and settled tentatively into the pink chair.

"What happened with Raleigh had little to do with why I got fired," Catherine told him. "You may want to reconsider having me hired back."

Clay laughed and his eyes danced. "The director said something about your reputation for shutting down video shoots," he acknowledged.

Catherine blushed. "That's a delicate way to put it," she murmurred.

"Care to share?" Clay challenged.

"Oh, it wouldn't interest you," she said, hoping the director hadn't detailed her previous video shoot episodes.

"Sure it would," he countered. "If I'm putting it on the line for you, you owe it to me."

"No, I don't." She smiled.

"No, you don't," he admitted. "But I'm really curious."

"You mean nosy."

"Okay. I'm nosy." He laughed.

"Two sets caught fire, one got flooded and horses stampeded through another one."

Clay's jaw dropped and his mouth popped open. "And how did you get blamed for those things?"

Catherine squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable with the scrutiny he gave her. "Trust me, all of it was due to my missteps," was all she'd say.

"Well, I don't think there's much you can do on this set. It's a one-day shoot and it's pretty well choreographed. Not much room for a misstep."

"Thank you," Catherine said when he rose to leave. "You didn't have to do this and I want you to know how much I appreciate it."

"No problem," Clay answered with a soft smile.

Catherine opened the door and they stepped onto the porch. The sun had set completely and purple twilight dragged a curtain of twinkling stars across the sky.

"Beautiful," Clay said, his gaze sweeping the sky.

"Can I say goodbye to Raleigh?" Catherine joked.

"Sure." Clay handed the small dog to her, then walked to the railing for a better look at the sky.

Catherine nuzzled Raleigh, now completely comfortable within her arms. Catherine walked over to Clay, wondering how on earth she could thank him for what he'd done for her. That he came looking for her to assure himself all was well, then to do what was necessary to get her rehired, well... she choked up at the thought of his decency and kindness.

She turned her back to him, frustrated that she'd again gotten teary and barely noticed he'd taken a perch on the porch's thin railing.

"Catherine," he said.

She turned to answer him, eagerly, hoping to carry off an air of nonchalance and hide the lump in her throat. She was standing closer to him than she thought and turned much too fast. She bumped him hard and the next thing she knew, Clay Aiken had been knocked over the railing and into the sticker bush.

 

Chapter Three

It wouldn't have been ironic, thought Clay as he looked straight up into the star-strewn night sky he'd previously admired, if he'd landed on any other body part. Nope. Had to be his butt. He suspected he'd be picking sharp, painful stickers out forever. At least that's how it felt. It didn't help when Catherine leaned over the railing, tried twice to ask, "Are you all right?", then collapsed in a heap of laughing instead.

He managed to extricate himself, not without stifling a few "ow's" and smothered unpleasantries, from the sticker bush. He rolled onto his back, relieved to be free of the tangle, just as Raleigh leaped onto his chest and began licking his face. Catherine was immediately at his side, but she visibly struggled not to giggle.

"Are you allright?" she asked when he glared at her.

"I'll live, thank you," he snapped. How could she laugh at something like this?

"May I call someone for you?" was her polite question. Syrup dripped from her concerned voice when she added, "Dr. Parker, perhaps?"

Clay turned a furious face to her, then stopped dead. He dropped his head back to the ground, ran his hand over Raleigh and chuckled. He looked up at Catherine. "I had that comin', didn't I?"

"In spades," she confirmed.

With great care, Clay rose to his feet. Oh, boy. The instant stinging in his butt alerted him that this would be a long night, probably one filled with tweezers and noises of discomfort.

"Are you all right?" Catherine asked. "Anything other than pride damaged?"

Exasperated, Clay met her gaze. "You're enjoyin' this, aren't you?"

"Of course not," she protested, but Clay saw the devil dance in her blue eyes.

"Come back into the house and I'll see if I can..."

"No, thank you," he stated firmly. "My car is around the corner and I'll just head on home. I'm sure I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can handle the, uh...extractions," Catherine agreed, "but I doubt you can handle riding home with the stickers in their current, uh, position."

That brought Clay up short. She had a point, one as sharp as the stickers. He'd never make it, driving home with a butt full of stickers.

"You have two choices," she said. "You can lay down on the back seat of the car and I'll take you home, or you can go inside and try to get them out. I'll give you a mirror and a pair of tweezers. Your choice."

He snorted. "I pick neither. I'll call someone to come and get me, thank you." He flipped his cell phone from his pocket, but before he could turn it on Catherine's voice stopped him.

"I can't wait to hear what you tell them, the reason why you need a ride. Or your explanation to the paparazzi outside your door when they see you arrive home face down in the back seat of a car."

Clay sighed and turned away from Catherine. He shook his head and almost laughed. What a predicament. Today had started out so ordinary, sun-filled with a beautiful breeze, him holding the world by the tail. Now here he stood, less than two feet away from the girl Raleigh had bitten on the butt, and he himself with a butt filled with stickers. Could it get any worse? Did she have to enjoy the reluctance in his voice when he said, "Which way to the bathroom?"

 

Chapter Four

Never, Clay thought as he carefully wielded the tweezers, would I have been able to picture this. "Hey, Clay, what did you do last night?" "Oh, it was just a boring night of playing 'pick the sticker'. You know, how you strip below the waist, put one leg on the tub, mirror in one hand, tweezers in the other and start pickin' sharp little barbs out of a sensitive area."

"How are you making out?" Catherine called through the bathroom door.

"Fine," was his sour response.

"Where are you putting the stickers?"

Silence, then, "What?"

She repeated her question.

"Does it matter?" he demanded.

"Of course," she answered. "I can make a bundle on ebay..."

Dead silence.

Catherine laughed. "My concern is Raleigh running to you after you open the door and stepping on one. Count them and flush them, please."

"Count them? You had better be jokin'," he responded letting Catherine know he was in no mood for comedy.

Catherine's tone was as no nonsense as Clay's. "No, I'm not. I realize you're possibly not in good humor right now, but your foul mood shouldn't allow you to be careless with Raleigh's safety."

"Possibly?" he retorted. "You think I'm possibly not in good humor?"

"Well, mine has certainly improved since this morning."

"You have no idea the joy and comfort that gives me."

Catherine, holding Raleigh in the crook of her left arm and petting her with her right hand, grinned. The grin began to fade when she realized her own situation was still shaky. Clay had saved her on this video, but she knew she was finished, would never work in another one. Especially since Clay flexed his muscle to the director. It was a gossip-driven industry and she knew her name was the one currently sending tongues into buzzing frenzy. She'd think about her options after Clay finished and left. But she knew she'd be going back to the restaurant. If they'd allow her on the premises again after those four dish stacks had crashed.

She nuzzled Raleigh, then put her on the floor. "The antiseptic is out here," she called to Clay. "I'll pass it through the door."

He didn't answer, but she retrieved the huge, full bottle of topical medication from her bureau, aware of how recently she herself had used it. She grimaced. The last few hours had displaced that morning's episode from her mind, but it now came back. She was delighted to realize the spot of the bite hardly hurt. Clay's reminders of his own episode would last longer.

"Okay, I have it," she called. "When I knock, crack the door open and I'll hand it to you. But after you unlock the door, don't jerk on the doorknob..."

She didn't get a chance to finish. Raleigh seemed to think Clay was coming out and jumped happily toward the door. In an attempt to protect Clay from the door swinging wide open and exposing his injury, Catherine made a grab for Raleigh. In the process the heavy bottle fell from her hand and broke the old fashioned doorknob.

"What the..." Clay hollered.

Catherine warned, "Don't touch the..."

Too late. Clay grabbed it on his side and the break was complete.

"...doorknob," Catherine finished.

"Catherine," Clay called in a deceptively silky tone. "I'm waitin'."

Catherine cleared her throat, again holding the innocent dog who had merely tried to get to Clay. The result was two doorknobs hitting the floor.

Catherine cleared her throat. "Yes," she began. "Uh...it's an old doorknob."

"I can see that," was his patient response. When she didn't continue, he prompted, "And...?"

"It broke." But she was quick to add, "No harm done if the door was unlocked."

Clay's voice, low and deliberate, seemed to emanate directly through the door. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are that I'm not a cursin' man?"

Catherine sighed. "In other words, you hadn't unlocked the door."

"Has this happened before?"

"Not to me, but the people who lived here before warned me about it. There's a special tool to unlock this type of door because it's so old. Otherwise you have to break the door."

As though talking to a child, Clay said, "Get the tool, Catherine."

"I don't have one."

Silence. Silence she knew was filled with steam coming from Clay's ears.

"Call a locksmith."

"Uh, Clay, it's almost one in the morning."

"Yeah? So?"

"There's no one to call."

"Catherine, sweetie, we're in L.A., not North Carolina. There's someone to call."

"Well, Clay, sweetie," she empasized right back at him, "we're not in L.A., we're in a little town where there's no one to call. You do know that because you drove here, remember? By the time someone gets here from L.A. it'll be morning anyway. I'll call first thing. I promise. Just make sure you have your pants on when they get here."

"Catherine, darlin'," Clay said flatly. "I'm not spendin' the night in your bathroom. I'll make the calls myself."

Catherine walked back to the sofa and sat down. Raleigh went to the door, barked at Catherine and sat down.

"Clay," she called. "Raleigh needs to go out."

Sarcasm coated the air. "Well, gee, I'll be right there."

Catherine grinned. "I'll take her out and be right back."

**

The walk of twenty minutes was brisk and peaceful. The benefits of living in a small town with few neighbors, thought Catherine. Raleigh was more than ready to go back inside and as soon as they entered the living room she ran to the bathroom door and curled into a ball.

"Isn't that cute?" Catherine called to Clay. "Raleigh's tired and came over here to be by you."

Clay's fingers wiggled under the door and he managed to scratch Raleigh goodnight. Raleigh made noises of content and closed her eyes.

"See you in the morning, Raleigh," Clay said gently.

Catherine sat beside the door. "I gather you didn't reach anyone."

"No," he said curtly. "Want to guess why?"

Right away Catherine realized why and her gaze moved to the end table where Clay had placed his cell phone.

"Do you want me to call and tell someone where you are?"

"I'll call," he stated. "Slide my phone under the door. It should fit."

It rang.

"Slide it," Clay ordered and Catherine knew he'd panicked that she'd answer it. So she did.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end was rich, smoky, apologetic and Catherine recognized Kim Locke immediately.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number."

"You've reached Clay."

"Catherine!"

Catherine smiled. "He can't come to the phone right now. May I take a message?"

"To whom am I speaking?"

"This is Catherine."

"Well, I'm leaving in the morning and just wanted to say goodbye since I didn't see him tonight. Would you please tell him I called and I'll call when I get to Tennessee?"

"Absolutely," Catherine assured her. Regret rang from her words. "I'd call him to the phone, but he's currently in a very prickly mood. His barbs are really coming out tonight."

"I see," Kim said and laughed. "Thanks for passing the message."

"Goodbye," Catherine said and hit end.

"Tomorrow morning," Clay called softly. "You're goin' to get yours."

"Now, Clay," she admonished. "Where's your southern chivalry?"

He groaned. "It's about to stretch out in a too-small porcelain bathtub."

**

Morning sun in her eyes wasn't what woke her. Raleigh licking her face did. "Good morning, baby," she crooned. "Did you sleep well?" Concerned that Raleigh might not handle sleeping in a strange place, Catherine had curled up with her on the living room floor.

Raleigh ran to the door and a glance at the clock said it was only six a.m. Too early to call a locksmith. Another twenty minute walk down the quiet streets and they returned to the house.

"I checked your car," Catherine called to Clay as she put leftovers in a bowl for Raleigh and filled another bowl with water. "Doesn't look like anyone went near it."

"Guess what?" he called in elation. "I think I got it!"

"Really?" Catherine said and hurried from the kitchen toward the bathroom.

The bathroom door swung inward and Clay, holding up the tweezers and a broken toothbrush, grinned at Catherine.

Catherine was two steps into the bathroom when Raleigh must have realized she could get to Clay. Barking with happiness, she came flying from the kitchen. Unfortunately, she ran between Catherine's legs.

Catherine tumbled forward into Clay so hard he lost his balance. He grabbed for the shower rod for support and instead, it came loose. When Clay fell backward into the tub, Catherine on top of him, his foot hit the cold water faucet. Within seconds they were both drenched from head to foot, their clothes clinging to each other.

Catherine lay on top of Clay, her face less than an inch from his. Water rivulets ran down his forehead, beaded, then streamed down his cheekbones. His breath was warm against the cold water on her skin.

Beneath wet eyelashes, green eyes held her gaze steady and his tone was quiet, even and grave.

"I'm gettin' real clear now on those two fires, a flood and horse stampede."

 

Chapter Five

Catherine sat in the late afternoon sunshine on her front porch.

It had been many hours since Clay left for home, dripping wet, hopping mad and too frustrated to speak clearly. Several times he'd began to say something as he went down the front porch steps. Several times he broke off and said nothing. Finally, he just brought both his hands up, threw them down, said, "Goodbye, Catherine," and stalked off toward his car, Raleigh trotting alongside.

She'd made the choice not to go to the video shoot and she knew Clay wouldn't be surprised when she wasn't there. It was a one day shoot so by now it was either over or nearly so.

Unfortunately, when she'd called the upscale restaurant that had canned her and tried to wheedle her way back into waiting tables there she'd met a brick wall. So today was planning only. Like where next week's meals would come from.

Earlier that afternoon she'd caught a brief flash of an entertainment news show. The big debate was who Clay would take to the Humanitarian Awards that evening. No one knew, but everyone buzzed about the new girl in Clay's life. He'd met her in Miami three weeks ago and word had it that he had fallen for her right then and there. Trouble was, her identity remained a mystery. Adding to the pique of interest was rumor they'd had a terrible fight and Clay might attend alone.

"Who cares?" Catherine said caustically, then chuckled at the previous night's happenings. They'd probably televise the red carpet arrivals. She'd take a close look at whether or not Clay used a natural stride.

Now, glum, she propped her elbows on her knees, wondering if she'd find work as quickly as she needed a paycheck. The waves were calm, the neighborhood block was quiet and the salt water breeze carried the call of terns to her.

To her amazement, Clay's car turned the corner and pulled into her driveway behind her old VW.

When he got out, he gave her a tentative smile before closing the door. His lanky form was decked out in black Armani, a pale blue silk shirt and blue striped tie. His hair was perfection. An image straight out of GQ.

But still stinging from what she considered his impolite departure that morning, she blurted, "What do you want? If it's about the video shoot..."

"It isn't," he assured her, and stopped on the sidewalk right below where she sat on the top step.

He lowered his head, then looked at her. His voice was quiet. "I left the 'I'm sorry' sign here or I'd wear it now. I need to apologize for the way I acted this morning."

"Don't worry about it," she said, but gave him a wary look. "That's not why you're here, is it?"

He looked uncomfortable. "Not completely." He took a deep breath and hesitated, taking time to gaze out over the water in the distance. When he faced her, his face was sure but his voice wasn't. "Look, Catherine, I know it's really late and this is pretty much last minute..."

Incredulous, and her heart pounding, Catherine interrupted with, "Are you on your way to the Awards?"

He looked relieved. "Yes, and I need a favor. Like I said, I know it's last minute and I wouldn't be here unless I absolutely had to be..."

Catherine's scowl made him laugh and he added, "That's not what I meant."

"Where's your date?"

"She couldn't make it," he informed her. "Catherine, I need a huge favor, and, well, you immediately came into my mind. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't in a jam..."

Dear Heaven! Clay was trying to invite her to the ceremony as his date. Anticipation sent her heart racing and she blurted, "I'd love to!"

Clay's face lit up with such relief that she wanted to hug him.

"I'll make this up to you, Catherine, I promise," he swore as he headed for the car. "You are a life saver."

Catherine's mind was spinning. What to wear? What to wear???

Her heart not only skipped a beat, it nearly stopped when he grabbed Raleigh from the car, along with two small bowls.

"I didn't know who else to ask," he continued when he'd put Raleigh down and she'd run to Catherine. "And she seems to have taken to you really fast. This is a big load off my mind."

Rendered almost incapable of speech, Catherine stared from Clay to Raleigh and back to Clay. "You're asking me to dogsit? That's the favor?"

Clay was clearly puzzled. "Well, yeah," he answered. "What did you think... uh oh," he added and she knew he'd read her mind.

"I didn't think anything," Catherine said haughtily, rising to her feet. "She'll certainly be in good hands here. What time will you be back for her?"

Clay shifted from one foot to another. "That's another part of the favor."

"I don't know if I want to hear the rest of this."

"I told you it was a huge favor," he reminded her. "Besides," he began, then stopped and smiled at her. "I can make a pretty good case that you owe me a favor, not the other way around."

"Owe you a favor for what?" she demanded.

"For last night's and this morning's torture," he stated.

"Oh."

Clay walked up the steps and opened the door, ignoring her look of thank you for inviting me into my own house. After he placed Raleigh's bowls on the kitchen floor he came back to Catherine.

"I wasn't kidding when I said I'm in a jam. I have to go out of town for two weeks and there's no one left here that I'd feel comfortable tending Raleigh. Kennel is out of the question."

Her jaw dropped in shock. "Are you telling me that you're dropping your dog off here for two weeks?"

"No," he protested. "I'm askin' if I can."

"You have a funny way of asking," she said shortly.

"So, how about it, Catherine? This means a lot to me. I'll pay you well."

"What if I said I'm starting at the restaurant tomorrow and won't be here to take care of Raleigh?" she demanded. "You take a lot for granted, Clay. Why in the world would I be at your beck and call? I've known you for two days."

"Are you back at work?" he asked, ignoring the rest of her statement.

She blew out a short breath, itching to tell him that yes, she'd just gotten a phenomenal job with fantastic pay. "No," she conceded.

"Then it works out for both of us," he insisted. A mischievous smile lit every inch of his face. "And, tell you what...when I get back maybe I'll take you on that date you thought I was hinting at. Then we'll be squared."

Flabbergasted at his gall, she sputtered, "For. Get. It." She opened the front door and held it for him, gesturing outside. "For Raleigh's sake, go now."

When he reached his car and waved, she was still fuming. But it was nothing compared to her reaction to his comments from the red carpet.

 

Chapter Six

Her honey blonde hair pulled back and up, and wearing slipper booties, shorts and a tank top, Catherine sat cross-legged on the floor to watch the red carpet arrivals.

"This is the la-di-da crowd," she advised Raleigh, who sat beside her. "You and me, well, we're the peons. They're the beautiful people."

She felt a slight twinge of guilt at her statement. During her brief - and now dead - stint in music videos she'd met a lot of the people she'd just referred to negatively, and almost to a one they'd been terrific. Of them all, a solitary man now rubbed her raw, and it was because he'd had the nerve to offer her a date as some sort of reward that she enjoyed black thoughts of him.

"The nerve of him," she directed to Raleigh, who ignored her.

The show dragged on, exhorting the fashion statements of those stepping from long, shiny limos into photographer's flashbulbs which surrounded the red carpet. Each arrival was greeted by a smarmingly sweet host or hostess that fawned over the star. Despite herself, Catherine was fascinated. Some fashions were stellar examples of old Hollywood glamor, the men in old fashioned tails, the women in gowns of the 1930's or 40's. Some were cutting edge, the latest styles, materials and accessories. Others were horrors that shouldn't have seen the light of day, while one man wore what looked to be inside out underwear. Briefs, not boxers, tag and all. Catherine roared with laughter as the man did a macho strut beside his boa-feathered girlfriend.

"Hey, are you catching this, Raleigh?" she asked the disinterested puppy. "Maybe we can find you a new outfit."

Then a grey limo pulled up and Clay stepped out. He was not alone. What was probably the most beautiful girl Catherine had ever seen put a long-gloved hand out of the door and into Clay's waiting hand. Rich, thick dark hair tumbled down the girl's bare back as she timed the movements of her body in its snug, low-cut black dress to the stares of the expectant crowd. Long, never-ending legs were clad in toeless spike heels.

Catherine thought the host would kill himself trying to get over to the young beauty. Catherine also couldn't breathe and thought she was going to throw up. He'd lied to her. It rang in her ears and blocked out the sounds from the television. Then she realized they had pointed the microphone at Clay and he was talking about how proud he was to be here.

Raleigh's ears picked up at the sound of Clay's voice and she barked at the television.

"Hush, Raleigh," Catherine admonished. "I want to hear this."

"Yeah," Clay answered in response to the host's question. "I'm looking forward to performing tonight." He laughed and held up his date's hand. "I even brought my good luck charm." He waved to the crowd.

"So, Clay," the host said. "There's a story circulating that you're heading to a secret location tomorrow to get married. Any truth to that?"

Clay laughed. "No. If that tale was true I'd be taking Raleigh along and I'm not. It's strictly promo for my new CD."

"How is Raleigh?" the butt-kissing host asked.

"Fine, she's fine," Clay answered. "But don't bother asking her about my plans," he joked. "She's sworn to secrecy." He turned to the camera and waved. "Hi, Raleigh. Behave yourself."

The host laughed. "Your dog has a television set?"

Clay laughed, too. "No, but the girl watching him does. You don't know her," he added in jest. "So don't start any more rumors."

The host raised his brows. "Another secret?"

"Not at all," Clay said easily. "She's nice. Pretty. A little odd, though."

"Odd?"

Clay blushed. "Not odd odd. Odd in a kiss of death type of way."

With a cry of indignation, Catherine leaped to her feet and threw a sofa pillow at the television. Raleigh barked in confusion and Catherine quickly moved to sit beside her and reassure her nothing was wrong.

"Sounds like you've got your hands full," the host said.

Clay's face revealed he'd just realized what he'd said. "No, but after that comment I suspect I'm going to." He looked at the screen. "Catherine, I'm sorry. It was a stupid, off-the-cuff joke and I didn't mean it."

"Who's Catherine?"

Clay ignored him and turned sincere eyes to the cameras. "Catherine, believe me. I'm sorry. And I meant what I said that I'll pay you back with a date."

Catherine's cry of outrage bounced off the walls and Raleigh ran for cover. Catherine stared at the screen, at Clay and his date's backs as they entered the theater.

Oh, boy, two weeks wasn't long enough for Clay to try and wiggle his way out of this one. She'd known Clay Aiken for two days. In that time he'd come to her rescue, lied to her and insulted her on national television.

If Clay was smart, in two weeks he'd send someone else to pick up Raleigh. If he had a brain in his head he'd never show his face here again.

If he did she'd tell him exactly where he could put that 'I'm Sorry' sign.

Chapter Seven

She'd had two weeks to cool off. Didn't happen. What did happen was that she fell in love with an adorable puppy named Raleigh. It would be beyond difficult to now part with her. Catherine had come to recognize what each and every whimper, every cock and inclination of Raleigh's head meant. The bond had grown strong while Catherine played mommy to Raleigh and she worried that Raleigh wouldn't understand not seeing Catherine anymore. Tomorrow night and Raleigh's departure would come too fast.

Clay was a whole different situation. He had called numerous times over the past two weeks but she refused to talk to him, choosing instead to leave daily 'everything is fine' updates, always including barks from Raleigh, on her answering machine. She was pretty sure Clay got her point when he heard how every message began: "You have reached the Kiss of Death..."

But early this evening all thoughts of Clay had flown from her head as her largest worry came home to roost.

She'd gotten out her last resort for money, the oversized jar in which she collected loose change. It was half full and it did at least look like the majority was quarters. It wasn't going to be a whole lot, but it would add a few dollars to the pititful total in her checking account. Too bad she couldn't wave a wand and have it multiply inside her twenty-four-hour deadline.

She placed the jar on the kitchen table and unscrewed the lid, tossing it to the side. Using a placemat so she didn't scratch the table, she emptied the jar onto it, then started separating the coins into piles. Why is the penny pile always higher than the quarter pile? she wondered gloomily. She picked up one quarter and tossed it into the air, then caught it in her palm.

"What's the magic word, baby?" Catherine joked to the quarter as she flipped it again. "How do I turn you and your friends into piles of dollar bills instead of piles of coins?"

The quarter's answer was to hit the edge of her palm and roll into the vent.

"Oh, shoot," Catherine griped, but got down on her knees and put her face close to the vent. "Thank Heaven." Relief dripped from Catherine's words. The quarter hadn't dropped all the way down, it was on the flat little ledge to the side. Wow, she thought as she stuck her fingers into the vent. How pathetic does it make me to chase down a quarter? She didn't care. Right now she needed every cent though she preferred to think she wouldn't do this for a penny.

The quarter dangled just out of reach, teasing her from behind the confines of the narrow-slotted vent.

"No, you don't," Catherine told the quarter. "I'm bigger and smarter than you. You can run, but you can't hide."

She giggled. Her speech must have intimidated the quarter because with a thrust of her fingers, she reached it and caught it between her index and middle fingers. And got one terrible surprise when she tried to pull it out. Her fingers were now jammed. She briefly closed her eyes in mild panic, almost hearing the quarter taunt, You might be bigger....

Catherine dropped the quarter back onto the ledge, gingerly trying to pull her fingers free. Wedged. Now panic hit hard, though she knew that relaxing was her best bet for getting free. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, thinking, I'm relaxed. I'm relaxed. I'm relaxed. She waited several minutes, tried to think happy, relaxing thoughts and again tried to maneuver her fingers from their prison. No go. After half a dozen tries she yelled, "Let go!" as though that might work. Even though that made her feel ridiculous, it made her feel better to emit increasing steam.

Raleigh, responding to Catherine's yell, entered the kitchen and walked to where she sat. She curled next to Catherine as though to protect her and Catherine ruffled her fur with her free left hand. Two hours later neither of them had moved from the spot, although Catherine did have to keep shifting position for comfort. Her caught fingers throbbed horribly and there was no comfort for them.

**

Catherine didn't remember falling asleep, her head on her chest, Raleigh sprawled across her lap. Catherine had to get her off, the pins and needles in her legs were starting and she needed to shift again. Then she heard the knock and a muffled voice call her name.

She wanted to cry in relief, but shouted, "Here! I need help! Please!"

The front door had jerked open on the word help and feet pounded through the living room to the kitchen.

"Oh, no!" she groaned in disbelief.

After one look at the situation, Clay threw his head back and roared. Finally his laughter ebbed and he leaned against the doorway, scooping up the puppy who had abandoned Catherine.

He wiped the tears from his face, but mirth was heavy in his voice. "I can't wait to hear this one."

Catherine wanted to die. Of all people, it had to be him. "I dropped a quarter and tried to retrieve it," she said with a red face, welcoming Raleigh back to her side when she'd wriggled free from Clay.

Clay eyed the piles of change on the table. "You do realize the ice cream truck is probably long gone?"

In the blink of an eye she'd pulled her sneaker off and thrown it at him. "Are you going to help me or not?" she demanded.

"Um...let's see," he said, furrowing his brow. "How long was I locked in that bathroom?"

"Clay..." she warned and thunderclouds covered her face. She took a deep breath, trying to cool the temper he had no trouble setting off. "There's a screwdriver in the drawer next to the utensil drawer."

"Oh, so it wasn't there before you decided your fingers were the better tool?"

"Get it please," she snapped. "Make fun all you want, but get the screwdriver."

When Clay reached for the drawer handle, the white wall phone rang. He turned to Catherine, delight in his eyes.

"Don't touch that phone," she said flatly.

"Poetic justice is so...well...great," he informed her as he lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

Catherine could only hear Clay's end, but it was enough.

"I'm sorry, Catherine isn't able to take a call right now. She's gotten her fingers into more than she can handle."

Clay ducked the second sneaker.

Whomever was on the other end now caught Clay's attention and Catherine saw the laughter leave his eyes. His face sobered.

"I see," he stated. "No problem. It'll be taken care of first thing. You're welcome. Goodbye."

Clay said nothing at first, but his face was troubled. He got the phillips head screwdriver and walked to where Catherine sat.

"That was your landlord," he informed her. "His plans have changed and he won't be here tomorrow afternoon for his rent money. Something about a family emergency up north, so he'll be here before noon. If you don't have at least half of the three month's rent..." he trailed off.

Catherine wouldn't look at him, just stared defiantly at the wall. "That's none of your business," she said tersely.

Clay unscrewed two of the screws that had jailed her, placing them on the counter. "That's why you're chasin' that quarter, isn't it?" He chuckled. "I used to have a last resort jar myself."

"I don't want to talk about it," Catherine reminded him.

"Good thing I finished early and came back," he stated casually. "If he'd showed up and you're one quarter short..."

The joke fell flat.

Another screw out. One more to go.

"I'll pay you in cash, Catherine. I left in such a hurry I completely forgot about Raleigh's expenses."

"Yeah," she snapped. "After you lied to me you hurried off to galavant around the country. You're right," she said, meeting his gaze as he removed the last screw and lifted the vent. "This is your fault."

Incredulous green eyes held blue ones. "My fault?" Then he added, "Wait a minute...what do you mean I lied to you?"

She knew she looked ludicrous with a vent hanging off her fingers, but she wanted someone to blame for her unfixable circumstances. She looked at Clay and anger faded away. He'd done nothing wrong. No one had. Not even her.

She rose and faced the sink, her back to Clay. "Take Raleigh and leave, please," she whispered through tears that threatened to spill.

He came behind her and his hands were gentle on her shoulders. "Catherine," he said, but she resisted when he tried to turn her toward him.

His voice was quiet. "I'll leave, but not before we free your fingers."

Too aware she couldn't do it alone, she nodded.

"Let's find a more comfortable spot," he said and led her to the couch. Raleigh jumped to sit between them but Clay moved her over to his other side.

"Okay," he said. "Butter? Vaseline?"

She gave him a blank look. "I guess either one will work."

He frowned as his gaze rested on her fingers. "Why don't we try relaxing them first? If that doesn't work then we'll grease them up."

He took her hand in his left hand and the long fingers of his right hand began massaging her imprisoned two.

"Your hands are cold," he noted, not stopping his slow circular motion.

"Yours are warm," she responded, laying down while he worked. "That feels good. It might not work, but at least it's not unpleasant."

His left eyebrow shot up. "You expected an unpleasant massage?"

"I never know what to expect with you," she retorted.

He cleared his throat. "About your landlord..."

"Off limits," she warned, her eyes closing as his hands warmed more than the area they touched. She opened her eyes again, mortified he'd seen her enjoying him rubbing her fingers. But he hadn't, he was watching what he was doing, making careful motions.

"Anyway," she continued. "I have a job interview tomorrow morning so my problems are pretty much on their way to solved."

He smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. What time?"

"Eleven...oh, no." She sat up. "Clay, I need a favor."

"Favors are dangerous ground," he said. "I found that out the hard way."

"Not this one," she informed him. "All I need you to do is be here early tomorrow morning, wait for my landlord, pay him the rent money I give you and tell him that you broke the stickerbush. And the bathroom door. Oh, and hide Raleigh."

 

Chapter Eight

Clay dropped her hand so fast she couldn't stop the vent from hitting the edge of the coffee table.

"Hey," she cried, rubbing her right wrist, banged by repercussion. "What was that for?"

"What do you mean tell your landlord I broke the stickerbush, the bathroom door and make sure I hide Raleigh?"

"I'm not allowed to have pets here," she admitted. "The rest of that is true, Clay," she reminded him, then added sweetly, "unless you plan to lie about that, too."

He rose, then lowered his face to hers. "What is your problem?"

She rose and though he was a good head taller, she stood toe-to-toe with him, giving his attitude right back to him. "You lied to me," she said between gritted teeth as hurt feelings bubbled to the surface. "You used me and you lied to me."

"I did no such thing," he exploded. He pointed at her. "You're nuts," he announced. "And I'm out of here."

He strode to the door and waited for Raleigh to join him. Raleigh jumped off the couch but remained beside Catherine. Then she barked at Clay and sat down.

"See?" Catherine said smugly and she knew righteous fire shone in her eyes. "Even Raleigh knows the truth. You're a phony."

"That's it," he snapped.

Long legs brought him quickly back, but instead of picking up Raleigh he grabbed Catherine's upper left arm. "Sit down," he ordered.

Breathing heavy, she challenged, "How dare you? Let go of me."

"Sit or I'll sit you," he warned.

She held his gaze but when his head tilted up just a little bit, as though signaling last chance, she wisely sat down. He joined her.

With all the indignation she could muster, she told him, "This had better be good, Clay."

"Oh, no," he said emphatically. "Not me. You. Start talkin'."

She tried to get up and he stood in front of her, letting her know that his patience and his good humor had flown.

"Park it, Catherine," he advised. "If you think I'm goin' to let you keep calling me names and makin' accusations, you're crazier than I thought."

Catherine bit down on words she wanted to hurl at him, instead sitting again. Her voice was quiet. "You lied to my face, Clay. I didn't deserve that."

"No, you didn't," he agreed. "But if you don't mind, what is this lie you keep throwin' at me?"

She seethed at his continued denials. "You showed up here unannounced and uninvited," she started, "on your way to the awards."

He stared at her like she had two heads. "Yeah, okay. You asked me if that was where I was goin' and I said yes. I was also upfront about how long I wanted you to keep Raleigh."

Her laugh was cynical. "Well, as upfront as you could be, I suppose, considering the circumstances."

Clay lowered his head, ran his hands through his hair and looked at her. "I don't get it, Catherine," he stated. "I apologized for those thoughtless comments on the red carpet. What do you want from me, blood?"

Her look was chilled. "I wouldn't mind drawing a little blood right now."

"You know what?" he exclaimed. "I'm through with this stupid game. You won't tell me because there's nothin' to tell. Find someone else to play with."

Her gaze held his but she remained silent. Either he didn't get it or he didn't want to get it. One choice was no more attractive than the other.

When she didn't speak he picked up Raleigh. "Goodbye, Catherine."

He strode out the door, slamming it behind him.

There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the silent, solitary tear that slid down her cheek was one of good riddance.

**

Twenty minutes later, while she sat at the kitchen table with her two fingers thick in a deep bowl of butter, the front door reopened.

Clay appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Marjorie."

Catherine said nothing.

Clay took a seat opposite Catherine. "It took awhile but I figured it out. I told you my date couldn't make it, then you saw me arrive with Marjorie. After you thought I wanted you to fill in as my date."

She glared at him. "Did you come back her to insult me?"

He laughed. "I came back because I realized why you think I lied to you. The insult was an unexpected bonus."

With her left hand she carefully lifted the vent from across the bowl of butter and pushed her fingers into the yellow mass. When she withdrew them, covered with gobs of butter, she met and held his gaze.

"I'm armed and I know how to use this," she threatened. "Keep your insults to yourself."

"I didn't lie to you, Catherine. My date did cancel. Marjorie is from back home, out here hoping to break into movies. It was a last minute series of events."

"She's not the girl from Miami?" she questioned. "The one they reported you about to run off with and marry?"

Clay laughed. "There is no girl from Miami. A friend and I made a bet that we could invent a mystery lady and the media would be on it like, well...exactly like they were."

Catherine's face said she wasn't amused.

Clay cleared his throat. "Did you notice recent reports that said we had a terrible row and broke up? I think they also say she's hiding out somewhere."

When she didn't answer he added, "You had to notice they never called her by name. Only mystery lady."

He cocked his head and looked at her in question. "And why do you care?"

"I didn't know where to send her the condolence card," she shot at him.

The smirk he gave her came close to one of conceit, of saying you were jealous.

She couldn't help herself. She rose and walked over to him. With slow deliberation she ran her butter-covered fingers down his face. Then picked up the bowl and dumped it on top of his head.

He blinked twice, but he didn't move. "So," he asked casually. "Does this mean you're callin' a truce?" Chapter Nine

Catherine knelt down in front of Clay, ignoring the fact he had a bowl of butter on his head and she had a floor vent on her hand.

She locked gazes with him. "I don't care about your mystery lady. I do care about honesty."

He nodded in agreement while he removed the bowl and sat it on the table. "Like the honesty you share with your landlord. About the no pets rule."

"That's different," she defended, rising. "I was doing you a favor and it didn't hurt anything."

He snapped his fingers. "Oh, now I get it. A little white lie is okay when it serves your particular purpose."

"He didn't know Raleigh was here. I didn't lie to him."

"And I didn't lie to you."

Catherine sighed, then looked at Clay and laughed. "You look ridiculous."

He lightly touched portions of his hair. "Where's your shampoo?"

"Sure you don't want degreaser?" she teased.

"No, a gallon or two of shampoo should work."

He rose and she extended her vented hand. "Too bad I can't wash your hair for you. It might loosen this vent."

"I'll pass on having that thing clanging against my head, thank you."

Suddenly she felt the vent loosen its grip. "It's coming off," she cried. She gave a gentle tug and her fingers moved closer to freedom.

"Let me try," Clay offered, but when he pulled it resisted. "Did that hurt?" he asked.

"Didn't feel a thing," she said. "Pull harder."

His grip was firm and this time when he pulled, it not only came loose it needed little effort. His big effort nearly sent him sprawling.

She closed, then opened her eyes and took a deep breath, then looked at Clay's head. "You owe me a pound of butter."

**

Getting the butter off her hands was simple, but many washings over several hours were needed to get Clay's hair clean. When it was finally free of its slick, gobby mess he blew it dry.

"Hey," Catherine said when he came back to the living room. "I like your hair like that. I like the gelled look, too, but I like the natural look more."

He looked exhausted and eased himself into a chair, ignoring her comments.

"Clay, I don't think it's wise for you to drive home now. It's really late and I can see you're tired. Why don't I make you a bed on the couch?"

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the chair. Without opening his eyes he answered, "Why don't you just say you're afraid I won't get back in time?"

"Well, that, too," she conceded when he opened one eye to watch her. "But first and most, I care about your safety."

"Uh huh," he said, yawned wide and reclosed his eyes. "What time are you leaving?"

Catherine took a long look at Clay and guilt stabbed deep. He was exhausted. "I changed my mind," she said. "I'll reschedule the job interview and I'll talk to Mr. Peters when he gets here. If you want to go home tonight I'll drive you. But if you decide to stay you can just leave as soon as you get up."

Clay opened his eyes and lifted his head, his tone curious. "What kind of job is it?"

"Waiting tables at a better restaurant. Tips at those places are usually pretty generous."

"By those who get out unmolested and uninjured by the waitress," he cracked.

"Speaking of food," she said, "have you eaten?"

"No."

"Neither have I and I'm starved. I can make eggs for us, but no toast. How's that sound?"

"You're out of bread?"

"Butter."

**

Clay walked Raleigh while Catherine scrambled eggs for their middle-of-the-night meal. Dry toast would be the unappetizing sidedish since she also didn't have jelly.

The table was set and the meal on the table when he got back.

"Umm..." he stated when he started to eat. "I didn't realize how hungry I am."

They ate in silence, then Clay asked, "Catherine, don't you have family you can ask for help? I'm sure they'd float you a loan."

"I'm sure they would," she answered. "If I had one. I'm an only child and so were both my parents. They died five years ago when I was eighteen."

She looked around the room, then gave Clay a soft smile. "I lived here when I was little. That's why I rented it as soon as it became available. There's a lot of warm, happy memories here. There's even times that I can imagine I'm little again and all is well with my world."

Clay said nothing, but she saw him study her face, her eyes, and knew he'd heard the loneliness she'd been unable to keep from her voice.

"But it's okay," she said lightly, continuing to eat. "I started college like they wanted me to, but.." she trailed off.

Clay finished for her. "It was too much, taking care of school and trying to pay bills."

"Yes. When I moved in here I realized I needed at least two jobs to be able to stay here. I dropped out of school and friendships more or less ended when I decided responsibility was more important than a social life. The only indulgence I allowed myself was work on an occasional video." She grinned at him. "You know the rest."

His voice was quiet. "Why do you stay here?"

She wouldn't meet his gaze. "Mr. Peters knew my parents and he's been really, really good about my not being able to pay rent on time." She looked at Clay. "But I found out that he needs the money for medical bills. I can't let him have bill collectors at his door just because I can't pay him. So, I need two jobs." She laughed. "Right now even one would be a God-send. With luck, everything will turn around tomorrow."

She smiled at him as she piled their dishes into the sink. "Better yet, we're going to consider this fantastic meal the date you threatened me with. We are definitely squared."

All of a sudden she spied an unopened piece of mail on the counter, one that must have been inside the pile of junk flyers that drove her crazy. She ripped it open, read it, and hoped her face wasn't as pale as it felt.

Pulling herself together, she shoved the mail in a drawer and did her best to act nonchalant. She brushed her hands together, as though putting the toast crumbs into the sink. "As a matter of fact, Clay, you look pretty wide awake now that you've eaten."

"I feel fine," he agreed.

"Good," she answered. "Then you can drive home tonight."

 

Chapter Ten

Clay stared at Catherine. "You're giving me the boot?"

"I'm really sorry, Clay. But I think it's best."

"You couldn't give me the boot before you dumped butter on my head?"

She giggled, but Clay was no fool and had taken sharp notice of how she'd paled. Maybe she thought she'd regained color. Only if ashen, with a dominant trace of green, was her natural color. What had she just shoved into that drawer that had incited so much fear?

"I'm sorry," she said. Her demeanor was calm but Clay saw her hands trembling, and it wasn't from the joy of being vent-free.

He watched her face, but couldn't read what was in those blue eyes because she avoided his gaze, looking everywhere else instead. This was a woman quite capable of handling herself, who had stood her ground on every point with him and let nothing pass that deserved sarcasm or payback.

"I'll help you with the dishes first."

"They can wait until tomorrow."

Clay glanced around the neat, spic-and-span kitchen, fairly sure dirty dishes rarely waited until 'tomorrow'.

"Okay. I'll come back in the morning and take the heat for the breakage."

"I'll be out."

"Thought you were cancelling and waiting for your landlord?"

"Will you please go?" she snapped.

"I have to pay you," he reminded her.

"No," she said softly, bending to pick up Raleigh. "I loved having Raleigh here. I think she kept me sane."

Clay burst out laughing. "Well, I guess we have different definitions."

She'd never yet failed to rise to his banter with a put-down or comeback. This time his remark hung in the air like lead, unchallenged and very possibly unnoticed. And she still would look only at Raleigh. How deep was the fear in her eyes that she'd keep her gaze everywhere but on his?

Catherine gave Raleigh one last hug, then handed her to Clay, picked up the two bowls and placed them in his free hand. She said nothing when she walked to the door and opened it, just waited for him.

Left with no choice, Clay stood in the doorway. "Well, thanks for everything, Catherine. It's been an...experience." He grinned, but she didn't look at him.

"Yes," she said in a tone that let him know she was about to finish off his bums-rush. "I'm thrilled I met you. I'll never forget you. Now get out."

"Hey," he objected when she put her hand on his arm and started pushing.

"It's late," she reminded him. "Goodbye."

"Can I use your bathroom?"

He saw her bite back exasperation.

"Make it quick."

She headed into the bedroom. "Lock the door behind you."

"The bathroom door?" he asked innocently, placing Raleigh's bowls on the coffee table.

She stuck her head around the bedroom door corner. Some of the fire had returned. "No, Clay," she said like a teacher to a dunce. "The front door."

"Oh."

She retreated into the bedroom again and this time swung her door toward closed, but it didn't quite make it.

Clay closed the bathroom door from the hallway and went to the dark kitchen. "Quiet, Raleigh," he warned the puppy. "She called me nosy that first day, I admitted it, now it's time to prove it."

With as much stealth as he owned he slid the drawer open. Getting the white envelope out was easy, but when he started easing the paper from it, it made crackling noises that sounded to his ears like a major thunderstorm. He prayed she didn't hear it.

She called, "Clay?" and he panicked.

He shoved the envelope under Raleigh and fled the kitchen. Thank God she was still in the bedroom. He was only halfway back to the bathroom when she came out.

"I was just leaving," he said hastily. He spied Raleigh's bowls on the table. He had two choices. He could either let the envelope shake, rattle and roll while he retrieved the bowls and let her know he was now her friendly neighborhood burglar or dig his way out another way. "Um...Catherine would you hand the bowls to me, please?"

Lucky for him she was still caught up in her thoughts and just picked them up and handed them to him. She didn't seem to notice the telltale crumpling sounds the wiggling puppy was making on the envelope. Raleigh whined several times and tried to escape Clay's grip.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said pointedly. "I'll hold you until we get in the car."

He turned toward the door, trying to hurry without it looking like he was escaping. "Goodnight, Catherine."

"Clay, you'd better walk her. That's how she acts when she needs to go out. At least that what she did with me."

"I'll take care of it," Clay assured her, desperate to get out the door before Raleigh sighed from literal, natural relief. But he wasn't about to put her down until they were out of sight and Catherine couldn't see his hands.

"That's a good puppy," he crooned as he neared the front door while Raleigh whined and wiggled frantically.

Then to his horror, Raleigh stopped moving. Nature took its course and Raleigh's little face relaxed in relief while she soaked Clay and the poorly positioned envelope.

 

Chapter Eleven

Catherine leveled a look at Clay. "Somehow that makes this the perfect end of a date with you."

Lost for words, Clay gave a weak smile.

"Give her here," Catherine ordered, extending her hand.

"No," was Clay's instant response and he pulled Raleigh closer, praying the wet envelope didn't make suspicious noises.

"I want to clean her," Catherine argued. "Clay, hand her over so she doesn't get irritated from piddle."

"We're leaving now," Clay said without ceremony and stepped out the door, using his elbow to draw the door closed. "Lock it," he hollered to her and hurried down the porch steps.

Catherine opened the door. "Wait," she called and held out a towel. "Have Raleigh sit on this until you get home."

"Raleigh?" he asked dryly. "Not me?"

"This wasn't her fault, Clay, and you know it. Make her comfortable." She tossed the beach towel and it landed on his shoulder.

Before he could answer, Catherine looked beyond Clay, then took a step backward.

Her voice shook. "Clay, did you bring anyone with you or tell anyone where you went?"

He turned to look where she'd looked. Nothing. "No," he said when he turned back. "Why?"

"Never mind. I just wondered is all." Then relief colored the air when she saw the old man come out of shadows on the other side of the street and and continue down the block.

Clay watched the man then asked Catherine, "Kinda late for a stroll, isn't it?"

"He's recently widowed and can't sleep much," she said quietly. "The poor man goes to the beach at all hours because he scattered his wife's ashes on the water. It makes him cry when people pray for her with him."

The compassion on Catherine's face gave Clay brief insight into the soul she didn't allow the world to see. At least not him. She'd shown him sarcasm, humor and a strong will. His gaze dropped to her chest. Oh, and in the bathtub, one terrific looking wet tee shirt. The flashback was fast and kaleidoscopic. Long honey blonde hair cascading around her pretty face, blue eyes that when they weren't laughing were always guarded. Her fierce protectiveness of a helpless puppy, putting him in his place when she thought he didn't do right by Raleigh.

His gaze stayed on her. And now she was scared. Whether she liked it or not, he'd be back. He'd convince her to confide and then he'd take her to people who could solve her problem.

"Goodnight, Catherine," he said and strode to his car.

**

"I'm as crazy as she is," Clay muttered, driving back to Catherine's. He'd cleaned Raleigh up, cleaned himself up and gotten right back into his car. The envelope was a lost cause. Soaked with pee, and no matter how carefully he tried to wash it, it and the paper inside it were ruined, unreadable.

While he drove he glanced at the sky. It wasn't even light out yet. Worse, he had no clue what he'd do when he arrived. Knock on the door with Good morning, Catherine, or at least, good it'll-be-dawn-in-an-hour-or-two? Oh, yeah. She'd love that.

He entered the quiet town and was still two blocks from her house when he saw her driving the VW, one block over, heading north to his south.

"What the..." What had scared her into taking off in the middle of the night?

Not following didn't enter his mind. He spun the wheel and made the turns, but stayed a discreet distance. She drove ten miles, then made a series of turns that ended in a small alley behind a large, closed restaurant. When he realized she was getting out of the car she'd parked next to the big green dumpster Clay parked in the shadows on a side street and half-ran into the alley.

She kept twisting something on her right hand, but what caught his attention was the envelope in her right hand. The alley was pretty dark and Catherine looked none too happy to be there. Clay's approach was as quiet as possible, and he held to the edge of the alley, in shadow. The only light was above the rear door of the restaurant and Catherine nervously looked around before she walked to it, taped the envelope to the door and headed back to her car.

Clay's heart lurched when he saw tears on her face. He'd help and protect her from whatever she was afraid of, at least for tonight and he could get her other help.

He approached her from behind, and put a gentle hand toward her shoulder. "Catherine..."

It must have been instinct and self-defense that made her smack at him. Her hands collided with the one he'd offered in comfort and whatever was on her right hand went flying. He'd never seen anyone so frightened, but at least her scream died in her throat when she recognized him.

Without warning, she threw herself into his arms. "Oh, my God. You scared me to death!"

Nothing had ever felt so natural to Clay as embracing Catherine's warm body. His arms tightened around her in a surge of protection while confusion flooded him. This was Catherine. They weren't even really friends. They were...well, he didn't know what and he doubted there were fit words for their brief connection.

She stepped back, alarm flooding her face as she looked at her hands. Her voice was hoarse with emotion. "Oh, my God!" she cried and kept repeating it.

He shook her shoulders to stop what looked to be an onset of hysteria. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "Catherine, what in the world are you doing here?"

Catherine raised her gaze to his. "My hand..." she started. "It's gone."

Clay laughed. "Nope, they're both there."

Her voice cracked. "My grandmother's diamond. It came off when you attacked me."

"Now wait a minute," he protested.

She grabbed a flashlight from her car and began to scour the area. "Help me find it, Clay. I can't believe how you keep doing these things to me."

His jaw dropped, but he said nothing as he began his own hunt.

**

"It can't have disappeared," she insisted. "It's here somewhere."

"Wait until tomorrow," he pleaded. "It will be so much easier to find."

She sniffed. "You mean after the area gets trampled by everyone who comes into this alley? No thank you." Then she straightened and the excitement on her face sent a sense of doom crashing through him. "I know where it is!"

"Then let's get it and get out of here," he stated.

She smiled. "You first."

"Oh, no," he objected when her meaning hit him. "I am not going into that dumpster."

 

Chapter Twelve

"We're both going in," she informed him. "Put your hands together and give me a boost over the side."

Horrified and disgusted at the possibly of rooting through garbage or worse, Clay refused. He put a restraining hand on her. "And you aren't going in, either. I'll figure something else out."

She gave him an Oh, really? look. "Tell you what, sweetcheeks," she tossed at him. "You stand there and figure something else out. I'll hunt my grandmother's ring."

Quick as a flash she'd climbed onto the roof of the VW and stood poised to jump, the flashlight aimed at her landing target.

"Wait," Clay called. Resignation ruled his voice. "Get down. I'll go first."

He caught her when she jumped to the ground. "Give me the flashlight," he said testily and climbed atop the VW. He turned the flashlight's beam to the dumpster's inside and nearly jumped back off the car. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that Catherine was going in no matter what. And, dear Lord, the smell was ten times worse up here than it had been on the ground. He didn't want to think about how it would smell inside.

He moved the light around the huge, deep bin. Wet boxes, paper bags, discarded, rotted food. Shiny spots of liquid whose origins he didn't want to know.

Poised to jump he halted when Catherine called, "Wait, Clay."

Irritated, he answered, "What?"

"I need to tie my hair back."

"Are you for real? I don't have anything for that."

"Give me one of your socks."

Her request was so outrageous he couldn't answer her at first. Then, "You'll just have to deal with it, Catherine." And he bent his knees to jump.

"Wait," she called again.

Now seething, he turned to her.

"I don't want that garbage all over my hair, Clay. You just took a shower so your socks are clean. Hand one over."

"No."

"Okay, but if anything happens, it's your fault."

He groaned. "Isn't everything?" he shot at her, but he pulled off his left sneaker, threw her his sock and put it back on.

"Thanks," she said, tieing her hair into a ponytail with it. "Now quit stalling and get in there."

Clay clamped his mouth shut so his thoughts didn't boil out into the night air, then glared at her. "I'm warnin' you now, Catherine. You've got a payback comin' you won't soon forget." With that, he jumped.

Not only did he slip and fall backward as soon as his sneakers hit the wet cardboard, he dropped the flashlight. It shone it's light from beneath the remains of a head of lettuce and through an open box of decomposing donuts. He bent to retrieve the flashlight with two fingers and stepped on the donuts, squishing rancid jelly in all directions, including his sneakers.

"I'm ready," Catherine called from the VW roof.

Before Clay could tell her to wait until he regained firm footing, she jumped to him, or rather on him. He had no chance to brace or prepare. She hit him full force and the flashlight went flying out of the dumpster.

With a "whoosh" when his breath nearly left him, he landed on his back, his hair covered with lettuce that smelled of what might once have been Italian salad dressing. They were in darkness and he prayed that what now covered his sockless ankle was jelly.

Catherine's warm body lay full length down his own, her face and heated breath an inch away.

"Ewww," she stated. "You stink."

 

Chapter Thirteen

Clay's voice was so low he himself barely heard it, he was so angry. "Get off me."

She didn't move. "I can't see."

"I can't breathe," he told her. "Get off."

To his instant dismay, she rose only far enough to sit on him in a straddle, though she didn't seem aware. "It's spooky here in the dark, Clay. Why did you throw the flashlight?"

His breath was getting shorter, but now it wasn't anger driving his need for her to get away from him. He nearly strangled on, "Get off. Or land in the corner. You pick."

"Hold my hand while I get up," she ordered. "I don't want to fall into this mess."

"God forbid," he shot at her. "And, Catherine?"

"What?" she asked as he gripped her hand tight to steady her as she stood.

"If you lose that sock, guess who's divin' for it?"

"Hey, it's getting light out."

A sliver of gray dawn had started to push the black from the sky, but it was still too dark to see without the flashlight.

"I'll be right back," he told her.

"You can't leave me in here alone," she protested.

"Be glad I don't leave you here period," he stated, and after three tries pulled himself up to the top of the dumpster and climbed onto the VW.

"Hurry," she said tersely. "I can't take this smell much longer."

He laughed. "Well, if you want to quicken the process, feel free to do head dive searches in the dark until I get back."

"Just hurry."

He found the flashlight and shone it on her very nervous face when he was ready to rejoin her in the slimy confines of the dumpster. Dawn slowly revealed a gray, overcast sky.

He'd learned a hard balance lesson the first time he'd jumped and this time he landed on his feet. But garbage squished beneath his feet in a sickening puddle.

"Okay," he said in resignation. "Let's start."

Half an hour later he was seething. Catherine made a great supervisor. Her total contribution consisted of telling him what to pick up, what to root through, where to shine the light. And making him check her sock-tied hair to make sure it hadn't touched the filth they waded through.

"I don't know, Catherine," he said finally. "Maybe the ring is just too small to find."

Tears filled her voice. "I have to find it."

Clay slid the long flashlight onto his shoulder. It was almost light enough now to turn it off. Then he saw the reflection. The ring had caught on a nail at the edge of the dumpster and never actually fell inside.

"I found it," he cried and hoisted himself to the top of the dumpster and grabbed it.

Movement caught his eye. A short, stocky man in his late forties had parked outside the restaurant entrance and now pulled keys from his pocket. Clay had to act, and act now if he wanted to uncover what was going on. He steeled himself to put on the bluff of his life. He tried to ignore the adrenaline of protecting Catherine from something he couldn't identify and she wouldn't reveal.

He shoved the ring into his right pocket and told Catherine, "I'll be right back."

Open-mouthed, she stared at him. "Where are you going?"

He ignored her, climbed onto the VW and hit the ground in a long stride.

The man jerked the envelope from the door, pulled a paper out for a brief look and shoved it back inside.

At least it isn't money, Clay thought. Just as he inserted the key into the door's lock, the man heard Clay's steps and turned.

With an air of heavy authority, Clay extended his right hand. "I'll take that."

"I beg your pardon?" the man asked, but pulled it closer to him. He took a good look at Clay. "You have lettuce on your head." He gave him the once-over. "Did you just crawl out of that dumpster?"

"Yes, yes I did," Clay confirmed with a disarming smile, but raised his left hand to pick out and discard small pieces of lettuce.

Catherine yelled, "Where are you?"

Clay shook his head in a gesture of comraderie to the man. "I'm Dr. Parker and I'm with a patient."

The man rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, that's your office."

Clay sighed, then confided, "Catherine is also my baby sister. She's been under treatment, but, well, she's lost in her delusions again and there's no calming her. I had a lot of trouble tracking her down tonight, and why she came here is anyone's guess. I'm afraid I have to take her back to the home, possibly for good this time." His voice grew firmer. "The envelope," he stated, wiggling the fingers of his still outreached hand. "Give it to me, please."

"What did you say is your name?"

Clay smiled. "Dr. Clayton Parker. My sister taped that envelope to your door before I could stop her and, well, it would be a huge source of embarrasment for her if anyone sees the contents."

"What are you talking about?"

Catherine must have heard what Clay said, because she started a furious drumbeat pounding on the metal dumpster. "You wait until I get my hands on you," she warned.

The man glanced toward the dumpster, then told Clay, "I'm listening."

"Well," Clay said and forced sadness into his voice and eyes. "She lives in a fantasy world, one where she's found happiness. The things she wrote on that paper, the wild lies and outrageous brags, are, to put it mildly, some of the reasons we fear most for her sanity."

Catherine's nonstop pounding and promises of what she intended to do to Clay when she got ahold of him drew sympathy from the man. For Clay.

Without a word, he handed Clay the envelope.

"Thank you for your compassion," Clay said, his voice dripping gratitude when the man stepped inside and shut the door.

His walk was cocky when he returned to the dumpster and he folded the envelope into threes and stuck it in his back pocket. Now, he could finally confront her, let her know he was here to help.

He squatted on the VW and reached both hands to Catherine, to pull her from the dumpster. Her eyes shot flames at him, but she grabbed his hands.

"Do you," she demanded in short, raspy breaths, "have any idea what you just did?"

He fought a losing battle to keep smugness from his voice. "I think I do."

She jerked his hands so hard he flew into the dumpster and landed flat on his back. She stood over him, all the fury of hellfire in her eyes. "That was my job application."

 

Chapter Fourteen

Clay stared at Catherine in shock, ignored the grimy stink clinging to his entire length and scrambled to his feet.

He grabbed her arm and could only sputter, "Job application? But you were so scared...it looked just like the envelope in your drawer...I saw your face when you read it..."

She recoiled, horror leaping into her eyes as she pulled free from him. "Oh, God," she whispered. "You snooped? You know?" Then fear like he'd never seen before unseated the horror in her eyes. "If you followed me..."

Panic covered her face and before Clay could react Catherine made a running jump, grabbed the top of the dumpster and pulled herself out. Stunned, Clay did the same and again grabbed her arm when she tried to get into the VW.

"Catherine talk to me," he shouted.

She threw his hand off. "Leave me alone," she screamed, then added, "I don't want to see you again, Clay. Stay away."

She jumped into the VW, gunned the motor and raced down the alley.

**

Clay sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. The drive home had been a long one, one in which he battled not to head after Catherine. Frustration was thick and nearly unmanageable. Finally, he burst out loud, "The heck with her. She's nuts and I'm finished," and went a little faster than he should have toward home.

First on his agenda was to drop his horrendous clothes on the bathroom floor and him to linger under the shower. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, then stepped out and dried. A dumpster, he thought. The memory sent a shudder down his entire being and despite knowing he was now clean he got back into the shower for another scrub.

Raleigh was asleep in her room so he refilled her bowls and headed back to his room.

Next were phone calls. One to have his filthy, foul-smelling car picked up and cleaned, the other to arrange a car rental. The company promised the car would arrive for him within the hour.

Now, as he held his head in his hands, he knew he had to put the whole Catherine business behind him. He should be glad it was over.

He raised his eyes and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Ten a.m. He'd been awake well over twenty four hours and his body demanded sleep. Seconds after his head hit the pillow he was fast asleep.

**

Even in his sleep he saw Catherine. Alternately smiling at him, scolding him about Raleigh, laying a warm breath away from his in the bathtub. Why wouldn't she answer that phone?

Roused into a groggy half state of wakefulness, Clay reached a hand out for his cell phone. "Hello?" he mumbled.

"Clay?" a female voice whispered. "Where are you?"

He shot straight up into a sitting position. "Catherine," he cried as massive relief flooded him. "I'll be right..."

"It's me, Clay," the whisper continued. "Kim."

He ran his free hand through his hair. "Oh. Hi."

"Where are you?" she asked in a low voice.

"Home. Why are you whispering?" he asked.

"We're waiting for you at the studio. You're not too popular right now, believe me."

"Oh, no," he said in disgust. A fast look to the clock said it was now 4 p.m. "I completely forgot. I'll be right there."

Clay ended the connection, quickly dressed, kicked his dirty clothes to the side while he took care of his teeth, walked Raleigh in the back yard and raced out the front door. His own car had been picked up and in the driveway was the rental car, a black BMW. A quick scan of the papers inside the cardboard envelope on the front seat confirmed it was the rental, with the keys beneath the papers. He sped for the recording studio.

**

The producer didn't smile when Clay walked in, just greeted him with, "It's about time."

"I can explain," Clay said when he saw the sea of irritated faces. When they waited, some instinct warned him to say only, "I overslept." To Kim's questioning, raised eyebrow, he responded in a low voice with, "Later."

"Let's get to it," the producer snapped. "Plan to be here late."

The CD was a special edition called "AI2: Fan Faves & Raves". RCA, not an entity to let dollars escape their grasp, came up with the idea of having fans vote online for their favorite individual and group songs performed by the finalists during the second season. The CD would contain not the short televised versions, but the complete songs of those garnering the highest vote count.

Fan choice for Clay was To Love Somebody, and while this group watched tonight, he stumbled through the song four times.

The producer shifted gears and moved into the group numbers. Disco night and Bee Gees night went smoothly enough during rehearsals, but Clay again flubbed during the recording. Finally, he shook his head clear and did a flawless job on the group numbers. The producer was generous in his sarcastic praise.

"Now, let's see if you can sing solo," he added.

Flub.

The aggravated producer let them all leave but Clay. Kim pulled Clay to the side and asked, "Are you all right, honey?"

The concern in her eyes almost made him share, but he stopped himself. "Fine," he said. "I'll see you at the house."

"No," she reminded him. "I flew in for this recording, remember? I have to rejoin my tour." Worry flecked in her dark eyes. "Clay, what's going on?"

"Nothing," he assured her and gave her a peck on the cheek. "I'll see you in..."

Kim laughed. "When the tour's over. It's going so well they added more dates."

He smiled, genuinely happy for her. "That's wonderful. You keep showing them the fantastic singer we've known all along."

She grabbed her purse, waved, and Clay went back to work.

Numerous tries later the producer told the musicians to go home. "I need this in the can by tomorrow night," he told Clay. "I expect perfection tomorrow morning," he added pointedly.

Clay left, his body still craving sleep. After walking Raleigh he decided to let her spend the night in his room instead of her own.

Laying on the bed with his hands clasped behind his neck, he lost the fight to keep Catherine from his mind. He glanced over at Raleigh, asleep beside him.

"Forget it," he told the puppy, then ran a gentle hand down her back. "We're not going over there, no matter what you say."

Raleigh didn't even lift her head.

**

Sleep was exactly what he'd needed, Clay decided when he dressed the next morning. Raleigh was still curled on the bed, her head buried into the blanket where Clay had been.

Clay pulled the curtain back and studied the cloudless sky. What a fantastic shade of blue. Just like Catherine's eyes.

He straightened and looked over at Raleigh, now stretching, her little tongue sticking out while she yawned. With a scowl on his face he went to the bed and picked her up.

"You win, Raleigh. I'll take you to see Catherine. I wouldn't do this for anyone but you."

**

When Clay drove up in front of Catherine's house the VW wasn't in the driveway. In its place was an RV.

"What do you think, Raleigh?" he asked. "Should we find out if she's home?"

Raleigh didn't answer, but Clay watched an old man come around the side and enter the front door.

Catherine's landlord? he wondered and stepped from the car, lifting Raleigh to go with him.

Clay went up the steps and knocked on the door several times before it was opened by a gray-haired woman in her sixties.

"Yes," she said pleasantly. "May I help you, young man?"

"I'm here to see Catherine."

Clearly puzzled, the woman asked, "Who?"

"Catherine," Clay repeated.

The old man came to the door. "Charlie," she said. "This young man is looking for someone named Catherine. Any idea who he means?"

The man shrugged. "You have the wrong house, young fella."

"But...I don't understand."

The man looked at him like he was stupid. "What's to understand? Nobody named Catherine lives here and hasn't for the ten years we've lived here."

 

Chapter Fifteen

Dread almost knotted Clay's throat closed, and though he already knew the answer he gestured to the RV. "I...I don't suppose you're on your way somewhere, are you?"

The old man's voice was cool and he stepped between Clay and his wife. "Not that it's any of your business, but we just returned this morning."

Clay didn't flinch under the man's scrutiny or his, "What's this all about?"

"Nothing," Clay murmured as he retreated toward the porch steps. "My mistake."

He walked to the car, the whole time almost able to feel the heat of the old couple staring at his back. He ignored them, put Raleigh on the seat and drove off without a second glance.

What the hell's going on? echoed through his mind until it registered that he was almost home.

He pulled into his driveway, then realized he had twenty minutes to get to the studio. He left the car idling while he settled Raleigh into her room, then took off. Why he didn't get a ticket he didn't know, but he covered the distance to the studio in what must have been record time.

This time there were no flubs. The producer grunted an approval and Clay left.

Once home again he called his lawyer. "I need you to find out who owns a house."

On the other end, Bill Harmon laughed. "You just rented one. Is this one to buy or to rent?"

"Neither," Clay answered. "I just need to know who owns it." After giving the address and directing he be called as soon as Harmon got the info, he hung up. "Come on, Raleigh," he said, lifting the puppy. "We're going restaurant hopping to see if Catherine found a job."

**

A week later, Clay not only hadn't found Catherine, his lawyer hadn't called him with the owner's name. Too bad that when Clay had answered her phone the man had only said, 'Tell Catherine her landlord called'.

It had been raining for the past four days. Through the sliding doors he watched the deluge, watched the thunderheads roll and collide, watched lightning illuminate an otherwise black afternoon. Thunder boomed ominously, and with each boom and every flash of lightning he saw Catherine's terror, heard her fearful 'If you followed me...' The implication being that if Clay had followed her, so might have someone else, though whom she meant he couldn't imagine. But definitely someone of whom she was terrified. Now she had disappeared, presumably by choice.

Clay had gone so far as to watch the house, for any sign of Catherine. Nothing.

As he stared out into the rain his only thoughts were Catherine's in danger... She's afraid and has no one, nowhere to turn. And he could do absolutely nothing about it.

He slapped his hand hard against the wood framing of the doors, then placed another call to his lawyer. Harmon wasn't in, and the message Clay left on the machine was curt. "I want the info today."

"Mr. Aiken?"

Clay turned. He'd completely forgotten Mrs. McCready was here for her weekly house cleaning and laundry. "Yes?"

"Excuse me," she apologized and patted the white hair she wore in a neat bun. "I didn't know what you wanted me to do with this."

"With what?"

Clay's heart raced when she held out her hand. Catherine's ring.

"I found this and an envelope when I was putting your jeans into the wash. The envelope is on your dresser, but where should I put this?"

Clay took the ring from her, a grin spreading across his face. He knew exactly what to do with it. If luck stayed with him, it would bring Catherine to him.

**

The reporter looked skeptical that Clay Aiken had really shown up for an impromptu interview and her jaw dropped when he walked out onto the set.

"I was just in the neighborhood," he told the tv audience, "and thought I'd stop by to see my fans and say hello."

He laughed with the crew, was more than cordial and answered over a dozen questions from as many people. Then he offered to take phone questions. The audience went crazy, cheering at Clay's unexpected appearance.

Clay answered all the call-in questions, then said he'd like to speak to someone he hoped was in the viewing audience. "I won't use a name," he started. "But this person knows who they are and they'll understand what this means." He laughed and turned to the reporter. "Before you get any ideas, I'm passing this along for a friend." Then he turned to the camera.

"If you're out there, and I'm hoping to God that you are and that you're listening, this won't need any further explanation."

His hand closed over the ring in his pocket but he didn't get it out. Instead, he said directly to the camera, "Diving for diamonds. Same time. Same place."

 

Chapter Sixteen

I must be crazy, Clay thought, raising the collar of his light jacket against the pouring rain. That did nothing to keep the heavy drops from his head, from running down his face, from soaking his clothes, including the jacket. He took little notice, keeping a watchful eye for the VW to enter the alley. It would soon be daylight, but the rain would make it a gloomy one.

He'd parked on the same side street as before and now stood in the shadows by the dumpster. The alley was as deserted as it was that first night, only because he'd managed, with more than a small effort, to shake nosy reporters before he got here.

All for nothing, he thought with a sinking heart. Either Catherine hadn't seen his message or she simply wasn't coming.

Then he saw a slight figure enter the alleyway, hesitate, then head toward the dumpster. Was it her? Peering through the rain, Clay couldn't be sure. The figure looked like her, but why would she walk in here? He stayed in the shadows, but as she neared he recognized that it was her and stepped out to where she could see him.

She came and stood in front of him, her hair soaked and plastered down, no coat, completely unprotected from the rain. There was no strength in her voice, but her gaze held his. "My ring. You have it."

Clay drew it from his pocket and when she held her hand out, he took her hand in one of his, then placed the ring in it with the other. "Your hands are cold."

She ignored his comment, just said, "Thank you for bringing it back," and turned to leave.

"Catherine," he said, determined to get answers, and placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

She halted, but she didn't turn.

"Where's your car?" he asked. "Why would you risk coming in here on foot when you're afraid..."

He caught her as she stumbled forward.

"I'm all right," she protested. "Let me go."

His hand brushed her forehead. "You're burning up," he exclaimed.

"I'm fine. Go home now."

He stopped her again. "Where's your car?"

Silence, then, "I sold it."

Clay turned her around, studying the too-bright eyes that belied her 'I'm fine' answer.

From the corner of his eye he caught the glimmer of headlights turning into the alley and pulled Catherine back into the shadows with him. "Stay still," he cautioned when she attempted to pull away.

The dark sedan that creeped down the alley stopped every few yards and Clay saw the driver looking around. Hair raising on the back of his neck told him whomever was driving had probably followed Catherine here and was now searching for her.

When the car reached the area of the dumpster and Clay saw the fright on Catherine's face, he clamped his hand over her mouth to stop her mewls of fear.

The car continued on and within minutes had left the alley.

Clay released Catherine, then demanded. "Who is that? Why is he looking for you and how did he know where to find you?"

Catherine's mouth opened and she made several attempts to answer.

Clay caught her when she fainted.

**

He was in the chair beside her bed when she opened her eyes. She was pale but gratefully accepted the water he offered.

"Good as new," she joked, then looked around the small room. "Where am I?"

"I brought you to Dr. Parker's," he answered. When she scowled at him he laughed. "That's what I tried to tell you that first day, Catherine. Richard Parker is my dad's cousin and he's licensed to medically treat animals and humans."

Her look said she didn't believe him.

He sighed. "Trust me, it's not as uncommon as you think."

Dr. Parker entered the room. "You've got a touch of flu, Catherine," he informed her and lifted her wrist to take her pulse. "With bedrest and some square meals you should be good as new within a day or two."

She shook her head and started to rise. "I can't pay you..." she began.

Anger coursed through Clay. "Lay down," he ordered and waited until her defiant look ebbed and she'd complied before he spoke in a calmer tone. "Nobody gives a flyin' fig if you can pay," he told her. "As a matter of fact, fork over a couple of answers and we'll call this even."

Her look was guarded. "What do you mean?"

"Why did you lie about renting that house?" he demanded. "I met the people who live there," he told her flatly, "and they never heard of you."

She wouldn't meet his gaze. "I rented it fair and square from Mr. Peters, even if I was behind. I sold my car to pay him."

Clay's jaw tightened and the doctor discreetly backed from the room and closed the door.

"You didn't rent it fair and square," Clay argued. "It was..."

"I did," she shot back, and a little of the old fire returned. "What I told you was true. The Henderson's were touring the country for several months and I didn't see any harm in staying there while they were gone. They didn't know about me staying there, but what I told you about living there when I was little is true." Her gaze held his. "Besides, I didn't break anything. You did."

He drew his head back and stared. "What you did was illegal, Catherine." When she didn't respond he watched her face, evaluating her expression. Then it hit him. "You were hiding there, weren't you?"

"I don't have to listen to this," she exclaimed and threw back the blanket to get up.

"Lay down," he warned so softly she went stock still.

"Good," he said when she at least didn't continue. "I think you understand now that I'm no longer in a laughing mood."

She sniffed. "I don't think I noticed the switchover."

"Say what you want, Catherine, but I think I've figured you out. You're either running from someone or you're on the run from the law. And judging from the man hunting you in that alley, somebody wants to find you real bad. Why?"

She laughed, lay back and looked at the ceiling. "You've got some imagination, Clay."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Then why is someone hunting you?" he demanded, his questions in rapid-fire. "Why the need to hide? What does he want?"

She sat up and an angry flush spread from her neck until it covered her face. "To kill me. And for two years, until I ran into you, he wasn't able to track me down."

 

Chapter Seventeen

I had to ask, Clay thought, rolled his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He locked gazes with her angry one, raised both hands in the air, then lowered them and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Catherine," he said pleasantly. "While it's not a stretch - at all - for me to believe someone has the urge to do you in...and while I anticipated this somehow is my fault..."

If her body had had the strength that her voice projected, her shove would have knocked him backward onto the floor. He barely moved.

Hoarseness edged her voice. "Make your jokes, hot shot. Empty them all while I'm sitting here...it's the last chance you'll ever get."

"Meaning what?"

Meaning I've got my ring and so long."

"Ummm...no," he said. "Not 'so long' when you haven't forked the answers. Whether you think so or not I went to a lot of trouble for you."

She bent forward and did a triple 'salaam' with her hands. "Thank you very much," she gushed sarcastically, then stopped, her head down but her hands still up. Ever so slowly, one hand dropped and the other plucked at the thin nightgown she'd just noticed she wore. Her eyes raised to meet his.

"Tell me you didn't change my clothes," she said in a low tone, one that set a you'd better move, and quick alarm off in his head.

He rose, grinned and stepped out of reach. "An answer for an answer," he challenged. "Tell me what I want to know and I'll tell you whether or not I can go on a talk show and describe you in detail."

She ignored him and yelled, "Dr. Parker." Three calls later he entered the room.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

Her tone was calm. "Where are my clothes?"

"Clay put them in the dryer."

Her face flamed red, but she held the doctor's gaze. "Did he...did you...?"

The doctor smiled, but threw a look of reproach at Clay, as though he knew the insinuation that had led to Catherine's question. "No, neither of us did. My housekeeper took care of it."

Visibly relieved, Catherine sank back onto the pillow. "I'd like my clothes, please."

Clay bent down and put his mouth near Catherine's so the departing doctor didn't hear him. "Just to ease your mind, George is a fine housekeeper."

**

Before Clay could move Catherine grabbed his hair and pulled. Hard. Tears filled his eyes but she wouldn't let go until he managed a gutteral, "Truce."

When she let go he fell back and his arm knocked her ring from the bedside table to the floor.

He picked it up, but before he could put it into her waiting hand he took a good look at it. He knew little about jewelry, and less about diamonds, but he'd never seen a diamond quite like this one.

He reclosed his hand and drew it back. "Where did you say you got this ring?"

"It belonged to my grandmother. My grandfather gave it to her."

An odd feeling crept through Clay, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know the whole truth about this. He cleared his throat. "You said you sold your car to pay the rent you owed on that house?"

She sighed in impatience. "Yes, Clay. The old woman you met is the sister of Mr. Peters. He told me that the Hendersons have rented that house the last I don't know...decade or so." Her face darkened as though he were again calling her a liar. "What I did was on the up-and-up, it just wasn't an overt sublet."

"To say the least," Clay murmured, then took a deep breath. "Catherine, for some reason I believe you've been living on the street since you sold your car and gave away the money."

"I did not..."

"Okay," he conceded. "You paid your rent. It's probably a good guess that your belongings are stashed in a bus locker somewhere." He shook his head and asked, "Why didn't you sell this ring if you need money? Surely your grandmother would prefer you use it to survive rather than for you to hang onto a bauble and live on the street and get sick."

She looked uncomfortable beyond belief. "That's personal. Private. Butt out."

"You didn't get this from your grandmother," he informed her. "I think somebody is chasing you because you stole it."

She gasped. "I did not steal it. That belonged to my grandmother." She rose to her feet and advanced on him. "Give it here or you'll be sorry you ever laid eyes on me," she warned.

Clay's left eyebrow shot up. "Too late," he joked. "And just admit you're a thief."

With a cry of outrage she tackled him and they both flew to the floor, her grabbing wildly for the ring. He was stunned anyone so weakened could find such strength in fury.

He rolled her onto her back and lay on top of her, pinning her hands above her head with his left hand while he held the ring in the air with his right. He tried, but failed to squelch his thought, God, what a thin nightgown, but won the fierce battle to not drop his gaze, to keep it on hers.

His breath was labored, but he demanded, "If you didn't steal it and are afraid to get caught pawning it, give me one good reason you're not swappin' it for cash."

She took a long time closing, then opening her eyes and holding his gaze level.

"My grandfather found it in a box of CrackerJacks."

 

Chapter Eighteen

Clay closed his eyes, nodded in disgust and rolled onto the floor to stare at the ceiling. "You're a lyin' sack of..." He stopped when he realized the soft noises were her crying.

He moved onto his side to face her, but said nothing.

"It's true," she said quietly and turned her tear-streaked face to his. "And it's all I have left of my family. All I took when I ran."

Still skeptical, but the fight knocked from him by her wounded expression, Clay brushed a tear from her face. Catherine leaned into his hand and his heart jerked that she'd sought and accepted his gesture of comfort. Then she pulled away.

"My grandparents met," she began, "in high school. Typical love at first sight story." She smiled. "They planned to get married after graduation but there never was enough money to save toward it. Then he got his draft notice. Uncle Sam and World War Two." She gave a deep sigh that sounded more like a catch in her throat. She smiled at Clay. "When I say they were poor, you can't begin to imagine how poor. Anyway, on his last night home they went to the movies, and when they showed the newsreels that ran before the movie my grandmother got so upset by the war footage that she ran from the theater." Catherine seemed to look into the distance. "They went and sat on her mother's porch swing, just trying to keep every precious moment to themselves, not knowing if it was the last time they'd ever see each other. Then my grandfather remembered the CrackerJacks he'd bought at the movies was in his jacket pocket and they opened them while they talked. Inside the box was that ring," she said and Clay held it up to the light, then handed it back to her.

Catherine smiled and Clay's finger gently wiped her single tear as she held tightly to the ring. "My grandfather couldn't afford a real ring so they made a pledge with this one, even though they both knew it was a piece of junk. It would symbolize everything that burned in their hearts. The next day he left for the war. He was part of the Normandy invasion."

Clay nodded. "And your grandmother wore this until he returned?"

Catherine shook her head. "No. He took it with him. He wanted her to keep it, but my grandmother insisted he carry it to war with him. She told him that whenever he was scared, when he thought he'd never again see her or home, he was to hold that ring. It helped him keep the faith that everything would be all right. And it was."

She held her palm out and a gentleness covered her face when she stared at the ring. "My grandmother gave this to my mother on my mother's sixteenth birthday. To remind her that whatever life deals you, you have to keep the faith that everything will be all right." Catherine's face clouded with shadow and her voice dropped to a whisper. "My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. It's a piece of junk, totally worthless and the most precious thing I'll ever own." The look she gave Clay was unyielding. "That's why I had it on the night I taped my application to the restaurant's door. I knew from the note that he'd finally found me and I was in terrible danger, but this ring helped me keep up my courage, to tell myself that everything would be all right." Resolve deepened the blue of her eyes. "Yes, I risked my life to come back for this tonight. And I'd do it again."

Clay studied her face. When had she gained the ability to tug his heart? She looked so soft, so vulnerable. Why was his heart thundering in his ears?

Clay heard her sharp intake of breath as his face lowered to hers, saw her mouth tremble when he neared.

As naturally as the sun rising, their eyes closed and his lips gently covered hers.

Chapter Nineteen

"A...hem!" came from the doorway.

Clay jumped and saw Catherine's stricken face as the gray-haired doctor looked down to where the two of them lay together on the floor.

"I have your clothes, Catherine," he said politely. "Will you still be needing them?"

If looks could kill, Clay would have disintegrated when Catherine turned to him.

"Thanks, doc," he stated and almost leaped to his feet. "I'll take them."

"I'll take them," Catherine informed him as she scrambled up beside him and took the neatly folded pile from the doctor's hands.

Clay understood her pointed look when she raised the pile to her chest. He said, "I'll leave you alone to get dressed," followed the doctor into the hall and closed the door.

**

Clay was on the couch when Catherine entered the living room, fully dressed and pulling her honey blonde hair into a ponytail. To her glances around the room he said, "Doc Parker went out to dinner so we can talk. The housekeeper left for the day."

Clay noted she now wore the ring on her right hand. "Come here," he said and patted the seat beside him.

Instead, she chose the wing chair, but her blush told him why. He wondered if she was right thinking that they were better off three feet apart. Sparks of his attraction to her were still dominant and unresolved in his head, not to mention elsewhere.

"Were you telling me the truth about someone chasing you?"

She rose to leave and he called, "Wait," then a quiet, "I'm sorry."

Her face was amused when she sat again. "I'm not used to hearing that from you. Raleigh, yes, you, no. You don't seem to accept that you're ever wrong."

"I asked for that," he admitted. "But you're the most..." he flubbed for words, then ended with, "well, you just are."

"You're a real poet, aren't you?" she asked sardonically.

He ignored her comment. He leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees and laced and unlaced long fingers while he looked at her. "Catherine, how did he find you?" He raised a hand to stop at least one answer. "And don't tell me it was because of me. It wasn't."

"Not initially," was her only concession. "He found me because I was dumb enough to think I could revisit my childhood home and use it as a haven for at least a short while. I guess a little checking on his part uncovered every place I've ever lived."

Clay stared at her. "But how did you know he'd found you?"

Catherine looked at him in surprise. "You read the note. That's what he said when he first started calling and when he started threatening me late at night, just before I ran. When I opened that envelope I knew I had to get out of there that night."

Clay inhaled, then expelled, a short breath. "I didn't read the note. Raleigh peed on it and it was, quite frankly, destroyed." He narrowed his eyes. "Who is this person? Why haven't you gone to the police?"

She looked at the floor for a long minute, then back to him. "I did go to the police. Many times. They can't do anything. He makes no concrete threats. He's never left a fingerprint on his notes, nothing. No threats that anyone but me has heard, no threatening moves anyone but me has seen. Until he does I can't even get a restraining order. A protective order will never stop him, though, Clay. He's got me in his sights and as far as he's concerned that's the bottom line. All I can do is try to stay on the move, go to places I think he'd never consider."

Clay's curiosity got the best of him. "You're on the run, yet you worked in videos? Weren't you afraid he'd spot you and find you that way?"

Her laugh held no humor. "He's not exactly part of the MTV crowd, Clay. He's in his late forties and not the party type."

"The note..." Clay prompted.

She shook her head. "Always one word. Surprise. It's his way of terrorizing me. It started when I was in college."

"Who is it? Why can't detectives follow..."

"They can't," she interrupted. "I explained that to you. And he's the father of the girl I roomed with in college. When she died, he blamed me."

Clay waited, but she didn't continue. "Okay, Catherine, let me guess. You were driving and there was an accident...she was sick and you didn't get help..."

"I wish it was that easy," Catherine said softly. "For whatever reason, this man was infatuated with me. He was a widower and I thought I was being nice, kind to a friend's father. Little did I know he took it all the wrong way, saw it as 'encouragement'." Her laugh was bitter. "He made advances I didn't appreciate, but rather than hurt his feelings or start trouble between him and his daughter I told him that I believe in waiting for marriage, which is true. He didn't accept it and persisted. One night he saw my car at the local barroom and tampered with the brakes. It went off the cliff and burned. He had no idea his daughter had borrowed my car. He went crazy and I think Mary Jo's death pushed him over the edge. Now he wants revenge."

They both jumped at the knock on the door, then Clay laughed. "I'll be right back."

He walked to the door and opened it. The porchlight must have burned out and he could see nothing through the pouring rain. No one was around, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up when he saw the envelope wedged into the side of the doorbell.

He jerked it down, ripped it open and read, Surprise.

Chapter Twenty

Clay stared at the note, shock running the entire length of him. If this man now didn't care who was aware of him, the danger had accelerated.

From the corner of his eye he saw a figure move across the shadowed driveway and cross the dark porch. Toward him.

He didn't take his attention from the approaching silhouette, not even when Catherine called, "Clay? What's the matter?"

He knew what he had to do, but did he have the backbone for a potentially lethal encounter? Or would his bluffing skills hold him in good stead as they did with the restaurant owner?

He stepped almost into the house and pretended to read the note. When the figure was close enough Clay leaped at him, grabbed his coat by the shoulders and pinned him against the house. The note blew into the front yard.

"Start talkin'," he ordered.

Even though the man equaled Clay in height, his fright at the unexpected assault was obvious. Wire rimmed glasses sat askew the man's nose and his mouth moved without sound.

"I said start talkin'."

The man tried to raise his arms. "I'm only the messenger," he protested.

"Why should I believe you?" Clay demanded, ignoring Catherine's gasp. "Just so you know, the cops are already on their way."

"I'm only doing what I was paid to do," the man persisted.

"What who paid you to do?"

"Doc Parker."

Clay froze, then nonchalantly let go of the man's coat, even giving it a brush to make where his hands had gripped it go down.

"Ummm...Dr. Parker?" he asked.

"Yes," the man answered and raised his left hand to show Clay the bag he carried. "He called and asked the pharmacist to have these medicines sent over here."

With that, Catherine stepped forward and gently shoved Clay into the house. She put her face close to the deliveryman's and took the bag from him. She jerked her head toward Clay and whispered, "These are for him. He's got a touch of the brain fever."

The man's eyes widened, but he didn't look surprised. "They're paid for," he told her and a second later Catherine closed the door in his face.

Clay, shaken by what he'd done to the innocent man, looked up from where he sat on the couch when Catherine walked to him.

She tossed the bag onto the couch. "What the heck was that all about?"

Clay stared at her. "Me? Brain fever? What was that all about?"

She grinned. "The best I could do on short notice." She raised an eyebrow. "And you're welcome."

Clay said nothing while she removed the antibiotics and aspirin from the bag, read the dosage and took one of each.

Clay ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Catherine, you're not safe here. He knows you're here."

She stopped mid-motion of putting the bottles on the coffee table and whirled to face him. "What do you mean?"

He stood, and though he wanted to comfort her, nerves dictacted that he pace.

"The knock on the door," he began, then stopped his pacing and went to her. "There was a note pushed in behind the doorbell."

She went so pale he thought she'd faint, but she stood solid. "Where is it?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I think I dropped it when I jumped that poor guy." He held her gaze level. "I'm calling the police."

"No, Clay, you're not."

"Catherine, you don't get it. The level has been raised."

"What do you plan to tell the police?" she asked calmly. "That you heard a knock, opened the door, found a note that you no longer have and assaulted the delivery man from the drugstore?" She raised her hand and made a circle with her thumb and index finger, then offered a sarcastic, "That should make them call in the FBI for you. Or on you." Her sigh was one of deep exasperation. "This is what makes this whole thing so vicious, Clay. It's my word against his, with no way for me to involve the law. There's no proof of what he's doing to me."

Clay's jaw tightened in both anger and frustration. "Then I'll get that proof. That note blew into the yard and it can't have gone too far."

He was about fifteen feet from the front door when the house plunged into sudden and complete darkness.

"Catherine," he yelled, his instincts shouting that it was no accident. "Get down and stay down."

With that, the front door slammed open.

A high-pitched, sing-songy voice bounced off the walls surrounding Clay when it taunted, "Catherine. It's time for your surprise."

On the porch, highlighted by flashes of lightning behind him, was a large man in a long coat, his collar up and a hat shielding most of his face.

 

Chapter Twenty One

As soon as Clay saw the man step toward the house he lunged forward, slammed and locked the door.

"Catherine," he whispered hoarsely and dropped to all fours so he couldn't be seen from the windows.

"Here," came her small voice from behind the chair and Clay crawled through the pitch black room to the sound. He extended a hand when he thought he neared the chair. "Where?" he asked.

Her fingers, groping for the origin of his voice, latched onto his when he found her hand. She was trembling so bad it was a wonder the house didn't vibrate. Protectiveness shot through Clay with a fierce, hot wind and his jaw clenched. He sat beside her and Catherine huddled into the haven he offered, fear turning her breath into short, rapid ones as he cradled her head to his chest.

She sounded near tears. "I tried the phone, Clay. It's dead."

He laid his head back against the wall, then briefly closed his eyes. "And mine is out in the car."

He felt her trembling increase and knew he had to derail her rising hysteria. "Listen to me," he said gently. "Maybe his game is terror...to scare..."

They heard a window in the sliding doors break, then the doors slide open. Only Clay's quick hand over Catherine's mouth stifled her scream.

"We're getting out of here," he whispered. "You've got to keep a cool head."

She nodded, but Clay didn't completely trust her ability to not let her emotions take over. He squeezed her to him and when he heard her heart beating against him a feeling he'd never known underscored his own chances of staying cool.

He held onto her hand, but raised into a crouch. In the darkness, he made her feel his body so she knew what he was doing. When she at last understood that they were running for the kitchen door, freedom and Clay's car, he positioned himself for the run.

The high-pitched, sing-songy, "Surprise," came with a flashlight in their faces. They were trapped.

Clay shouted, "Run, Catherine," and threw himself at the man. He hit a wall of muscle, but hit it hard enough to knock the man off balance and to knock the flashlight loose. Then massive hands closed around Clay's neck and he fought to release the man's death grip even as pinpricks of light burst in his eyes and he fought for breath.

A second later the man grunted and toppled forward, taking Clay to the floor with him.

"Clay, stop fooling around and let's get out of here," Catherine shouted.

Clay rolled the man off of him, but stopped long enough to grab the flashlight Catherine had hit him with and shine it on the man's face. Not only was he wearing a mask under the hat that had fallen off, on his throat was a voice changer.

"Clay," Catherine screamed when the man stirred and made a grab at Clay's leg.

"Let's go," he agreed. Grabbing her hand they raced out the back door and to where Clay's car stood in the street. Clay had just jumped behind the wheel and Catherine into the passenger seat when the man stumbled down the driveway after them.

Gunning the engine and screeching the tires, Clay reached for his cell phone. Proof was no longer out of reach.

 

Chapter Twenty Two

Clay walked to his bedroom and, from the doorway, watched Catherine sleep. It had been a long night. With him by her side she'd told the police everything, including the man's name, and an alert had been put out. They hadn't caught him yet, but his time grew shorter until the law closed in and took him out of society.

At Catherine's insistence Clay had taken her to the bus depot to collect her suitcase from the locker, but it had taken every ounce of persuasive ability he possessed to convince her to wait until this morning to leave for Las Vegas and a promised job in a casino restaurant.

He leaned against the doorway and grinned. She'd given him one nasty tongue-lashing when he suggested she spend the night in his bed, heatedly reminding him she believed in waiting for marriage. She didn't even have the grace to blush when he said, "I meant alone, Catherine. I'll use Kim's room."

Now, with the sun pouring in on her, her honey blonde hair spread across the pillow, the sight made Clay wonder what would have happened if he hadn't suggested anything, had just held her and followed where it took them.

But he would give her the time she'd asked for: one month before they had any contact. She needed time to sort out what the two of them had found in their short time together, time to clear her head. He couldn't define it either, and wasn't sure it was anything either of them wanted to pursue. Her only concession, one she didn't easily grant to him, was to accept use of the BMW rental car since he had his own car back.

She opened her eyes and stretched, then spied Clay in the doorway and sat up. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," he said and laughed.

"And that means?"

"You snore, drool, moan and groan. Now get up and get dressed. I made breakfast."

**

Clay put the suitcase in the rear of the BMW. "Call me when you get there."

Catherine smiled. "No."

Clay blew out a breath. "I'm responsible for this car. You will call and let me know you arrived okay. It's only a few hours from here, but a lot can happen on the road."

Catherine smiled, then it faded and her voice was quiet. "Okay."

The moment was awkward and neither looked directly at the other. Finally, Catherine said, "Where will you be over the next month?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. There's nothing on my schedule so I think I'll just take some kick-back-and-relax time. I've always wanted to visit Italy. Maybe I'll grab this opportunity and go for it."

She smiled. "Sounds like fun."

Another awkward moment, then Catherine stuck her hand out to shake his. Clay heard her clear her throat before she said, "Well, this is goodbye, then. At least for now," but the tone was strained and she wouldn't meet his gaze.

He ignored her proffered hand and tipped her chin up to make her look at him. Was the pain in her eyes a reflection of what he was feeling? He didn't know.

"Goodbye, Catherine," he whispered, but instead of shaking her hand he bent his head to hers. Her lips were so soft, so pliable and warm when she responded that he wanted to draw her into his arms. He didn't. Instead, he released her and she climbed behind the wheel. She didn't even wave as she drove off and he pretended not to notice when her fingers wiped her eyes.

He returned to the house but found it hard to concentrate on doing anything except playing with Raleigh. Even Raleigh seemed morose and kept going into Clay's room, obstensibly looking for Catherine.

"She's gone," Clay informed her for the third time, going after her when Raleigh didn't come back out. Clay found Raleigh in front of his night stand, whining, and he went to find out the cause.

"Well, I'll be..." he muttered. On the stand was Catherine's ring, atop a ragged piece of paper that said, Til I see you again. C.

**

Fresh out of the shower, Clay debated on whether or not to call a travel agent or to just take off for Italy and sightsee. Then he saw message blinking on his machine. Surprised that Catherine had gotten to Vegas so quickly, he hit the button and heard, "Mr. Aiken, this is Detective Riley. I need to talk to your friend right away."

Clay dialed the number the detective left on the machine and waited until he heard the man's slow voice.

"This is Clay Aiken. You said you need to speak to Catherine, I'm assuming about the man stalking her. She's not available but I can try to reach her and have her call you back."

"You need to reach her right away so we can straighten a few things out."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Randall Walker, the man she claims is stalking her?"

Anger flooded Clay. "It's not a claim. I saw him myself." Then he cooled off a bit and continued. "What about him?"

"We sent all the info, including the fingerprints, back to that little Texas town where she says this all started. Walker was killed by a mugger about four months ago."

Stunned, Clay sat down, but kept his attention riveted on the phone. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," the man said flatly.

"Then who..." Clay couldn't even finish. The detective was still talking when the phone hit the floor and Clay raced toward his car.

 

Chapter Twenty Three

Clay made good time to Vegas, but it was dark by the time he arrived. It didn't matter that he'd had hours and miles to think about how to find Catherine, how to convince her to go back to LA with him. He had no answers. Or anything else. She would have made it here hours ago and gone to the casino interview. What about an apartment? He knew some out-of-town casino workers were put up by the hotels, but would that apply in Catherine's case? He suspected not. She'd never mentioned which casino and he'd never asked since she was going to call as soon as she arrived. So much for her phone call.

He was almost into Vegas when his cell phone rang. Thank God. He snapped it open and gave a terse, "Where are you? I just got to Vegas..."

"Good for you," congratulated Richard Parker. "I'm in the middle of my wrecked living room. Watching rain drip down the plastic covering my sliding doors."

Disappointment was heavy in Clay's voice. "Doc. I was hoping you were Catherine."

Concern bordered the kindly doctor's voice. "Is something else wrong, Clay? Isn't the medicine working?"

Clay laughed. "Nothing like that. Long story, doc, and I'll tell you about it when I get back. Oh, and can you do me a favor?"

"Like?"

"Get Raleigh and keep her until I can pick her up? I should be back tomorrow but I don't know how long it'll take to track Catherine down."

"Track her down?"

"I'll explain later."

"The police were here again, Clay, and tried to reach you. I told them I'd let you know."

"Thanks. Oh, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"When you pick Raleigh up, code in my home phone to forward all calls to my cell phone."

"Got it. And, Clay."

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. I don't like the sound of this whole business."

Clay thought about the ring Catherine had left in his care. Hopefully, it wouldn't matter that he'd left that on his night stand in LA. "Everything is going to be fine," he said, and broke the connection, wondering if the ring's luck would hold or had just run out.

**

Midnight.

Clay had seen the insides of too many casinos, spoken to too many restaurant or buffet managers. No one remembered Catherine, nor did they have an application or interview from her. Knowing there was far too many casinos for him to scour by himself and that he had no idea if the man chasing Catherine had also come to Vegas, he had only one choice left.

He walked into the Las Vegas police department and reported the BMW stolen.

Within the hour they led a handcuffed Catherine into the police station, angrier than he'd ever seen her, but so far she hadn't spotted him. She was rumpled, her honey blonde hair was a mess, and something about her eyes looked funny. Poor thing, he thought. She looks scared to death and was probably crying. Maybe having her dragged in like this wasn't such a good idea.

Though shoeless, Catherine was dressed in a cocktail waitress outfit, a short black skirt, white blouse and apron.

"This is a mistake," she insisted, but her voice sounded odd, slow. "The man who leased it lent it to me. For the next month."

The desk sergeant yawned. "Yep, and he's footing the bill, right? Sure, honey." He winked at her. "If your story's true, which I already know it isn't, then they don't call that cocktail waitressing, if you get my drift."

Livid, Catherine kicked the desk so hard it rattled. "How dare you?"

"We're adding drunk to the theft charge," he informed her.

"I am not drunk," she said in a close-to-slurred voice. "I took too much medicine is all."

The cop snickered. "Yeah. Get into granny's tonic, did you?"

Against his will, Clay said, "Catherine."

She stared at him. "Why, Clay?"

The cop walked to Clay, who knew enough to keep a healthy distance from Catherine until she'd calmed down.

"We found her sleeping off what we're guessing is a binder in your BMW. No real harm done, other than it smells like a dumpster."

With that comment hit the air, Catherine lowered her head, shrieked in rage and rammed Clay's stomach so hard he went sprawling.

 

Chapter Twenty Four

Clay hit the floor with an involuntary grunt, then looked up to see Catherine, hands still cuffed behind her, standing over him, breathing so hard he thought she'd explode.

"You told them I'm a drunken, thieving hooker?"

Horrified, Clay leaped to his feet, ignoring his very sore stomach. He placed his hands on the sides of her face and his green eyes looked directly into blue ones. "I never...ever...and would not...ever...call you a drunk. The sergeant just assumed you're a hooker."

Two cops grabbed Catherine's arms to stop her and Clay jumped back with less than a second to spare. Her bare foot shot up to nearly his waist length at the precise spot he'd been standing. Impact would not have been pleasant.

"You know her?" the desk sergeant asked.

Clay walked to the desk, keeping a wide circle from Catherine.

"I think I can straighten this out," he said, then sighed. He closed his eyes briefly and when he looked again the sergeant's eyes were cold.

The sergeant leaned forward. "You're not about to tell me that you used Vegas manpower to help you find this girl, are you? That game might play in Hollywierd, hot shot, but here in Vegas filing a false police report will get you thirty days in the can."

"Yes," Catherine cried. "That's what he did. Lock the hot shot up."

Clay turned his neck to look at her and threw daggers from his eyes. Calmly as he could, he told her, "You are not being helpful, Catherine," then realized she might have been helpful after all.

He offered a conspiratorial smile to the sergeant, then quickly erased it when not only did the man's scowl remain, so did his suspicion. "We weren't sure who took the car," he began. "We were hoping it wasn't her again, because she's, well...you know."

"No," the cop said curtly, clearly not amused. "I don't know."

Clay gestured with his head twice toward Catherine, then leaned his head toward the cop and whispered, "She's, well...you know..." and drew quick circles by his head to indicate Catherine was crazy.

"What?" Catherine called, craning her neck side-to-side to see what he was doing. "What are you doing?"

Clay threw her a quick, reassuring smile. "I'm trying to straighten this out, honey. Don't worry. I'll get you home safely."

Catherine struggled to free herself from the two cops restraining her. "The only safety for you," she warned Clay, "is if they lock you up."

The sergeant lowered his voice, tossing fast looks between Catherine and Clay. "Are you telling me she's nuts?"

Clay stared at him. "Sergeant, I can't imagine the volume of people you process through here every day and I'm sure you've gained strong, natural instincts and insights into stability and the like." He again gestured toward Catherine, barefoot, hair and clothes disheveled and now hic-coughing, though he didn't know if that was due to nerves. "Would you consider anything about that normal?"

Suspicion only now started to ebb from the cop's eyes and Clay almost laughed when he saw it replaced by sympathy. For Clay.

Weighing a decision played out in the cops eyes. Finally he said, "You're going to vouch for her?"

Relieved almost beyond words, Clay said, "I will. I do."

The sergeant studied Catherine and Clay suppressed a roar of laughter when he saw intense pity. "Is she dangerous?" the sergeant asked.

Clay sighed. "Not yet. But it won't be long."

Catherine watched them and Clay could tell by her dark look that she understood she was the object of their conversation and that they probably were not heaping praise upon her. "You're going to get yours, Clay," she promised.

"I'm going to let you go," the sergeant told her, then turned to Clay. "The BMW..."

"I'll have it picked up," Clay told him. "I promise I won't let her behind the wheel again."

The sergeant snorted. "If you do, don't call us."

Clay walked to where Catherine waited. Her blue eyes were a bonfire, flames of promised revenge.

Clay had never before seen what books called 'a bosom heaving with wrath', but knew he saw one now.

"Oh, are you going to get yours," Catherine repeated.

He wasn't too thrilled her cuffs were about to be removed.

"Wait," called the sergeant to the cops. "Don't take them off."

Catherine gasped and Clay jerked his head toward the desk sergeant. "Is something wrong?

The sergeant shook his head. "No, I just wondered if maybe instead of taking them off her hands you'd like a second pair for her feet."

Chapter Twenty Five

Despite overwhelming temptation and regard for his own well-being, Clay gestured for the cuffs to be removed. But one look at Catherine and he nearly reconsidered.

Two small steps put her in front of him.

"Whatever you're planning," the desk sergeant warned her. "Don't do it here. I've had enough of you people."

"Oh, God," Clay said under his breath and waited for Catherine to attack the cop. Her jaw had dropped and she looked at the cop. Clay didn't know if he had enough cash for bail, or if he'd want her set free before he was miles away in the clear.

He grabbed Catherine's hand and literally dragged her toward the front door.

"Get your hands off me," she ordered.

"What are you going to do?" he whispered, grabbing, crossing and restraining both her hands. "Call a cop?"

"I'm going to..."

He shook her hands then, but kept his voice low. "We can get into this later. There's a bigger problem right now."

Both her eyebrows shot up and sarcasm coated every syllable. "Do tell. A bigger problem than getting arrested, being called a hooker, a drunk and a thief? Let me guess...you're out of hair gel, or worse...your cell phone battery died."

Clay didn't rise to the bait. "Randall Walker is dead."

Catherine's face went blank and confusion replaced revenge in her eyes. "What? Why is that a bigger problem?"

"Because he's been dead for four months."

Catherine stared at him. "That's not possible. Last night...the note...you saw him, too."

Clay shot a look to the desk sergeant and told Catherine, "We can talk on the way back to LA," and tried to herd her out the door.

She stopped dead. "I'm not going anywhere. Especially with you."

Her words proved wrong when he smiled at the cops, then forced her outside. "Listen to me, Catherine," he began.

She threw her hands into the air, then started down the dark night street.

He ran to catch her, then walked beside her fast pace. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"Not that it's any of your business," she hissed, "but to see if I still have a job."

Clay stopped her with a hand on her arm. "What are you talking about?"

"I was on a half hour 'lunch', for lack of a better term, break when those cops knocked on the car window and woke me up."

When he said nothing, she gave a nasty laugh. "That's right, Clay. I found work. I got hired tonight and through busting my butt I made enough tips in the first two hours to already cover the uniform they make you buy - from them."

He glanced down. "Where are your shoes?"

"In the car. I took them off because my feet hurt."

She started walking again and he hurried to catch up. "Catherine, why did they think you were drunk?"

She sighed, but didn't slow down. "The smoke in the casino is horrible and gave me a really bad sore throat so I bought a bottle of cough syrup in the casino gift shop. I was so intent on 'maximum relief' so I could stay on the job that I didn't check the alcohol content. Trust me, the gamblers didn't react well when I coughed all over them, even if it was from their smoke. When I went out for my lunch break I guess I fell asleep."

He ran his hand through his hair. Reporting the BMW stolen may not have been one of his better brainstorms.

"At least let me drive you back to work." He smiled. "I want to ask you about Walker. I'll even talk to your boss if you want," he wheedled.

"I don't want," she stated, then added, "but I will let you drop me at the curb."

**

Clay put his car in gear, pulled into the well-after-midnight traffic and glanced at Catherine. "What did you say was Walker's age?"

"In his forties."

"Did he stay in shape? Was that part of why he thought he could attract someone as young as you?"

Catherine gave him a strange look. "No, he looked his age, maybe even a little older. I don't know why he fixated on me, he just did. Why?"

Clay blew out a breath. "Because the man that grabbed me last night is definitely in shape. I don't know why but I think it's a fairly young guy."

Clearly puzzled, Catherine said, "I don't get it. Why would someone pretend to be Walker?"

Another thought struck Clay. "That voice changer. You can get them real cheap in any WalMart, KMart, Target or whatever around Halloween. Did Walker ever say anything to you before, on the phone or when he came around to scare you?"

"Yes," Catherine answered. "But never where or when I could record it. He wasn't stupid about how he did this. If he was I wouldn't have spent years running from him."

Clay pulled to the side of the road though they hadn't yet reached the Sundowner Casino. He stared straight ahead. "Last night, that person either knew you'd recognize their voice or that you'd know it wasn't Walker's voice, and that's why he used the voice changer." He turned to Catherine, conviction in his voice. "Someone has taken over for Walker, Catherine, and we need to figure out why." Clay didn't at first realize he'd said we, but when he did, he didn't bother to correct it.

Catherine had paled. "I'm not going back to LA, Clay. I hid there for three months until this man found me, maybe I'll get that lucky here in Vegas."

Clay didn't answer, just pulled back onto the road. His thoughts raced, all of them grim. Catherine knew what Walker was all about, what he'd wanted. For reasons known only to the person targeting Catherine, the nucleus of this had changed, from the man's identity to what he could possibly want.

When they reached the Sundowner Casino Clay watched from his own car while Catherine raced to the BMW, grabbed and put on her shoes and ran inside. Should he go in and try to help? He wanted to, but fought the urge. He waited about fifteen minutes, idly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, wondering if Catherine would be desperate enough to use his name to hang onto her job. He laughed. Fat chance. If she were to bring up his name it wouldn't be in a flattering context. He grinned.

So many people were entering and exiting the casino he almost didn't see her come out. He hurried from the car when she headed in the opposite direction.

"Wait," he called and stopped her. "What happened?"

She crossed her arms and glared. "Guess."

All the sincerity he possessed came with his, "I'm really sorry. Do you want me to..."

"No."

"What if I..."

"No."

"It can't hurt to mention my name." Oh, Lord, that sounded smug even to him but his regret was nothing compared to the regret he knew was coming.

Catherine stepped toward him and spoke between gritted teeth. "Mention your name? Certainly. I'll rush right back in there to tell him that I was late getting back because the great Clay Aiken decided to have me arrested for stealing the car he begged me to borrow."

Clay's smile was weak and he glanced around at the people listening to Catherine's now raised voice. "Well, if you're going to put it that way..."

"I'm on the street again, thanks to you."

"Now, that, I can fix," he said quickly and pulled out his wallet.

When he looked again she was striding down the street. Toward his car.

"What are you doing?"

"Sleeping in your car. You're on your own. You have money. Get a room."

He shoved his wallet back into his pocket and grabbed her arm. "Look, Catherine, it's late and we're getting nowhere and solving nothing. Let me at least get you a room. We can talk this through...completely...in the morning."

She wasn't looking at him. She was staring at the side of the Sundowner, at the glass, outside elevator that rose more than one hundred floors to the top.

When she smiled at him, his heart jumped, partially from the increasing impact she had on him, partially from the knowledge those blue eyes showed an overly innocent look.

"Truce," she said sweetly. "I'll let you do this for me, on the condition you stay with me. Leave my suitcase in the BMW for now. And, Clay... I will find a way to pay you back...for everything."

**

Not only did Catherine insist on a top floor room, she would only ride the glass elevator.

While they waited for the elevator alongside a sixtyish couple, she argued, in a strangely giddy voice, "How else can I appreciate the beauty of Sin City at night?"

The 'up' button lit and a bell signaled the elevator's arrival. She stepped on and took a deep breath, as though inhaling on a mountaintop.

Puzzled, he asked, "Are you all right?"

"Couldn't be better."

The elevator door closed and she grabbed Clay in a deep kiss, her swaying almost knocking him off his feet.

He threw a fast glance at the white-haired couple who stared at them. "What are you doing?" he hissed quietly in her ear.

"Hey, baby," she said loudly and he watched her rock on her feet as though drunk. "You promised we can do it in here like last time." She turned to the video security camera and gave a seductive wink. "Hi, boys. Remember us?"

Clay grabbed her arm, but felt his face turn red. "Knock it off."

She waggled her finger back and forth at him. "No rough stuff this time. You can't afford to pay for another video camera." She peered closer at him, then pulled his shirt out and peered up it. "No can of whipped cream this time? Huh," she said in disgust.

He put an arm around her and pulled her into the corner, cringing when he saw the old people move deeper into theirs. Couldn't this elevator go any faster? "I don't know what you think you're doing," he whispered, "but I'm warning you..."

She pulled his face to hers in a death grip and kissed him hard, with his best efforts unable to dislodge her hands from his hair. She wrapped one leg around the back of him and jumped up, sending them both to the floor. Clay was on his back and Catherine quickly jerked his shirt open, swatting away the hands that tried nonstop to get ahold of hers to stop her.

She ran her hand over his bare skin and gave a low growl. "Oh, baby, I love it when you're bad. I'm glad we skipped the threesome for this."

The heat in his "Catherine," was from frustration, but the gaping couple watching them didn't know that. Horror shuddered through Clay as he saw the couple's initial shock turn to riveted interest.

Catherine sat on him, laid her head back on her neck and closed her eyes. "That's it, sweet cheeks," she cried. "Call my name."

Not one of the four in the elevator was paying attention to anything but the floor show, but when the elevator door opened Clay thought, Thank Heaven. They'll get off and I can deal with this lunatic.

A burly security guard stepped inside, the elevator's 'emergency open' key in his hand and glared at Clay. "What floor is your room on?"

Stunned, he answered, "The top floor. Is that where we are?"

The guard said nothing, just pointed to the massive crowd watching him through the elevator's window. They were on the ground.

His mouth popped open and he looked at Catherine, then to the control panel, then back to Catherine. He'd never seen such a smile.

Somewhere during that ride, she'd reversed the elevator's direction and managed to keep it locked on the first floor so everybody could see.

The guard leaned down. "You have a room, perv. Use it."

Chapter Twenty Six

Clay followed Catherine into the hotel room and tried to slam the door behind him. Unfortunately, it was on an air glide and denied him the satisfaction.

She walked to the wall length, floor-to-ceiling windows and pulled open the curtains, inviting into the pale blue room the increasing corals of dawn.

Hot on her heels, Clay lost no time railing into her, and knew that for the first time in his life he was close to losing complete control.

"Do you have any idea what you just did to me?" he stormed.

She ignored him.

He spun her around and lowered his face directly to hers, hoping she saw and respected the angry glint in his eyes. He didn't know what he'd do if she laughed, but his hands were on her shoulders. Mere inches from the throttling position. He dropped his hands to his sides, but continued to lock her gaze, waiting for her to hang her head in shame, in apologetic remorse.

She smiled. "Get off your high horse."

Flabbergasted, Clay lost it. "How could you?" he demanded. He stalked around the spacious room, anger driving his fast pace as he walked, nowhere, just walked off the high energy that accompanies rage. Then he strode back to where she calmly watched him and raised both hands to put on her shoulders, but they shook so badly and he felt so out-of-control that he lowered them.

He glared at her. "I have never been so mortified. And you know the worst part? When that old couple got off here with us I was beyond humiliated to think they'd be right next door or across the hall. But when they came here and waited to be invited in..." He exploded then. "This wasn't even their floor."

He was unprepared for Catherine's reaction. She laughed so hard she bent double, then dropped to her knees, wiping tears from her face. "Oh, God, Clay, your expression was priceless."

"This is not funny," he fumed. "You went too far..."

A light knock interrupted.

Through the door, Clay called, "Who is it?"

A young girl answered, "Bell desk, sir. You asked for your suitcase to be brought up from the car."

Clay opened the door and a very pretty girl with exotic looks stepped inside. She handed Clay the suitcase and smiled over at Catherine. Clay handed her a tip but she showed no sign of leaving.

Clay held the door open but the girl remained.

He frowned. "Is there something more you need?"

"Well," she answered and removed her bell cap. A mass of thick dark hair tumbled down her back. "Word is downstairs that elevator security audio picked up something about you missed a threesome."

Catherine's immediate roar of laughter went through Clay like a rocket, but he managed to tell the girl, "Get out."

She looked disappointed, but left with him holding the door, which once more denied him the joy of slamming it.

Catherine was a quivering, blubbering mass of laughter. Clay had never been so disgusted. She actually enjoyed what she'd just put him through.

"Your sense of humor is twisted," he told her when she finally slowed down to hic-coughing breaths.

"No, it isn't," she informed him. "It's no different than what you did to me. An opportunity for payback fell into my hands and I used it." She started coughing. "Clay, your face...the way you looked when that old couple tried to get in here...it was soooooo funny." She coughed again.

"Funny to you," he griped. "Not to...are you okay?" he asked when she went into a coughing fit.

Her voice was hoarse. "Yes. It's probably a combination of that smoke and too much laughing."

"Oh, excuse me while I laugh too," he offered sarcastically. "Ha ha ha."

More coughing.

"I'll get you some water."

"Never mind the water. I'll just take another shot of the cough medicine." She rose from the floor and unzipped a small side pocket on the suitcase.

Clay rubbed his hands over his face. "There's two beds in here, so why don't you stretch out and take a nap, give the medicine a chance to do what it's supposed to do. I need a shower and to make a few calls. I'll get you up long before check out so you can decide what you want to do from here."

**

After using shave and toothcare products the hotel laid out for guests, he stepped into the shower.

The hot stinging water felt great, but neither that nor the thick soap lather did anything to erase from Clay's mind what had happened in the elevator. He rinsed and lingered long beneath the water, the aches and soreness of the previous night ebbing. Despite himself, he grinned. Catherine had come up with that elevator idea pretty fast, he had to give her that. She'd known exactly how best to get even. He had wondered once before if reporting the BMW stolen had not been a stellar idea, now he was sure of it. Payback had been the proverbial.

He dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist and stuck his head out the bathroom door to see if Catherine was asleep. He didn't see her. She wasn't on the bed and she wasn't by the windows or anywhere else in the room.

She hadn't left the room after what he'd told her last night, had she? Neither one of them knew if this mystery man was still in LA or had learned she'd gone to Vegas. His heart constricted with a pain that surprised him. Had Catherine used his being under the shower and unable to hear her leave to get away from him, like she'd wanted to do last night?

He walked into the bedroom. Maybe she'd left a note? When he headed for the writing table by the window he saw her. On the floor. Fast asleep. For whatever reason, Catherine laying on the carpet, drenched in golden morning sunshine brought a smile to his heart.

Then he looked again. She wasn't in a typical sleeping position and he saw her chest going up and down in what he thought was a too-quick motion.

Clay bent down and gently slapped her cheek. "Catherine," he called but she didn't open her eyes, didn't rouse at all.

"Catherine," he said and felt panic rise when she didn't respond. He lifted her head and it just kind of lolled in his hand, with no resistence of any kind. He put his ear by her mouth and the sound of shallow breathing sent fear pounding to every corner of his being.

He reached for the phone, deeply regretting he'd enjoyed such a long shower.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Within minutes the Sundowner medical staff arrived in Clay's room and knelt at Catherine's side. His heart dropped lower and lower when he answered "I don't know" to nearly all the doctor's questions about Catherine, any allergies, etc. He'd been little, if any, help.

To Clay's great consternation the stocky, middle-aged doctor kept pushing him back from where he hovered at his elbow above Catherine, then pointedly asked him to wait on the other side of the room.

The examination time seemed the longest drag of time in Clay's life. He hadn't even dressed yet, still wore the damp towel around his waist.

When the examination finally ended, at the doctor's signal the two men with him lifted Catherine and placed her on the bed nearest the window. The doctor walked to where Clay waited.

"It looks to be an overdose," he informed him.

Clay was dumbfounded. "That's not possible."

"Is she on medication?"

Relieved, Clay said, "Oh, that kind of overdose. She took a little cough medicine, but I don't think..."

He trailed off when the doctor's eyes mocked that Clay "didn't think" the doctor was right.

"May I see the bottle?"

"Certainly." A fast visual hunt of the room found nothing, so he assumed Catherine used it and put it back, but then he couldn't find it in the suitcase.

One of the medics fished an empty, dark red bottle from the garbage and held it up. "Is this it?"

"Yes," Clay confirmed.

The doctor read the bottle and frowned, then looked at Clay. "How many days has she been taking this? How many doses a day?"

Clay shook his head. "I don't know how carefully she measured it, but she bought it last night."

The doctor stared at him, then cleared his throat. "How many people were using it?"

Puzzled, Clay shrugged. "Just her. Why?"

The doctor sighed. "This is maximum strength, plus the bottle dosage warning reads not more than four a day. If she drank all this inside a twenty four hour period she's lucky she didn't land in the ER. As it is she'll likely sleep through today and maybe tonight. But keep a close eye on her and call me if there's any changes at all. Medical care is available twenty-four-seven and will be here within minutes if anything should happen other than I described. Oh, and when she does wake up she may have a few episodes of dizziness. Keep a careful eye."

Fear ran through Clay. "It wasn't over a twenty four hour period. It was after midnight when she bought that, the casino was so smoky she couldn't stop coughing."

The doctor shook his head. "Whatever the reason, this was an incredibly stupid thing for her or for anyone to do. Those warnings are on there for a reason."

"Understood," was all Clay could say when the doctor and his staff walked to the door.

He stood beside the bed looking down at Catherine when he realized the doctor was still there. He looked up to see the doctor give him a kind, reassuring smile.

"She'll be all right, son."

Clay felt a small lump in his throat and just nodded his thanks.

Just before the doctor closed the door behind him he told Clay, "I'm sure you'll get another chance in that elevator."

**

From his chair in front of the television, Clay glanced again at Catherine. It was like watching a zombie sleep. No movement. No sound. Nothing. No reaction when he'd placed the ring on her finger.

The sun had set hours ago. It was past eleven o'clock and the neon glare that illuminated Sin City bounced off all the surrounding buildings, enticing all who saw to try their luck at various activities.

Clay's morning and afternoon had been spent calling Doc Parker to bring him a suitcase of clothes from home and for someone to pick up and return the BMW. Doc had done what Clay requested and had just left LA for Vegas when Clay called again and asked him to go back for Catherine's ring.

But the most important call he'd made was to Jerome. Jerome wasn't available to bodyguard but had put Clay in touch with two well-trained, highly recommended men who were tops in the field. Clay arranged for them to occupy the rooms to the right and left of his, and when they'd arrived at the hotel they'd held a brief, quiet meeting in the hall outside Clay's door. It was strict priority that Catherine know nothing about their presence. Discreet to the point of invisible was the operative phrase.

"Clay?"

Clay rose and went to sit beside Catherine on the bed. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

She looked around. "Fine. Well, a little groggy," she admitted and briefly put a hand to her forehead. She looked surprised when she felt the ring, but didn't mention it. "How did I get up here?"

"You overdosed on the cough medicine and I called the hotel's doctor."

She looked startled. "Overdosed?"

"I think the medical term is 'made a pig of yourself in large quantities'."

She gave him a sheepish smile. "Believe it or not, I did know better than to do that."

He lifted her right hand and studied the ring, then smiled at her and put her hand back down. "Since you use this as a portent that all will be well, I thought you might like to wear it while you slept through your maximum strength induced coma. Like a physical extra prayer."

Her smile was weak and she was visibly still tired. "What time is it?"

He glanced at the clock. "Eleven thirty."

She patted the bed on the other side of her. "Sit up here next to me and watch television?" He saw a tinge of fear in her eyes. "To be honest, I'm a little dizzy and I'm afraid to go back to sleep."

"Sure," he said easily and went around the bed, propped the pillows and sat next to her. Even though she was beneath the covers and he wasn't, Clay was immediately uncomfortable when she turned on her side and snuggled into his chest, but she was looking at the television.

"Hey, look," she said and pointed to the screen. "That's this casino."

Clay's heart dropped into his stomach like a lead balloon.

A screenshot of the outside of the beautiful Sundowner Casino, complete with its glass elevator, quickly moving to an inside-the-elevator shot. An actor who had Clay's looks and movements down cold was rolling around on the floor of the elevator with a pretty young blonde. In another corner of the elevator, eating popcorn and enjoying the show was a white-haired couple. Then the pretty young blonde straddled 'Clay' and yelled, "Yes, baby, call my name." Then amidst much metal-grinding and smashing noises, the elevator door was forced open and a huge security guard stepped into the elevator. Guest host Ruben Studdard looked down at 'Clay' on the floor, winked and gave him a thumbs-up. "All I can say is..." Ruben told the moaning and panting 'Clay', then turned toward the camera, "Live from New York..."

Chapter Twenty Eight

Clay stared at the television screen, oblivious to the Saturday Night Live intro music, to the announcer running down a listing of tonight's cast, musical guest and whatever. The skit that had segued into Ruben's hearty, "Live from New York..." dictated the cadence his now frenetic heartbeat kept time to, or rather, that nearly stopped his heart.

Catherine had inched her way back to her own side of the bed and pulled the blanket up until only the blue of her eyes showed.

Clay glared at her and his jaw tightened when he felt the entire length of her body quiver. But, oh, boy, did he know Catherine too well to believe she was shaking with fear of his justifiable wrath and its consequences to her. She was laughing so hard that his side of the bed moved up and down.

"I am so sorry," she blubbered in mirth, wiping tears from her face.

He rose from the bed and stood at the foot of it. "Can it, Catherine," he said flatly.

"Let me..." she started.

"Make it up to me?" he asked harshly, and realized from her alarmed face that his own was a stone mask. He didn't care. "I need to get some air," he threw at her and walked toward the door. He was so angry he offered one parting shot. "Please be asleep when I get back. Or better yet..." When he saw the tears glimmer in her eyes and she turned her face from him he didn't finish the sentence. And once again he was denied the satisfaction of slamming the door.

Clay spent the next two hours watching basketball with the bodyguards, losing ten dollars on UNLV. If they'd seen the skit they didn't mention it, nor did they throw sideways snickers at him, but what point would there be in doing that? His mood stayed so sour he couldn't bring himself to return to his room. He had to wait until he cooled off. That wasn't going to happen before morning. Since he was paying for this room, too, he decided to stretch out on the long sofa. He took a quick look into his own room and found it dark and quiet. She'd still been under the last effects of the medicine and was probably asleep before he entered the other room. Good. That meant there'd be no confrontation until tomorrow and he'd have a night of peace.

**

Morning sun did nothing at all to improve Clay's mood and he put off going to his own room until mid-morning. When he entered it, he found himself alone. The blood drained from his face when he read Catherine's letter.

Dear Clay,
What I did in the elevator was foolish, but I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize the damage I'd done until I saw your face tonight. I would do anything to change this, but I can't. I don't blame you for wanting me to be gone when you return, and I will be. But I want you to know that despite our short time together I came to understand the meaning of hero. You never left my side when I needed help, when I was scared or when I felt lonely. No matter what we went through, you stood solid and managed to stay between me and trouble. I was afraid of our friendship and how fast it turned into something deeper for me, something I'm now glad I hesitated to let you know. You have a special place in my heart and I hope someday you'll forgive me.

Always,
Catherine

Clay shook his head and blinked, as though that would make the letter disappear and Catherine reappear in its place. She'd left last night, probably right after he'd gone out. He crumpled the letter in his hand and closed, then opened his eyes. Why in the name of God hadn't he checked on her when he came back, why did he assume that this room being dark and quiet meant that she was asleep? She might have had a head start but he probably would have been able to catch her if he'd used his brain.

The sun reflected from the garbage can and, in shock, Clay plucked Catherine's ring from it. She'd thrown it away. How distraught did she have to be to discard her everything will be okay symbol? A sharp, raw pain he wasn't used to feeling held his heart in its grip, with no indication it would let go anytime soon.

Determination to find her charged completely through him and he ran for the door. Some of the things he planned to tell her she might not want to hear. He'd chance it.

**

Five days later Clay had gotten nowhere and his fear for her safety kept him awake too many hours to count. He couldn't report her missing because she wasn't. He quickly learned that searching Vegas for someone who didn't want to be found was an insurmountable obstacle. Catherine had simply disappeared. The men he'd hired found nothing and learned nothing and advised Clay that she'd more than likely moved on to a different town. But something in Clay's gut told him she was still in Vegas. A tingle on the back of his neck several times over those five days hinted that he was being followed, but he never saw anyone, nor did the bodyguards he told to stay alert to a possible shadow. He knew it wasn't Catherine and prayed he didn't lead her stalker straight to her.

On the fifth night, exhausted, Clay went back to his room and called to have dinner brought up. Rubbing the back of his weary neck he flipped on the television and caught a local reporter giving his news blurb.

"An unidentified Jane Doe is still at the downtown morgue, and authorities have no clues as to where she came from or where she was going. The body, a young blue-eyed blonde, beaten to death and clad in jeans and a white blouse, was found along the interstate leading out of Las Vegas four nights ago. Anyone with information that can help identify the victim, please call our CrimeBiters tip line at 555-1414."

He didn't bother cancelling dinner and he nearly ripped the door off the hinges when he sprinted from the room.

**

The medical examiner gave Clay the once over. "You're sure you're up to this?"

Clay's gaze was level, but his heart thundered in his ears. He could tell from the m.e.'s eyes that his face was either pale or completely colorless. His hands shook so badly he hooked his thumbs in his pocket.

He tried to keep his voice firm, but it came out a raspy whisper. "Yes. I...need to see her. Catherine..."

The m.e. put a hand on Clay's shoulder. "Is there someone else who can do this?"

Clay shook his head. "No." His voice caught, but he held the man's look. "She had no one...just me."

The m.e. sighed. "You know," he said kindly. "I do this everyday and it never gets easier to see somebody identify a loved one."

Clay cleared his throat. "Can I just go in there, please? Alone?"

"Sorry," he answered, and his eyes said he was. "I have to be with you." He extended a hand toward the i.d. room. "This way."

Clay walked beside him, guilt rampaging to every corner of his being as they reached the closed door. He had done this. He'd sent Catherine fleeing into the night, sent her to her death.

The gray, sterile room smelled of formaldehyde and antiseptic. Of death.

As soon as Clay's gaze rested on the sheet-covered slight figure on the steel guerney his legs started to buckle. His mind screamed Catherine. His heart cried it.

The m.e. stood at the head of the table and waited until Clay was next to the guerney. When the m.e. gently lifted the sheet the first thing Clay saw was honey blonde hair.

His gaze unwillingly moved to her face, then he looked at the m.e. and his eyes told the man the words Clay was unable to speak.

Fighting the battle of his life to control his emotions, Clay strode into the hallway and out the front door. It wasn't until he reached the deep shadows where he'd parked his car that what he'd seen hit him with the full force that only love can.

He dropped to his knees and cried like a baby.

Chapter Twenty Nine

It had been a day and a half since he'd identified Catherine's body. He'd spent most of that time in restless walking, unaware of chilly night or the heat of day. Now, he walked aimlessy in the afternoon park, unwilling to leave Las Vegas, to leave Catherine. The authorities would not release her body to him until their criminal investigation was complete. They still had no idea who had killed her and needed every clue she could provide. Her beautiful face had been battered along with her body and Clay wanted nothing more than five minutes alone with the man responsible. His hands balled into fists at his side, then loosened in helplessness.

Guilt was beating him down, driving him to the brink of insanity. He stopped and sat on the edge of a green park bench, watching children play in warm sunshine and light breezes that Clay couldn't feel. He felt nothing but the pain of half his heart, half his soul, being taken from him. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, tortured by the constant memory of the hurt in her eyes when he'd said, "Or better yet..." and drove her into the night. He hung his head, not caring who watched. Catherine...to hold you one more time...

When she'd snuggled up to him that night, in comfort and in trust, why hadn't he told her then how he felt about her? Every time she'd smiled, or touched him, or spoke his name, she had raised every conceivable emotion in him and heightened it to peak sense. Why not say, I think I'm falling in love? Instead he'd lost his temper and his hurtful comment resulted in her losing her life.

He'd told the police everything and at his request of dignity for Catherine they'd kept sensation from the headlines. All the media knew was that murder victim Jane Doe had been identified, that she was from a small Texas town and that an anonymous tipster provided the break in the case. Clay was determined that even though he'd failed to protect Catherine in life, he'd do whatever he had to do to protect her now. He couldn't bear the thought of people whispering about her, discussing her in gossip circles.

He looked up to see a Las Vegas detective watching him. The man didn't smile, but sat on the bench.

Clay's heart raced. "Did you find the man that did this?"

"You look like hell," he said. "Dark circles, poor color. Are you eating? You sure as hell aren't sleeping."

"Did you find him?" he demanded.

The detective sighed. "No, but I've got some news for you. And it isn't good news."

Clay said nothing, sure he'd already faced the worst news possible. He was wrong.

"Someone has claimed her body."

Stunned, Clay sputtered, "That's not possible."

"Not only possible, but done."

"There must be a mistake," Clay insisted and rose to his feet.

"We checked," the detective said, rising with Clay. "It's legit."

"Who?" Clay asked.

"A man showed up about five hours ago, said his tv station had just run the 'Jane Doe identified' story. He recognized her and drove straight here from Texas. We checked him out six ways to Sunday, thinking it might be the killer playing games. Like I said, the claim is legit."

The detective sighed and Clay recognized a stall when he saw one. "Get to the point," he snapped.

"The man is her brother. And he's directed that he doesn't want you anywhere near her. I'm sorry, but legally we have to honor his request. I know how hard this whole thing has hit you and I think it's best, for you and for Catherine, if you go back to LA. I'll do what I can to give you a few minutes to say a private goodbye to her."

Clay threw his head back and laughed, something he thought he'd never do again. It felt good. "No, detective, that whole business you just described is not possible and you've been duped by a con artist with an agenda. Catherine was an only child. I want to see this clown," he ground out in burning anger and started walking. "Let's go. I can't imagine why anybody would do such a ghoulish thing, but..."

"Clay, wait."

Clay stopped and looked back.

"He provided proof. He is her brother."

Chapter Thirty

It was three a.m and once again Clay found himself wandering, with nowhere he wanted to be. He settled for a bench in a secluded area of the now deserted park, the star-strewn velvet sky his only light, his heart heavier than the deepest shadows that surrounded him. Earlier he'd learned that forensics had finished their investigative work and were releasing Catherine's body. On her brother's orders, she would be cremated in the morning, then her brother would take her home to Texas.

Clay had made a fool of himself today when he'd tried to force himself in to see Catherine. He'd been turned away politely, apologetically, but turned away nonetheless. He'd lost his cool and tried to ram his way in, to what end he didn't know, maybe just to once again be near her. His ejection from the building had been less than polite.

His cell phone vibrated and he almost ignored it. His snapped greeting of "What?" warned the caller they'd be wise to simply hang up without a word.

"Where are you?" Doc Parker asked.

"Nowhere. And I don't feel like talking." He reached for the 'end' button when Doc's voice stopped him.

"I'm in Vegas, Clay, and I've been waiting at the Sundowner for the last four hours. Where are you?"

"Nowhere. Go home." Again he started to end the call.

"I brought Raleigh with me and she's going crazy here, Clay. I can't keep her in the car much longer and the hotel won't let me take her inside."

Clay sighed. Raleigh. He heard her bark in the background and half-smiled. Raleigh's excitement to see him was the only thing that could have elicited that response when he was so down. "I'm in the park. Bring Raleigh and let her run for a while, then I'd appreciate it if you'd take her and yourself back to LA. Nothing personal, Doc, I just don't feel like company."

"I understand, Clay, believe me. Tell me how to find the park."

**

Long before Doc Parker walked through the shadows to where Clay waited on the bench Raleigh had bounded to Clay with barks of glee. No amount of shushing worked and finally Clay just let her empty her happy heart. She jumped into Clay's lap, snuggled, rolled, pushed her face into his neck and joyfully accepted the hugs he offered in return.

Doc came and sat beside them, petting Raleigh. "Clay, we need to talk about this."

Clay cut him short. "It's off limits, Doc. I'll deal with it in my own way."

"And what way is that? To keep it all to yourself? To go without sleep? Food? Look at you," he admonished. "You look like you've been sleepwalking through this last week. Sleepwalking and shutting out anyone offering a hand or word of comfort."

"Go home, Doc," he said wearily. "I'll find my way through this."

"You need to talk to someone about how you feel, Clay."

A cold stone wall went up in Clay's heart. "Time to go, Doc," he said pointedly and set Raleigh on the ground.

"Why?" Doc asked quietly. "Because I'm not Catherine?"

Clay said nothing. He couldn't trust his voice.

On his ears fell a quiet, unsure, "Clay?"

Clay closed his eyes, but hot tears escaped the lids and ran freely down his cheeks as he dropped his head into his hands. He was losing his mind. He could hear her voice on the gentle breeze, hear all the joy, laughter and life that had been Catherine. He'd heard her softly call his name everytime he closed his eyes since that horrible night.

He stood, knowing if he stayed still and let her memory come he would lose himself in the dream until it dragged him under. "I'm sorry, Doc. I really am. But you're right. You're not what I need. You're not Catherine."

A soft, "Please don't go," came from the shadows.

The world moved as if in slow motion when Clay turned toward the quiet sound. Catherine stepped from the shadows, her eyes haunted, her face pale and haggard.

She looked like she'd been to hell and back.

Stunned, Clay went still, unable to move, to talk. Only stare.

Reality found Clay then and time stopped until he'd covered the ground between them and grabbed Catherine into a strong, tight embrace. She said nothing as his arms surrounded her, but wept quietly into his shoulder.

From the bench, Doc spoke. "She called me, Clay, because she didn't know who else to call."

Clay felt like ice water had drenched him. He stepped back and stared into Catherine's eyes, all the pentup hurt of the last week hurled into, "You knew the torment I was going through and didn't know who else to call?"

Doc intervened with, "You don't understand, Clay. Don't..."

"No," Clay said curtly. His eyes were hard, and though he spoke to Doc his gaze stayed locked with Catherine's. "They say a dog is very sensitive to emotions and situations. Take Raleigh and leave, Doc. Now. I don't think Raleigh should see or hear what's about to happen."

Chapter Thirty One

Clay watched as Catherine bent down and rubbed Raleigh's ears, then told Doc, "You'd better go. Thank you for everything."

"I'll be in touch," Clay told him. Then the granite left his voice. "I am grateful to you, Doc." Granite returned. "But she might not be so happy that you left."

Without a word, Doc collected the wriggling, protesting Raleigh and carried her off. Clay waited until he'd heard the car door close and the engine turn over before he leveled an impenetrable look on Catherine.

Her tone was even. "Are you so angry you're unwilling to listen?"

His eyebrows shot up and sarcasm was thick as syrup. "Angry? Why should I be angry? Just because you let me believe, for days, that you were dead and that it was my fault?" He leaned his face into hers and seethed, "Right now, that's not so far out of the realm of possibility."

Hurt flit across her face before she forced a masked expression. "Is that what you believe? That I'm so childish, so immature that I'd let you go through hell just to get even?"

The syrupy tone stayed. "Of couuuuuuuuuuurse not. After the stunt you pulled in the elevator why would I think you're childish or immature?"

Her mask was chipping and anger played at the corners of her mouth, tightening them. "I guess the fact that you threw me out slipped your mind."

He lost it then. "What in God's name is wrong with you?" he shouted. "If I suggested you leave, do you think it may have had something to do with the fact that I was held up to national - no make that international - ridicule as a result of your self-inddulggent fun and games? What did you have planned when you called Doc to set up this sweet little reunion, Catherine? That I'd just be so happy to see you that I'd laugh off what you did? For cryin' out loud, I didn't think you'd taken a snit and stayed out of sight...you allowed me to believe you were DEAD."

She yelled right back at him. "I didn't know anything about this until someone at the shelter told me, TONIGHT, that I had an uncanny resemblance to some Jane Doe murder victim on the news. My first thought was to make sure you knew it wasn't me. Not that I owed you that or anything else. You'd made your feelings clear when you stormed out of the room, so I called Doc and asked him to let you know. He insisted on coming here and when he got here he convinced me to tell you in person." Her chest heaved with anger. "I'm almost sorry I ever picked up that phone."

He gave her a cold look. "And that would be better?"

She exploded then. "Why are you even here talking to me?"

Anger pulsed through him and he stood on the brink, losing control drip by drip, until it finally slipped through his fingers. "Why?" he shouted. "Why?" He grabbed her in an embrace that could have crushed her and his mouth sought hers. His kiss was deep and hot, his heart on his sleeve as he put every raw emotion he felt into his kiss. Then sanity hit him and he let go but his gaze held hers even as he ranted, "Because I love you. That's why."

He stepped away, turned his back to her and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. His voice quieted but his heart continued to thunder. "Happy, now, Catherine? Or is there yet another way I can look like a fool?"

"Yes," she yelled and he turned back to face her. "Yes," she repeated, shouting at him as he'd shouted at her. "I'm happy now. I love you, too."

Tears streaked down her face and he closed the distance between them in record time.

He gathered her close. "I'm so sorry," he whispered into her hair. "Catherine, I don't know what to say."

His lips met hers in a gentle, tender kiss that spread heat to every nerve in his body. She trembled in his arms, but met his gaze.

He brushed her hair back and offered a quiet laugh. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

She gave him a suspicious look, but giggled. "I'm not sure."

He took her hand and led her beneath a tree, then pointed to the sky. "Do you see those stars?"

"You mean those millions of twinkling white things in the black sky?" she kidded.

He took both her hands in his and held her gaze. "Marry me. Here. Now."

Her mouth dropped open. "You mean in Vegas?"

"I mean here, now, tonight. Right here." He drew her into another long kiss. "God help me, Catherine, I've fallen in head-over-heels, fight-love-and-laugh-for-the-rest-of-our-lives love with you. And I never saw it coming."

She closed her eyes and when she opened them Clay saw her joy.

"That's exactly how I feel, Clay. And I don't think God wanted us to see it coming or we'd have run screaming the other way."

He laughed and hugged her, then swung her around. "Tomorrow we'll have a chapel wedding. Tonight..." his arm slowly swept across the sky. "God and the stars will be our witness."

He took her hands again. His pulse beat a rhythm of anticipation, of knowing he was giving something he'd never offered to anyone: his heart.

His voice was quiet, tender, and his gaze never left hers. "I, Clay, offer thee, Catherine, my heart and soul for as long as we share God's earth. I will love, honor and protect you until God calls me home. This I vow to you."

His head bent to hers in a kiss of promise.

Catherine's voice trembled, and Clay brushed a stray tear from her cheek. "I, Catherine, offer thee, Clay, my heart and soul for as long as we share God's earth. I will love, honor and protect you until God calls me home. This I vow to you."

This time she kissed him, further inflaming the heat already in his body.

"Catherine," he whispered against her lips, then uttered words he really didn't want to say. "I know how you feel about waiting, so if you want to stop now..."

"God is our witness, Clay."

Her finger traced on his cheek and she drew him down onto the grass beside her.

Chapter Thirty Two

Clay stretched out in the cool grass beside Catherine, propped himself on one elbow and drew a slow finger down her cheekbone to her jaw, then back again. "Are you sure?" he asked, making certain his lower body didn't touch hers.

For answer she stood, and, still facing him, stripped off her clothes and tossed them to the side. Her body was beautiful. Ripe, curvy, and, best of all, his heart hammered home to his mind, she was his.

When she again was beside him in the grass she pressed her body against his and drew his face down to hers in a lingering kiss.

"You do know," he whispered against her mouth. "This will be the blind leading the blind."

Her hands rested on the sides of his face and her gaze was soft, inviting. "Not when you look through the eyes of love."

Clay started to get up to undress, but a hand on his chest stopped him.

"Let me," she whispered. One by one she undid the buttons on his shirt, stopping after each one to lay a warm-breathed kiss on the area uncovered.

The motion of her mouth on his skin, the warm puffs of air hitting his cool skin, the way her hair softly touched his skin as she moved downward, all combined to put his control on notice.

After she opened the bottom button she touched his belt but he took her hand away. Now he did rise and undress, naked when he stretched out beside her in the cool grass.

Clay drew her head to his and when he kissed her his heart overflowed with joy.

He lowered his head and she gasped when his hand encircled her breast and his mouth teased the nipple, then crossed to the other one. His mouth continued its slow teases, but his hand moved ever lower. She moaned at his touch, but he wasn't surprised to feel her body tense. He raised his head again and his mouth reassured hers.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly.

"No," she answered softly. "I'd probably only make it as far as the elevator. And I know how you don't like it when I jump you in the elevator."

He laughed and brushed her hair back.

His mouth again worked her breast and when he caressed the tops of her thighs, then the inside, she moved against his hand. Finally she parted to him, letting his hand ease the way for their lovemaking.

Her hand found him and though her touch was at first timid, and heat ran rampant through every screaming nerve in him, Clay stayed still while she explored his body. Finally he could take no more of the soft touches, the inviting strokes. He pushed her onto her back and rose above her.

His mouth found hers as he positioned himself to gently take what she gave to him in love. He felt her tremble and raised his head, his gaze meeting hers.

"I love you, Catherine."

Her smile was soft, and she drew his face back to hers. The heat she generated in his core nearly exploded. With a groan he pushed inside, but stopped when she gasped. He lay still, but his mouth continued to work hers, waiting for a signal from her body that her own heat still flared.

A soft moan escaped her lips and she began to move, movement that invited him to make love to her. In one move he buried himself in her and though she gasped in pain, she raised her legs around him. Blood pounded in his ears as she began to rock beneath him.

Clay groaned, matching her movements one for one, slow for slow, his stroke to her rock.

Then she pushed him onto his back and took the top position. From her face he knew it wasn't the most comfortable for her first time, but when she said, "stay still", he did and let her dictate the movements, the rhythm. Each one grew visibly easier for her and the look of joy on her face was pushing him to the edge.

When she laid her head back on her neck, closed her eyes and moaned in pleasure, the last remnants of his control shredded. It was with a near growl that he rolled her over and rose above her.

Her legs wrapped tightly around him and he felt her nails digging into his shoulders as they moved together. When her body arched and tensed, when he heard her gutteral moan of completion and her body convulsed around his, he could hold back no more. His body spilled its warmth into hers.

They lay together until their breathing returned to normal, then Clay stretched out alongside her.

She snuggled into his arms, whispering, "I love you."

Clay held her tightly, his heart filled with the wonder, the passion that only love shared with another person can offer. He closed his eyes and sent up a short prayer of thanks that Catherine was in his arms.

They lay quietly, not talking, for several minutes, enjoying the sounds of the quiet night and the sight of the beautiful sky.

All of a sudden Clay noticed the night had gotten quieter than it should be. Too late, the hair on the back of his neck warned him.

From the shadows came a high-pitched sing-songy, Surprise.

Chapter Thirty Three

Clay scrambled to stand up, seized Catherine's hand and jerked her to her feet. Her look of fright spurred him to give her a little shake.

"Grab your clothes and let's get out of here," he ordered.

But frozen with fear, Catherine could only stare into the pitch black shadows.

A high-pitched, sing-songy, "Over here, Catherine", taunted from the thick curtain of night and ricocheted from one area to another.

Clay snapped, "Catherine," and she turned terrified eyes to him. He tossed her clothes and shoes to her, grabbed his own, then clutched her hand and they ran toward where he'd parked his car.

Behind them echoed eerie, high-pitched mocking laughter. It did nothing to relax the hair on the back of his neck.

He wasn't about to take time to dress, or to give the stalker time to catch up by letting Catherine dress. He threw all the clothes into the back seat and she leaped into the passenger seat when he climbed behind the wheel.

Seconds later, he peeled out of the parking lot.

Within minutes they were on the main route, headed toward bright lights and crowds of people. Clay continually checked the rear mirror, but no one had followed.

Catherine was white as a sheet and as Clay zoomed toward the heart of town he pulled her toward him and kissed the top of her head. "You okay?"

She nodded. When she lowered her head and her shoulders shook he immediately pulled to the side of the road and gathered her close, his arms tightly holding her bare skin against his. He did his best to ignore the instant flame.

"It's going to be all right, Catherine," he murmured into the honey blonde hair he stroked. "We're going to get to the bottom of this once and for all."

Her shoulders still shook and when she lifted her head he got the shock of his life. She was smothering laughter.

"Are you nuts?" he demanded.

"No, and I'm really sorry, Clay, but I just had the most bizarre thought."

"I don't think I want to hear it," he stated flatly, but knew that wouldn't stop her.

"Clay, the only voice that could possibly have been more scary coming from those shadows would have been Ruben's, yelling, "Live from New York..."

He shot her a look and pulled back onto the road, hoping she didn't see the grin he tried to hide.

"I see a convenience store up ahead, about two blocks," she said and pointed. "Pull into the back so we can get dressed."

Clay took the turn a block early to avoid the main lot and sneak into the rear entrance. The front lot was jumping, but the rear lot was deserted, the security lights not working and the traffic signal too far away to be more than dim.

"Perfect," Catherine said, grabbed her clothes, kissed his cheek and got out of the car.

"Oh, no," she cried in dismay.

Clay had picked up his own clothes and started dressing. "What's wrong?"

"My jeans! They're covered with bird poop!"

"So wipe it off the best you can."

"I'm not wearing these," she informed him. "Clay, give me your pants."

He laughed. "Sure. Then I'll strut into the hotel in my boxers."

She came around the car with her hand out. "Okay."

He had put his boxers on and held his jeans in his hands. "Forget it," he stated. "Make do with my shirt or something."

Catherine glanced toward the building and gripped Clay's hand in panic. "Someone's there, in the dark. Oh, God," she stammered. "What if he followed us?"

Clay instantly saw the silhouette Catherine had seen and pushed her behind him. The figure approached them.

"Who's there?" Clay called. "I warn you I'm armed. What do you want?"

A flashlight snapped on and the beam spotlighted Clay in his boxers, the naked Catherine standing behind him.

"You've got to be kidding me," a voice groaned.

"Oh, no," Catherine muttered and peeked her head from behind Clay.

"What do you want?" Clay demanded. "Identify yourself."

The man turned the light so they could see his face and store security uniform.

Catherine cleared her throat. "Nice to see you again. Clay, you remember the security guard from the elevator, don't you?"

Chapter Thirty Four

It was almost five thirty a.m. when they stepped into the glass elevator.

Clay, shirtless in jeans and sneakers, and Catherine, wearing nothing but her bra, panties and Clay's long-sleeved shirt that barely covered her thighs, pretended not to see the other three rider's stares. The two men and one woman all gawked silently at the oddly dressed duo.

Finally, Clay nodded to them and smiled politely. "Hi. How ya doin'?" then glanced at Catherine, watched her fidget with the sneakers and shirt she carried.

He stared straight ahead, at the first morning rays streaking the Sin City sky. In a quiet aside he told Catherine, "I don't know why you didn't put your sneakers on. You know you're not allowed in here barefoot."

She used the same quiet aside when she answered, but sniffed and threw Clay a bored look. "I'm not allowed in here pantless, either, but here I am. There's nothing under this shirt but me."

One man gasped so hard he nearly went into a coughing fit. With a haughty, snooty look, the woman turned her back to Clay and Catherine.

Clay looked over at Catherine, a glint of fun in his eyes. "Your button's open."

She glanced down. "Which one?" She glanced down and sighed. "Oh, great, one of those big things almost fell out again. Oops. The other one did but I caught it and put it back."

Both men made choking sounds and Clay tried not to laugh when good manners made the men turn away, though they kept sneaking looks.

"Catherine," Clay chastised. "Put them away. Stop playing with them."

"These babies need to be aired out, Clay. Keeping this pair cooped up isn't easy. Ahhhhh..." she moaned in relief. "That's better. They're free now. Nothing feels better than swaying in the wind."

The heads of both men turned so fast they would have made The Exorcist special effects team proud.

Catherine smiled at them and held up her socks. "Would you like a better look at them?"

**

When the other passengers got off, Clay laughed and slid down the glass elevator wall.

"Come here," he called and Catherine sat in his lap.

He snuggled her hair. "You're corrupting me."

She giggled. "You've got that backward. I was perfectly normal until I ran into you."

She put her head on his shoulder and they watched bands of pink and salmon widen in the sky until the glass elevator reached the top floor and they headed for their room.

Once inside Catherine headed for the bathroom, telling Clay, "I have to go get clothes. Take me shopping later?"

He sat on the bed and called, "Catherine, I need to talk to you. Come out here for a minute."

When she was in front of him, he said, "How much of a coincidence do you think it is that someone is stalking you and a girl fitting your description was found murdered?"

She looked surprised. "I...I don't know. I just heard about it tonight and then I called Doc, and, well, you know about the rest of the night."

Clay didn't smile. "I intend to see the Vegas detective this morning that's been so kind to me, what's his name...Detective Oliver. He needs to know that you're alive and that something fishy is going on, that it's a little too much about that other girl being a ringer for you."

Catherine looked puzzled. "Doc said the girl's brother identified her."

Clay nodded. "That makes it even stranger. He identified her as you."

Catherine shrugged. "That sounds like a series of mistakes, and mistakes do happen, to everybody, and I don't care what line of work it involves. I told you before that I'm an only child. I have no brother."

Clay shook his head and walked to the window. He put his hands into his pockets and watched the Vegas skyline as the now-rising sun drenched it in desert sunshine.

When Catherine came to stand beside him he put an arm around her waist but continued to watch the skyline.

"The man had proof, Catherine. That he's your brother." He turned to face her and gave her an unyielding look. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Chapter Thirty Five

Catherine jerked away from him and her blue eyes smoldered, a sign that anger wasn't far behind.

"No, Clay, there isn't. Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

He shrugged. "Such as? Ask away."

"Did you see this proof?"

"No."

She raised an eyebrow and took on a look of mock amazement. "Did you meet and talk with this brother of mine?"

"No."

"Reaaaaaaaaaaly," she drawled. "Now, think about it. Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

His patience began to fade. "I'm an open book, Catherine."

"Bull turkeys," she shot at him. "Tell me, hot shot, if you haven't seen the proof this detective touted to you and that you touted to me, and if you have neither met with nor talked with this so-called brother of mine..." she broke off for an instant then came back in heated attack. "Who do you think you are to stand there and insinuate I've been lying, asking me if there's something I'd like to tell you?"

"Catherine..."

She raised her index finger and stopped him. "Uh uh. You called me a liar based on something you didn't see for yourself. On the word of a stranger."

Clay sighed and rolled his eyes. "I doubt the detective made it up, Catherine. He said they checked this guy out six ways to Sunday."

"Oh, well, then," she exclaimed and threw her hands into the air. "If you put it that way. If a stranger checked it out six ways to Sunday then by all means, please take his word over the woman who told you..." she pushed her face into his and yelled, "I have no brother."

With that she stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Clay shook his head and reached for the phone to leave a message for the detective. He could already see it coming. Unraveling things that didn't want to be untied was going to make for a loooooong day.

**

Sitting beside Catherine in identical hardwood chairs, Clay glanced around the room. The Vegas police department was busy, a steady stream of people led in for one offense or another, but that was probably always true in a town known as Sin City. He glanced at Catherine, who still gave him cool looks.

He'd called Detective Oliver as soon as he and Catherine had showered and the detective had requested that the two of them come downtown. Oliver needed Catherine in particular to learn more about the stalker and his pattern.

The detective studied Catherine, who was dressed in Clay's sweats and shirt. "Definite resemblance to the victim. Uncanny, actually. Except for her eyes."

Taken aback, Clay said, "Her eyes? What about them?"

Oliver tossed a piece of paper over to Clay. "That's the autopsy report."

Clay scanned it. "Brown eyes," he murmured.

"Yep," the detective said. "When you called this morning and told me that this Catherine was still alive and kicking I decided to go and let the brother know right away, figuring he'd be doing a happy dance over the misidentification."

Clay waited, then angled his head in expectation and asked, "He didn't?"

"To put it mildly," the detective stated. "Extreme agitation is the phrase I'd use to describe his reaction."

Catherine leaned closer. "You're certain this man confirmed the girl's name as mine?"

The detective nodded. "Oh, yeah. Catherine Martin of Ionasbranch, Texas. For proof of identification, he brought in both your and his birth certificate, your high school i.d., as well as death certificates for your parents and other records from the county courthouse."

Clay looked over at Catherine, who was visibly mystified. "I don't know where he came up with those things, but they have to be forgeries. All you needed to do was a fingerprint check."

The detective sighed. "He had proof coming out his...well, we were satisfied and he was devastated beyond belief by your passing. It was a slipup on our part."

Sarcasm dripped from Catherine's icy tone. "How big of you to admit it."

Clay put a restraining hand on Catherine's arm but his gaze stayed on the detective. "The other girl..."

"No i.d. yet, but we got a court order to stop the cremation."

Clay stared at him. "A court order? Why?"

The detective looked from Clay to Catherine and back to Clay. "Fifteen minutes after I left this man I got a call from the funeral parlor's director. The man claiming to be her brother," he said, and inclined his head toward Catherine, "called the director and asked if they'd speed up the cremation so he could leave town with the ashes immediately."

Catherine gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.

In the pit of his stomach Clay got the feeling another shock was on its way.

"Now," the detective said, tapping a pencil on his desk and holding Catherine's gaze steady. "What I want to know is why this man is so desperate to have your dead body that he's willing to hightail it out of town with a reasonable facsimile."

Chapter Thirty Six

Catherine gave the detective's look right back to him. "Why are you asking me? You're the detective, aren't you?"

Clay sighed. "Catherine, that's not helpful."

Catherine turned on Clay. "Not helpful? I'm not helpful? I ran from a stalker, Randall Walker, the last few years, living hand to mouth because I was afraid to be visible." She looked at Oliver who watched her with no expression. "Now you claim that Walker was killed a couple of months ago and someone picked up where he left off. A few days ago a girl who looks like me was murdered and a man claiming to be my brother wants to steal her ashes and run off with them." She rose to her feet, placed both hands on the edge of the desk and said to Clay, "And you accuse me of saying loony things? This is the nuttiest thing I've ever heard. A stalker who targets a person is after that person, not..." she shot a look to the detective, "a reasonable facsimile".

Oliver looked at Clay. "You have your hands full, don't you?"

Clay nodded and gave a wry smile. "You've no idea."

"I'm out of here," Catherine said and started to leave. "I thought you people were serious about helping me, not chasing down some crazy who wants dead bodies."

"Catherine," the detective stated flatly. "This man is your stalker. I'd put money on it."

She stopped and Clay straightened in his chair to look at the detective. "Of course," he said suddenly.

"Of course what?" Catherine asked, but came back to stand beside Clay.

Clay nodded his head like he understood, then gave Catherine a push to sit back down. When she did, he said, "When Walker was killed, this man picked up and started doing exactly what Walker had been doing. That means he had to have known, from Walker, how and what to do to terrorize you. I'm also guessing this is a personal vendetta of some sort."

"Not necessarily a vendetta," the detective cautioned, then addressed Catherine. "But I'm thinking he may be the so-called mugger who killed Walker. Who would benefit by your death?"

She laughed. "You mean who'd get the few CD's I own?" She shrugged. "Nobody."

The detective waved his pencil slightly. "No property? No auto? Anything like that?"

She shook her head. "I sold my parents house to help pay for school. There's nothing. I own nothing. Have nothing."

The detective leaned back in his desk chair and rocked, his hand pulling at his chin while he gazed thoughtfully at Catherine.

"It's my belief," he began, "that this man was running out of time to get what he's after and needed to step up his efforts. One thing he didn't count on was tight protection," he added and pointed to Clay. "If the man was desperate and needed to produce a body to prove to somebody that you were dead, then he'd arrange one. And he did. I don't think he figured you'd ever connect the dead girl's murder with him chasing you, but he still needs you out of the way. He intended to bide his time and then make sure you can't get between him and whatever it is he's after."

Clay nodded agreement, then turned to Catherine. "He knew you were still alive and all he needed to do was wait for you to surface. Last night you did. He knows you're with me again and all he has to do is wait, figuring that sooner or later he'll get an opportunity."

Catherine's smile trembled and her face was pale when she met Clay's gaze. In her eyes Clay saw a mixture of accumulated years of terror and anger that anyone would put her through such an ordeal when there was nothing to be gained. Or was there? She knew she had to find out the truth once and for all.

"Well," she said lightly. "Then the best thing to do is eliminate his waiting time. I'm going to be waiting for him. In Ionasbranch, Texas."

She blinked and her blue eyes turned to steel when she locked Clay's gaze. "And you aren't going."

Chapter Thirty Seven

Catherine hadn't spoken another word all the way back to the Sundowner, just sat lost in thought while Clay drove. No amount of him wheedling, cajoling, suggesting or demanding would elicit an explanation of what she had in mind.

When they were back in the room he spun her to face him, hoping his expression transferred to her that he meant business. "You're not going alone. In fact, you're not even..."

She pulled free. "Don't tell me what to do."

"I will in this case. Detective Oliver said that as soon as he can get approval he's also going down to Texas because it's now connected to this murder. Let him handle it."

She snapped her fingers and her smile was pure sugar. "Now, why didn't I think of that? This man is much more likely to appear if he knows there's a homicide detective on his trail."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Catherine."

"Neither does blindly running from someone when I don't know from whom or why. I'm through with that, Clay. It's time to take a stand."

"And we will."

"No, we won't."

He laughed and tried to tease her from her mood. "You're not leaving Vegas. We have a date with a chapel. I plan to fly my family in..."

She dropped her gaze and a sick feeling ran through his entire body, then vibrated to a halt as a knife poised its razor-sharp point at his heart. He tipped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. "Catherine."

Tears shone in her eyes but she battled them back. "I can't marry you, Clay. I don't know what's going to happen in Ionasbranch. I won't do that to you."

Exasperated, he threw his hands into the air. "Why are you so gung ho on going down there? The man is in Vegas, you know that."

"And I think he'll know where and when I've gone." A deep flush spread from her neck until it covered her face. "He sure had no trouble finding me last night."

Clay closed, then opened his eyes and nodded. "So that's it, or at least part of it." He sighed and drew her into his arms. She resisted at first, but when he let her know his comfort was there for the taking she leaned into the circle of his embrace.

"Catherine," he began. "You know how when you're outside at night and the insects or animals are quiet until they get used to your presence, or they get quiet to let you know someone else is around?"

He waited, but she didn't answer, so he continued. "Well, they were making plenty of noise last night until right before we heard that voice."

Catherine tilted her head back and looked at Clay. "Are you saying he wasn't there watching? Can you promise that?"

"No," he answered truthfully. "I can only tell you what I think. Other than the fact that we had no clothes on and it wouldn't take a genius to figure out why, I think he saw little to nothing."

She gasped, broke free and went to the table by the window. He smiled when she picked up the ring he'd retrieved from the garbage can.

Her voice shook. "You...you kept it."

The idea hit him immediately and he struggled to keep his face serious. He walked slowly to where she stood and closed her hand around the ring.

"Yeah," he said. "Just like your grandfather held onto it until he was together again with your grandmother." He took her arms and threw them up around his shoulders, then put his own around her and kissed her. When he lifted his head, he laid his forehead on hers. "They married and lived happily ever after. Ours will start today. At the chapel."

She jerked free then. "No."

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration battling anger when he hollered, "Well, maybe I don't want to marry you, either."

She smiled at him. "Yes you do."

He laughed and conceded. "Well, okay, I do. But if you think I'm going to keep begging..." He laughed again, then it trailed off into a quiet, "What do I have to say, Catherine? I think I've made it clear how much I love you and I know you feel the same way."

She didn't answer and he grew desperate. "Is it a big wedding you want instead?" he prodded. "If it is, I'll take you to my family in Raleigh. Today. Right now. My mother will treat you like a daughter, help you with everything. Raleigh itself will welcome you like a hometown girl."

His plea seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Then she looked up at him and shook her head. "I can't believe you think I'd hold out for something lavish," she chastised him in a soft voice. "If what I have in mind doesn't work out, you'll be a widower, Clay. I'm not going to allow that."

He was seething and didn't know how well he hid it, but he didn't care. "I'll tell you what, Catherine. Here's the deal. When you get married in Vegas, whomever performs the ceremony has ten days to record the certificate at the county courthouse. We'll get married today on the condition that it's not recorded for ten days. Then no one will know about it. If I end up a widower," he said sweetly, holding her surprised gaze when he really wanted to throttle some sense into her, "I'll be free again. No harm done."

Her jaw dropped. "No harm done?"

He shrugged. "Well, not to me. Wasn't that your priority? Isn't that what you just said was your concern?"

She looked both suspicious and confused. "Well, yes. No. Yes." She stomped her foot. "I don't know how to answer that," she said and he smiled at the verbal corner into which she'd backed herself.

She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. "You win," she said heatedly. "I guess I have to marry you."

They both laughed then and Clay's heart soared when he saw the unconditional love in her eyes. She moved into his arms and sent flames to every corner of his soul with a kiss of promise. After the wedding she'd get one whale of a surprise.

He lifted his head, rested his forehead on hers and his green eyes conveyed to her, You aren't going anywhere.

Her blue ones answered him with, Bet me.

Chapter Thirty Eight

When Catherine went to the bathroom to brush her hair Clay called, "Take all the time you need shopping. We'll get as much or as little as you want. I have strong arms and I found out I can carry a dozen shoe boxes at once," he joked.

Catherine walked out of the bathroom. "Where's the phonebook?"

"In the nightstand drawer," he answered, pointing. When she'd gotten it out and leafed to the back section he continued, "But I think the shops in the hotel may have a lot of different..."

He stopped when Catherine closed her eyes, raised her index finger, swirled it in a circle and then, with her eyes still closed, aimed her finger at the page, then zoomed her finger down onto it.

Mystified, he asked, "What in the world are you doing?"

She looked at where her finger landed and told him, "Chapel In The Moonlight."

"Excuse me?"

"It's right on the strip," she told him. "Let's go."

"Wait a minute," he protested.

"Is something wrong?"

"Well, no, but I'd like to at least get you a ring first."

"I don't want a ring."

Clay's eyebrows shot up. "Catherine, you're not planning on wearing that CrackerJack ring, are you? I can do better. Honest."

Instead of the laugh he expected, the look she gave him was stone cold.

"No, Clay, but not for the reason you think." She walked toward him and the look on her face had deteriorated from controlled anger to one of angry passion, passion about the thoughts she was about to share with him.

"That CrackerJack ring is a symbol, one that has great meaning to me, a priceless family treasure so compelling that someone whose main concern is how big a diamond do you want? would never understand. Maybe I misjudged what you're all about, Clay. I thought you wanted to marry me. Wanted to marry me today because you're so in love with me you can't stand another day without me. I thought you, of all people, would instantly know that if I choose to marry you wearing your sweatpants and shirt, with no ring, with nothing present but our love for each other, then you were truly aware of how deeply I feel about you."

Clay cleared his throat. "So, should I leave my shoes here, too, or can I bring them in case I decide to stick my foot in my mouth again?"

**

After getting assurances from the thrilled elderly minister that he'd wait the ten days to record the marriage, in a small room next to the chapel's wedding room, Clay and Catherine filled out the paperwork.

Clay glanced at Catherine. Despite how she'd put him in his place about the ring and 'frills', she was visibly nervous. He was unprepared for how love surged throughout him just at the sight of her.

The minister's wife, impeccably dressed for the many weddings performed here each day, came to them then.

"I'll serve as one of your witnesses to the ceremony," she told them, and smiled. "It's the part of my job here that I love most. But did you bring anyone with you? A second witness is required by law."

Clay saw the friendly, well-mannered woman trying to ignore Catherine's bridal outfit of sweatpants and an oversized shirt. Catherine noticed nothing.

"Uh, no," he said. "We didn't know we'd need one."

The woman frowned in thought, then brightened. "Let me catch my son before he leaves for work. He won't mind." She laughed and lowered her voice. "He'll love being part of this. And he can definitely be trusted to keep it secret."

"Thanks," Clay responded and she hurried from the room, calling, "Junior! Mervin, catch Junior before he drives off."

Clay turned to Catherine and extended his hand. "Shall we?"

Her smile and the love in her eyes was all the answer he needed. Hand-in-hand they walked into the chapel and stood before the small white-draped altar, a golden cross and a bible flanked by white candles atop it. The side and rear walls were stained glass scenes and an organ, complete with who-knew-what sheet music, stood in a nearby corner, ready at a moment's notice.

The minister came in and took his place, then they heard the voice of the minister's wife grow louder as she and her son came closer. When they entered the wedding chapel, Clay, Catherine and the son the woman had retrieved exchanged shocked looks.

The hotel security guard pointed a warning finger at Clay and Catherine. "You two aren't planning on taking your clothes off in here, are you, pervs?"

Chapter Thirty Nine

The minister and his wife stared at their son, then at Clay. The minister asked, "Do you know each other?"

Clay was so stunned he couldn't answer, but whatever nerves had caused Catherine's quietness had vanished and she held out her hand to shake that of the security guard, who finally dropped his finger and gave her hand a lukewarm shake.

"We sure do," Catherine said in a tone that projected great warmth. "Your son - Junior, is it? - helped us out when we were inadvertently locked in the elevator at the Sundowner. And then again last night, we had a chance encounter at a convenience store downtown."

She smiled at the minister's wife. "You should be very proud of him. He goes out of his way to be helpful. I know we'll never forget him."

The minister looked confused. "But what did he mean when he called you 'pervs'? That didn't sound very nice, especially while we're in chapel." He gave his son a reproachful look.

Catherine waved a hand and winked at Junior, who looked uncomfortable. "I think Junior actually said 'perfs', not 'pervs'. Clay and I have gone on a health kick, trying to get 'perfect' bodies, and, well, we had one of those playful, all-in-fun conversations about undressing and letting the crowd decide who looked better. I suspect we talked louder than we realized and Junior heard us." She gave a reassuring smile to Junior, then to his parents.

Clay stared at her.

The minister looked at Junior. "Is this true?"

Flabbergasted, Junior shouted, "No. They're two perverts. They undress at the drop of a hat."

Catherine smiled at Junior, then went over, pulled his head down and whispered into his ear for a little over a minute.

Junior gave Clay a look, then grunted and finally nodded to Catherine.

"You won't be sorry," Catherine assured him, then returned to stand beside Clay.

Junior cleared his throat and turned to his parents. "Maybe I misunderstood what they were doing," he said. "She just explained it to me and, well, I'm sorry for what I just said. I meant 'perfs'."

Baffled, Clay looked into Catherine's contented face, then finally at the minister, who appeared as puzzled by his son's turnabout as Clay.

Clay threw a look at Junior. "So you'll stand witness?"

Junior smiled. "It will be my pleasure."

Clay glanced at Catherine but she was giving no clue as to what had happened.

"I'm ready," she said softly.

All took their proper places.

"Dearly beloved," the minister began and ran through the wedding ceremony. When he reached the part where Clay promised to love Catherine, Clay stopped him.

"I'll be right back," he said and felt four sets of curious eyes on him as he walked to the front door, opened it, reached up, closed his hand, brought it back down and put it into his left pocket. He did this again, the second time putting his hand into his right pocket. The third time, when his hand came back down he placed it on his eyes. He said nothing the entire time.

When he rejoined Catherine he asked the minister, "You've asked if I promise to love Catherine. May I speak?"

"Of course."

He took Catherine's hands in his and his green eyes locked with her blue ones. The pounding of his heart suddenly became a quiet, steady beat. He had never been so sure of anything in his life, never more happy than he was standing here with Catherine. Catherine had been right. Their life together needed no symbol, needed no more than the love that would now bind them through eternity. A formal wedding could be performed later, and it would be a great celebration.

Today, this moment, was theirs alone.

He cleared his throat, and though his heart was calmed by a sense of incredible peace, his voice was less than steady.

"Catherine, you already have my heart." He reached into his left pocket, drew out nothing, then placed his hand on Catherine's. "What I also give to you is my sun, because without you it can't shine." He repeated the symbolic gesture of putting his hand into his right pocket, then laying it on Catherine's hand. "I also give to you my moon, because without you, there is no light in my life."

Clay choked up when he saw the tears flowing down Catherine's face, saw the pure love, the radiance in her eyes she sent that filled his soul. But he continued in a quiet voice. "I can't give you my stars. They're in my eyes, blinding me to all else whenever I see you."

Junior sobbed aloud and grabbed his handkerchief from his pocket, honking loudly. "That was beautiful, man."

Chapter Forty

Junior blew his nose again and one hand shoved his handkerchief into his pocket while the other hand wiped his tears. "I mean it, perv. You've got a real way with words."

"Umm...thank you," Clay answered politely, and looked to find Catherine's tears had stopped and she battled not to laugh, avoiding the sight of the bawling, burly Junior at all costs.

"Well," Clay added lightly and smiled at the minister and his wife, but only briefly at Junior or he knew he'd lose it to laughter, "We hate to marry and run, but..."

"Where we going, perv?" Junior asked. "Celebration?"

Clay stared at him, not sure he'd heard correctly.

Catherine coughed.

Clearly exasperated, the minister stated, "Junior, why are you calling them pervs again?" Then he drew a blank look. "Did you say we?"

Junior blushed and threw Catherine a sheepish look. "Sorry, Dad. Calling them pervs is just habit. I meant 'perf'." His chest puffed with pride. "Yes. We. Miss Catherine has hired me as a bodyguard."

Clay stammered, "Whaaat?"

"Now, Clay," she said sweetly. "Last night, when we saw that Junior was working a second job at that convenience store even you said someone as good at what they do as he is should have a better job, better income." She turned a brilliant smile on Junior's parents. "And he is good at what he does. You should have seen him in action, taking charge, when we got locked in the Sundowner's elevator. No one was more surprised than we were."

Clay nearly choked.

Junior turned red but said nothing.

Catherine continued, and gave Junior's parents a gentle smile. "I couldn't believe it when you came back with your son to be witness, and it was Junior. This is a fabulous day, in so many ways. He'll take a huge burden off my mind."

The minister and his wife exhanged confused glances. "Well, that's...great."

**

Catherine lingered for a short chat with Junior before she joined Clay in the car. From the way she'd gestured, Clay assumed Catherine told Junior they were returning to the Sundowner.

He in his car and they in Clay's, Junior followed them back.

Clay's dark look said it all, but Catherine shrugged. "I had to do something, Clay. Junior could have not only persuaded his parents to 'toss the pervs out of the chapel', but he also could have raced to the media with the story. If you think about it, we got off pretty easy. Besides, I think a bodyguard was a brilliant idea."

"Yeah, well, you think everything you come up with is brilliant," he retorted.

"I'm getting a brilliant idea right now," she said in a sultry voice that sent a hot wind over him, mixing with the chills her breath gave his neck. She nuzzled his ear all the way back to the Sundowner, but when her tickling dropped a little lower than safe driving allowed, Clay grabbed her hand.

"I can't believe we didn't have an accident," Clay informed her, slapping away her hands when Junior parked beside them and they walked to the glass elevator.

No one else was inside the elevator and when they all three entered and it started slowly upward, offering them the broad vistas of neon Vegas, Junior hit the 'stop' button.

Junior cleared his throat and though he turned red as a beet he asked, "Umm...perv, do you want me to step outside and lock the elevator for a few minutes?"

Catherine laughed so hard she dropped to her knees. The murderous look Clay threw her had no effect.

"No," he said emphatically. "And STOP CALLING ME PERV."

Junior nodded. "Okay. Yes, sir, perv, sir. I mean, sir."

Catherine's nonstop spurts of giggles rankled Clay all the way to the top of the Sundowner. It didn't ebb as they walked the length of the corridor and she was still at it when they reached the door.

Once the door was shut behind them and Junior still in the hallway, Clay grinned. "You'd better figure a way out of this one, and fast."

"I think I have."

The sad smile and the haunted look in her eyes caught Clay off guard. He immediately put his arms around her. "What's wrong?"

She didn't answer.

Trying to make light he joked, "Hey, you're not sorry already, are you?"

For answer, her arms went around his neck and she gave him a kiss that sizzled, with enough inner heat blasting through that it would have melted steel. Clay was only too happy to respond in kind and his hands moved under the back of her shirt to lay on her soft bare skin.

Catherine raised her head and for one fleeting moment Clay thought he saw the bright shine of tears, but they and a troubled look disappeared so fast he figured he was wrong.

Catherine's fingers traced his lips and she placed light kisses on the side of his face. "Go get in the shower," she suggested. "I'll be in, too, and show you my current brilliant idea."

He started to ask her what was wrong, then felt foolish. Obviously, nothing was if she was inviting him to enjoy a shower with her.

He smiled, said a soft, "I'll be waiting," and went into the bathroom.

It didn't take long to undress but adjusting the water to just the right temperature was tricky. Should he allow it to stay cooler, since they planned to heat up the entire room? He grinned and waited for Catherine to open the bathroom door.

And waited.

He strained his ears but could hear nothing in either the bathroom or the main hotel room. When he knew too much time had passed, he got out, wrapped in a towel and went looking for her.

She was gone.

No note. Nothing.

Just gone.

Maybe she'd gone downstairs for something? Clay shook his head. No, she would have simply called the front desk and had whatever she needed sent up. Or sent Junior.

Junior.

Holding the towel around him, Clay opened the hotel room door. Blocking his way was Junior.

"Did you see Miss Catherine leave?"

"Yes."

"Where did she go? Downstairs?"

"I don't know."

Irritated, Clay asked, "Did she say anything?"

"No, she was just crying."

Floored, Clay shouted, "What do you mean she was crying? You didn't stop her? Why didn't you call for me?"

Junior was silent and Clay saw Junior's eyes take on a business-like cast.

Clay sighed, uncomfortable in the doorway in his towel. "Some bodyguard," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon, perv, sir?"

Angered, Clay repeated what he'd said. "You let her just walk off?"

Junior looked at Clay and his face went stoic. "I'm not Miss Catherine's bodyguard. She hired me to watch out for you."

Clay wasn't sure he comprehended, but there was no question about what was behind Junior's next words.

"But most of all, Miss Catherine told me to make sure you didn't follow her."

Chapter Forty One

Clay shut the door, threw his clothes on and grabbed for his car keys.

Gone.

She'd taken his car. That should have ticked him off, but instead it sent fear up his spine. It served as a signal on just how serious Catherine was to get to Texas and keep Clay as far away from her perceived danger as possible.

Despite the severe situation, a small smile played on his lips. He was no dummy and wasn't about to repeat his catastrophic mistake of reporting his car stolen.

He had another idea.

When he opened the hotel room door, stepped into the hall and pulled it closed behind him he started a fast walk. Junior stayed a few steps back and to the side of him, and Clay recognized from his body and eye movements that bodyguard duty wasn't new to Junior.

Clay stopped and gave Junior a serious look. "Are you licensed to carry?"

Junior shrugged. "I have a 'conceal and carry' permit, yeah, but there's more people hiring out to be bodyguards than there are needing bodyguards. This is the first shadow job I've snagged in quite a while. Why?"

Clay's smile was grim as he started toward the elevator, then pushed the 'down' symbol. "Shadow may be the operative word, here, Junior."

All the way to the ground floor Clay ignored Junior, instead losing himself in his thoughts. He planned, discarded poor ideas, searched his mind for better ones and tried not to show frustration over the current brick wall his brain hit.

For his part, not once did Junior call him 'perv'.

When the elevator opened, Clay heard Detective Oliver call him.

"I was just on my way up to see you," he told Clay. "Where's Catherine?"

Clay frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Oliver nodded. "Oh, yeah. Grab Catherine and don't let her out of your sight. The man claiming to be her 'brother' dropped from view last night."

"Why didn't you just pick him up when you had the chance?" Clay yelled and felt a tremor in his hand when he ran it through his hair.

"There's no charge that will stick. Yet." He put a hand on Clay's shoulder and squeezed in a show of assurance and solidarity. "We'll get him, Clay, you can count on it. In the meantime, use every precaution possible."

Oliver walked away and with Junior right behind him, Clay took off in a dead run for Junior's car.

Fear for Catherine's safety had kicked all clouds from Clay's mind.

First, he knew she'd need clothes and he'd hit every bus station in town to find out where she'd stashed her suitcase. Maybe he could catch her on the first try.

When he reached Junior's car he didn't even glance at the empty spot where his own had been parked. Clay held out his hand to Junior and wiggled his fingers. "Give me your keys."

"You're stealing my car?"

"Borrowing it," Clay said with a tight smile. "Catherine's in trouble and I have to get to her."

Junior didn't look too sure and Clay saw failure looming. "Give them here," he shot at him and thrust his hand out. "I'll buy the car from you, but I don't have time to bandy words with you."

Junior studied him. "What kind of trouble?"

Clay looked at Junior and weighed whether or not to include him, to trust him. Even if Junior hadn't worked in a while as a bodyguard, he had training and he did have a 'conceal and carry' permit.

Clay had neither.

"A man has been stalking Catherine. He's now gotten very close and if I don't get to her first, she'll likely end up dead. And she's already got a head start on me." He didn't state the obvious of and you helped her get it, but it hung in the air between them.

Finally, Junior shook his head. "You're not getting my keys."

Clay opened his mouth but before he could spill his anger, Junior added, "I followed you over here, remember? You're a turtle. I'll drive."

**

Not only had Catherine already taken her suitcase from the bus station locker, it had been in the eighth bus station they checked. She now had a two hour jump on them.

Although, Clay thought as they headed out of Nevada and crossed Arizona and New Mexico heading for north Texas, the way Junior drives that could drop to a twenty minute lead. He scanned the road constantly, hoping against hope Catherine had broken down or stopped to rest. They saw nothing of her or Clay's car.

Clay caught no more than quick naps on the drive but by the time Junior pulled off of route forty and touched the outskirts of Ionasbranch, adrenaline had pulled Clay back to wide awake.

The sign said 'Welcome to Ionasbranch. Population 8993'.

Junior drove down the tree-lined main street of the town that enjoyed the quiet hush of a warm afternoon. Nobody on the sidewalks hurried anywhere. They strolled.

"Stop," he cried and pointed. "There's my car."

Junior turned to look where Clay pointed and said, "That's a funeral parlor."

Clay grimaced. "I know. Maybe she knows someone in there or had to ask them questions."

He climbed out of the car, and after giving him a dubious look, Junior followed.

Clay stopped him. "Wait here. Keep an eye out for Catherine to come out from any entrance or exit and if I find anything wrong inside I'll holler for you."

Junior started to protest and Clay shook his head. "I need you to be my eyes out here," he said flatly and walked toward the funeral parlor.

Once inside he looked around, but it was quiet and empty. Maybe Catherine hadn't come in here, maybe she was in a nearby store. Parking spots may have been full and this was the closest she could get. He stuck his head outside again and saw that the general store was quite a way up the street. Only a feed and grain store, a hat and boot shop, gas station and a bar were closer.

He now doubted she was in here but he'd give it a fast look anyway.

He walked around the room, trying not to look too closely at the display of caskets. Singles, doubles, wooden, steel. Some closed, some not. Urns for cremation. Some caskets actually had dressed mannequins in them and he supposed it was to subliminally tell people which size they might find suitable.

His small cough echoed like thunder through the quiet room.

With that, he heard footsteps approaching and the low sound of two men in conversation.

To his horror, the lid on a double casket opened right in front of him and Catherine's hand grabbed his arm.

"Hurry up," she pleaded in a quiet voice. "Get in here."

Shocked beyond belief, Clay stared at his wife, stretched out in a silk-lined casket. He was unable to move and it was only the now louder voices that spurred him to action.

Without hesitation he stood on the small stool and hopped into the casket beside Catherine, lying beside her.

"Oh, are you going to get it for this one," he breathed.

The men entered the room just as Catherine pulled the lid down.

Chapter Forty Two

Catherine had scooted Clay to the left side of the casket, and from her vantage point kept the lid up just far enough to peek out and to hear everything the two men said. They were discussing a funeral bill.

She turned her head toward Clay. "Clay, this lid is getting heavy," she whispered.

"Then by all means, let's get the heck out of here," he urged, only too glad to oblige. He started to push the lid up but she grabbed his arm and shushed him.

"They're coming closer," she warned. "I just need you to help hold the lid up a few inches."

His voice dripped sarcasm, but he raised his hands to hold the lid and take the weight off her hands. "Why not just pop the top and pretend we're mannequins?"

"Hush, Clay," she said sternly. "Stop talking before they hear you and you get me into more trouble."

Clay bit back his response. Oh, boy, was she going to get hers.

She turned to him with a surprised look. "How did you know where I was?"

He glared at her, but kept his voice low. "I followed my stolen car."

"Very funny. But I meant how did you know where to find me here?"

He stared at her. "If you mean how did I know you were lurking in a casket, I didn't. You reached out and scared me half to death, remember? What on earth possessed you to climb into a casket?"

"Shush," she told him. "Here they come."

The men came back and to Clay's horror, they stopped right outside his and Catherine's hiding spot. The mahogany casket lid was very heavy, and each second he held the lid in an untenable position strained his muscles. He wasn't sure how long he could keep the curved lid raised.

The conversation about an overdue bill droned on for what Clay and his now sore arms thought was hours, though in reality it was somewhere between five and ten minutes.

"Catherine," he whispered tensely. "My arms can't take much more. I think I'm about to give you up to whatever punishment the funeral director levels on you."

Catherine turned her head to look fully at him and smiled. She leaned over and gave him a lingering kiss full on his lips.

Her voice was sultry. "Does that help?"

His voice was light. "If we were in another place, that would be a definite yes." Then sarcasm roared back. "Like the shower you left me tapping my foot in while the water turned to ice and you hotfooted it out - presumably out of my life." Anger displaced sarcasm. "What's wrong with you, Catherine? I thought we had this settled?"

"No," she shot back quietly. "You told me I wasn't going anywhere, remember? You insisted I marry you. Now do you see why I didn't think it was a good idea?"

When he heard that, Clay nearly blew his top. What he did do was to mutter, "That's all, brother," and push the lid completely open so he could sit up.

He was so angry that he was oblivious to the two men who stood not more than ten feet away with their mouths hanging wide open, staring at him and Catherine. He saw nothing but Catherine, and she sat up beside him, her face right next to his as they argued.

Clay's temper was so hot his voice threw flames. "I came after you because you're in trouble, Catherine. Serious trouble. Oliver came to the Sundowner to let us know that your stalker has disappeared into thin air, and I think general speculation is he's going to be wherever you lead him. Can't you get it through your head that you're in real danger?" He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, wishing that was all it took to instill sense into her. "I love you," he shouted. "And nobody is going to lay a hand on you. Over my dead body."

"I love you, too," she shouted back. She raised to her knees in the casket and started to climb out, her foot kicking air trying to find the stool. Clay's green eyes held hers by sheer will and he hoped his anger, frustration and concern transferred without a need for further harsh words between them. He'd never known anyone who could set him off like she could.

All the while her gaze locked his, she put her hands on his shoulders for balance as she tried to find the stool and step down. Instinctively, Clay steadied her with his hands.

Neither Clay nor Catherine paid the slightest attention to the two startled men who now took backward steps, away from the two who had come out of a closed casket like rabbits from a hat.

At that precise moment, Junior walked in the front door.

Clay groaned in disbelief and closed his eyes, but when he reopened them Junior was still there, still speechless as he stared at Catherine and Clay, arms around each other in a silk-lined casket.

"Oh, God," Clay said softly and lowered his head, but when he raised it nothing had changed.

Even Catherine looked at a loss for words as she gave Junior a weak smile and offered a nonchalant, "Hello."

Clay grabbed Catherine's arm and nearly pushed her onto the stool, with him throwing a genial smile at the still gaping men.

"Thank you," he said to them when his own feet hit the floor. "The casket was very comfortable," he added smoothly and firmly grasped Catherine's hand, "but we decided not to take it after all."

He nearly dragged Catherine out of the door, but winced when he passed the open-mouthed Junior.

But he heard Junior's muttered, "I knew it."

Chapter Forty Three

Clay couldn't get outside the funeral parlor quick enough and as soon as his feet were on the sidewalk, still gripping Catherine's hand, he made a beeline for his car.

From the corner of his eye he saw Junior follow, but Junior stopped and flipped open his cell phone, a tiny electronic in a massive hand.

"Yeah, Mom, it's me. Just wanted to let you know I got a job out of town for a day or two so don't look for me at dinner. If you will, please call the Sundowner and the Check 'n Dash and tell them I needed emergency leave." He glanced over at Clay and Catherine before he added, "And, Mom, you'll never guess what I just saw."

Clay's dark scowl told Junior to say no more.

Junior ended with a hasty, "Well, hope you get this message before you set my plate out. I'll get in touch when I can. Love you, Mom. Bye." He flipped it shut, shoved it into his pocket and walked the final yards to Clay and Catherine.

The funeral parlor door opened and one of the two men stepped out. When he spotted Clay and Catherine he called, "You there. Hold it."

"Wonderful," Clay said under his breath, but smiled.

Catherine nudged him with her elbow and whispered, "I'll handle this."

"You've done enough, thank you," he informed her, but she stepped forward with both hands stretched toward the man, a friendly smile setting the atmosphere.

"Mr. Yearwood!" she exclaimed. "I didn't recognize you."

The man gave cold looks to Clay and to Junior, but took Catherine's hands. "I thought that was you. How are you, Catherine?"

Clay's jaw dropped but he said nothing. Junior just watched with interest.

"I'm fine, how are you?" she answered.

He laughed, but gave Clay another cold look. "Pretty good until a few minutes ago. Explanation, please."

Catherine's face sobered. "Mr. Yearwood, before you came into the room with the man that's in there now, who were you talking to - it wasn't Joey Ray, was it?"

Yearwood looked startled. "Joey Ray? Catherine, he married and moved to Ontario three years ago. Hasn't been back since." He laughed. "Nobody expected him to get over you, even if you did drive his car into the river, but apparently his college sweetheart healed his broken heart."

Clay snickered. He had no trouble picturing Catherine driving someone's car into the river.

She took her attention from Yearwood only long enough to give Clay a dirty look.

"Then who was in your back room?" she persisted. "I heard..."

Clay saw the man's polite, pleasant look change into something he couldn't read, but instinct warned him that Catherine needed to stop talking. He interrupted her with, "Catherine, let's go. My aunt and uncle will just have to come in, try on and decide upon their own casket." He smiled at Yearwood and extended a hand. "C. Holmes Parker, at your service. I'll send Aunt Nina and Uncle Woody in to talk to you."

With that, he hurried Catherine into the car, jumped into the driver's seat, demanded, "Keys," and then took off down the main street, with Junior right behind him.

"Okay," Clay said when they had put a few blocks between themselves and the funeral parlor. He glanced at Catherine. "I can't wait...well, maybe I can...but I want to know what that was all about. Most people don't play hide-and-seek in a casket in the middle of a funeral parlor."

"None of your business," she murmured.

Infuriated, he pulled to the side of the road and shoved the car into park. "Now hear this, Catherine Aiken," he stated, hoping to ram home to her that she was no longer on her own, that as his wife there should be more in her head than following potentially fatal less-than-well-thought-out-impulses.

She leaned her face into his, said, "I can't talk to you when you're like this," opened the car door and jumped out before he could react.

She had gone several yards before he got out and went after her. He stood in front of her and continually stepped side-to-side to block her leaving. "When I'm like this? Do you know what would have happened if that lid had fallen and locked, and nobody knew we were inside?"

Her smile was sweet, but her blue eyes said he'd better get out of her way. "Wasn't part of those vows until death do us part?"

Clay grabbed her arm, in no mood for her smart mouth. "Vows?" he repeated as he pushed her toward the car. "You mean those things you just ran out on so you can play games and drive me crazy?"

She resisted getting into the car, but Clay signaled Junior to come and stand beside the passenger door. Clay leveled a look on Catherine that forced her to get into the car.

"If she tries to get out again, do whatever you need to do to put her back inside," he advised Junior. He slammed the passenger door shut and leaned down to the open window to Catherine, who stared straight ahead. "Got that?"

She didn't answer, but her heaving chest told Clay he'd won. At least for now.

When he was again in the driver's seat and looking for signs to get back to the highway leading out of town, she sighed and he saw resignation cover her face.

"Okay, Clay. Despite everything I've done to keep you away from whomever is after me, you're determined to involve yourself." She paused, then sighed. "I'll give you an address. I need to go there."

**

What Catherine told him had once been a boarding house was old, paint-chipped and in need of repair, but colorful flowers scattered in pots around the wrap around porch and up both sides of the front steps added cheer to the otherwise gloomy gray facade.

Catherine asked Junior to wait in the car, then she and Clay walked up the steps. She picked up and dropped the heavy brass longhorn doorknocker.

After three knocks, a tiny, fragile-looking white-haired woman opened the door.

"Yes?" she asked, pushing wire-rimmed glasses further onto her nose.

Clay saw Catherine's eyes, shiny with unshed tears. "Hello, Aunt Margaret."

The old woman peered closer. "What?" she asked, then shock dominated her face. "Lord...Catherine!"

As Clay watched, Catherine and the woman exchanged a tight hug. Finally, he cleared his throat.

Catherine wiped her face, stepped back and smiled. "Aunt Margaret, this is my husband, Clay."

Clay extended his hand, but Margaret grabbed him in a hug, surprisingly strong for a woman who looked like a gentle breeze would break her into pieces.

"So," she said, peering at him from overtop her glasses. "Someone finally tamed Catherine."

Clay threw his head back and roared. Catherine's look didn't stop him.

"Come in, come in," Margaret urged and stepped back to allow entrance.

Clay gave Junior an 'everything is fine' sign and followed Catherine into the spacious house.

The long dark hallway was cool and emptied into a bright living room, decorated with pastels and flowers, something that seemed to fit the tiny Margaret. But what caught Clay's interest was the pictures of Catherine, at all ages, that covered one wall.

When he and Catherine were seated on the sofa and Margaret took the cherry rocker, they declined Margaret's offer of lemonade.

Catherine reached to touch Margaret's hand. "I've missed you, Aunt Margaret."

Margaret's look was filled with reproach. "It's been several years since I heard from you, Catherine. Is that how much you missed me?"

Catherine's look was sad. "I can't tell you now why that was necessary, but I promise I will."

Margaret sighed. "You young people..."

"Aunt Margaret," Catherine said, "you were my grandmother's best friend most of her life." Before she said more, Catherine drew the CrackerJack ring from her pocket. "I need to find out..."

Margaret reached out and touched the ring, an odd expression on her face. "You still have that," she said in a low voice. "It's like a bad penny, isn't it?"

Stunned, Catherine stammered, "Bad...bad penny?"

Margaret's face was a battle between sadness and anger, until finally sadness won. "It started out as such a sweet thing, what with your grandparents and World War Two and all. A symbol of love. When that changed..."

"What?" Catherine demanded. "What changed between my grandparents?"

Margaret's look was evaluative and old brown eyes finally absorbed that Catherine didn't understand what she meant. "Nothing. Until your mother's sixteenth birthday."

Clay's heart swelled in sympathy at the confusion on Catherine's face and he took her hand and squeezed it in support, aware that Margaret's face said she was about to give Catherine information she might not want.

Margaret's eyes were kind. "You really don't know, do you?"

Catherine said nothing but her face had paled. Clay put one arm around her and kept a tight grip on her hand with his.

Margaret closed, then opened her eyes. "Lordy, I thought your mother would have told you." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You were born three years after your mother married your father, but five years before that, on your mother's sixteenth birthday, her first child was born. A son."

"Oh, my God," Catherine said, in a voice so raw Clay rubbed her neck. "I do have a brother."

"Yes and no," corrected Margaret. "He was stillborn. To keep your mother's shame quiet the baby was buried out on your grandparent's old homestead. Your mother was devastated, and your grandmother gave her that ring as a symbol that everything would be okay. But all that ring symbolized from then on was a reminder of the shame your mother brought to the family."

Clay stared at Margaret. "Are you absolutely sure the baby is dead? Could there have been a mistake or a ruse and the baby secretly taken away for adoption?"

Margaret leveled a look at Clay. "There was no mistake, young man. Certainly no ruse. My husband and I helped them bury that poor sweet child."

Chapter Forty Four

Catherine's face was ashen, her hands icy, and Clay took both her hands and rubbed them vigorously, sending his own warmth literally and figuratively into her body from his. Catherine seemed unaware of anything but Margaret and the bomb she'd dropped on Catherine. "What do you mean, their old homestead?"

Margaret sighed, but before she could answer, Clay, concerned by Catherine's pallor ordered a terse, "Get her some water, please."

Margaret did and Clay held it to Catherine's lips, forced her to take at least a little. Clay had never seen Catherine so meek, so obedient, so passive. He couldn't begin to imagine the depth of the shock she'd just received and his heart filled with compassion.

Clay touched her cheek, his voice gentle. "Are you all right, sweetie?"

Catherine nodded, rested her head briefly on his shoulder, then gave him a small, grateful smile before she turned back to Margaret. "I didn't know my grandparents ever lived anywhere but Ionasbranch and Amarillo."

Margaret nodded. "When they first got married and set up housekeeping, they were pretty poor, but then again, who wasn't? Your grandfather and a few of his friends built a small house for your grandparents a few miles north of here. He managed to buy up around seventy five acres over the years."

Catherine was clearly bewildered. "Why wasn't I told about this?"

Margaret smiled and patted her hand. "I would have to believe that your mother never wanted you to know her secret, dear. I don't know why and she's not here to answer for herself."

"But...but, my grandmother..." she couldn't finish.

"Your grandparents were God-fearing people, Catherine, and so was your mother - and your father, of course." The old ladies eyes filled with tears. "Your mother had barely turned fifteen when she was attacked by two men who'd escaped prison. She was home alone when they broke in looking for food, money, guns or anything else useful. They took turns with her. She was too ashamed to tell your grandparents what had happened and when she learned she was pregnant her mind denied it, and eventually she did everything possible to conceal it. Your grandparents didn't know until it was too late. Your mother had gone into labor and panicked. When I realized something was wrong I called her parents. If that child had survived he would have been given to a family who could provide him a loving home. Because he didn't survive, they did what they thought was best for your mother, for her to be able to live a normal life."

Catherine stared at her. "You called my grandparents?"

"Yes. Your brother was born here, in this house."

Catherine leaped to her feet. "How could you?" she cried. "All these years..."

Clay was beside her in a flash. "Catherine, stop..."

"No," she said flatly, her eyes blazing into his. "I've been lied to long enough." She turned to Margaret. "Someone is trying to kill me and if you know any more deep dark family secrets I'd appreciate it if you started spilling them."

Margaret gasped and Clay grabbed Catherine's arms.

"That's enough," he told her harshly. "This isn't necessary, Catherine. All Margaret did was tell you..."

Catherine turned on him and burst out, "That my whole life is a lie, that's what she told me."

She took the CrackerJack ring and held it out to him, venom in her eyes and voice. "Do you know what this represents, Clay? Not all the sweet, sappy family sentimentality I slopped on it like an idiot, like a class-A fool."

Without taking her gaze from his, she dropped the ring onto the thin carpet and stepped on it, moving her foot as though to crush it. "It's all part of the big lie," she told him in a strained tone. "My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, just like it was given to her on her sixteenth birthday. All she was doing was perpetuating the lie, telling me no matter what happens in life, keep the faith and everything will be all right. What she really meant was here's a reminder that you can lie your way through life. Worked for me.."

Clay saw the intense, deep-rooted pain Catherine tried, and failed, to curtain in her eyes and understood that the depth of her family's deceit impelled her to lash out. And though he knew she wasn't in the mood for the comfort he longed to offer her, he couldn't allow her to heap condemnation on Margaret. When the initial impact of the revelations eased, Catherine could come back and find out whatever else she needed to learn from Margaret.

Clay put a hand on Catherine's shoulder, a firm hand that let her know she was losing control and he was stepping in whether she liked it or not. "We need to go, Catherine. And we need to go now, before you do or say something you can never take back."

Catherine's eyes glittered with anger. "Not before I ask one more question."

She tried to brush past Clay but he held his ground between her and Margaret. Catherine tried to stare him down, and he hoped his mild expression let her know he understood her anger, but that she needed to regain reason.

When Clay refused to move, Catherine locked gazes with him in a losing battle of wills, then addressed Margaret in a loud tone, making sure it carried to her.

"Where is that old homestead?"

Chapter Forty Five

What would have been a twenty minute highway drive from Ionasbranch to the old McKenna homestead took forty minutes over semi-maintained back roads, the only way to get there.

Behind him, Junior looked none too pleased to be bouncing his vehicle over unpaved roads.

Clay tried to fill the silence with random comments about the quarter horses, windmills and expansive cattle ranches they passed, but his words fell like heavy lead in an unreceptive atmosphere.

Acutely aware of the inner turmoil Catherine was going through, he left her to sort through her thoughts.

When he'd turned the car down the final lane, he saw Catherine was as shocked as he by what they found. Instead of the ramshackle cabin that Margaret's words led him to believe they'd find, the little house was attractive, looking more pristine than the boarding house they'd just left.

The grounds were overgrown, with tumbleweeds and wild creeper ivy drifting across the sparse grass of the front yard. But the roof and the house itself were in good shape, though it was obvious it had sat unoccupied for some time. Brilliant yellow roses climbed the front railing, however, with no gardener's hand guiding their path they played out their own peculiar route upward.

Clay parked by the front steps, in the top of the circular dirt driveway. He and Catherine got out and he was surprised to find Junior had not only parked but had quickly moved to where they stood, positioning himself unobtrusively between Catherine and the house.

"So this is is," she said curtly. "The old homestead."

While Catherine's bitter tone didn't surprise Clay, the authority in Junior's tone did.

"You two wait here. I'll check it out."

Catherine shook her head. "What for? No one has lived here in years."

Junior gave her a hard look. "And you know this...how? You know no one is inside right this minute? Out back right this minute?"

Clay nodded. "You're right, of course, Junior. That's what you're here for and at least one of us is thinking straight." He put a restraining hand on Catherine before she could walk toward the porch. "Let him check it out. He knows what he's doing."

Junior took a slow walk around the exterior, then went up the porch steps and peered into windows. When he tried the front door Clay gasped when it opened. Junior raised a hand of caution, motioned them to remain where they were and went inside. Through the long windows Clay and Catherine watched him walk room to room on the first and second floor, then through the narrow basement windows viewed him inspect the room beneath the house. At last he came back outside and gave the all clear.

Junior shrugged. "I don't know why the door's unlocked, but there's no one inside and no sign that anyone has been here in a long time." He inclined his head toward the house and told Catherine, "You can go in now."

She shook her head. "I want to check the grounds first."

Knowing for what she searched and having no idea what she'd find, Clay stayed within a hair's breadth of her side as she walked around the house to the rear. The wrap around porch covered the front and both sides of the house, while a wide set of railinged wooden steps rose from the Texas soil to the solid pine back door.

"Catherine," he began. "Margaret said your grandfather bought up seventy five acres. You don't really know what he had where on these grounds."

"No," she answered, and behind her eyes he saw her mind racing with various ideas. "But I do see small outbuildings over there," she said and pointed toward the west, to a trail that led through a small patch of woods. "Since Junior said there's nothing in the house, let's go and check them out, see if they're storage units or barns, or whatever."

Clay sighed, but when she promised to stay right in front of him on the narrow rocky path that led through the woods to the outbuildings he allowed her to start. He instructed Junior to stay by the house and the cars, to make sure no one was around to come snooping or interfering.

As usual, Catherine's promises were as solid as air and she hurried ahead. He smiled to himself, knowing spontaneity and impulse were as natural to Catherine as her lyrical laugh. She started hurrying and had gotten too many yards in front of him. Clay was about to yell for her to slow down when he spotted something from the corner of his eye.

There to his left, beneath the shade of a white oak was a very small square of pickets. Sunshine drifting lazily through the branches showed what was once a tiny mound of earth, now almost completely flattened from years of exposure to the elements. A faded, weather-beaten white cross listed to the right and a small container held discolored artificial pink roses.

He turned to call her and found it unnecessary. She had come back to see what he'd found that was so interesting.

"My...brother," she whispered, her gaze riveted on the small grave.

The expression of grief on Catherine's face when she turned to Clay was an arrow straight into his heart. She threw herself into his arms and when his arms closed around her and he held her close he wasn't ashamed that his tears mingled with hers.

If he could have, he would have absorbed all her pain of betrayal.

Clay prayed that he and time would heal Catherine's broken heart.

 

Chapter Forty Six

Clay held Catherine until she had no more tears to cry. But she stayed in his arms, her head on his chest, his arms holding her, his head resting atop hers. He realized he was rocking her gently. Had he done so the entire time? He didn't know, but it felt so right, uplifted his own heart to know that his love was Catherine's source of strength.

"You know," she said finally and stepped away from the warm, protective circle and wiped her face with her fingers. "There has to be a lot more to this than just that my mother had a secret baby."

"I agree," Clay said and nodded toward where Junior waited with the cars. "Let's take a fast look around here and get back into town. Once we get settled in a hotel we can start putting together ideas on what you intend to accomplish here."

To his utter shock, she agreed.

Without a word between them, they held hands and bowed their heads in silent prayer over the baby's grave. When Catherine lifted her head, her silence continued but she walked on to the first of two outbuildings.

The barn was as sturdy, if not more so, as the house. The gray building was faded, but inside, the barn was large and drafty, with a smell of must from being closed up and deprived of sunlight. With Clay's help, Catherine propped open the wide double doors, drenching the interior with balmy breeze and intense afternoon sunshine.

Clay went first up the ladder to the loft and found the floorboards sturdy and more than worthy of supporting just about anything that might be stored.

"I don't get it," Catherine said, her voice echoing throughout the spacious, empty barn. "I don't remember any stories that my grandparents ever farmed or ranched, so why do you suppose they held on to this property?"

Clay shrugged, and went back down to the first level, waited for her, then held her steady as she neared the bottom. "Margaret said this was their first place after they got married, so maybe they kept it for sentimental reasons."

Catherine snorted and Clay saw a little of her spark return to her eyes. It might be of the sarcastic kind, but at least it replaced the almost beaten-down air she'd carried.

"Sentimental?" she repeated. "That term has taken a turn for the worse, if you know what I mean. The ring was sentimental, remember? If my grandparent's reasons mirror my mother's, well...all I can say is, I'd rather not know them. Besides, no one ever mentioned this place to me when I was growing up and my mother grew up in Ionasbranch, not out here. My grandparents held onto this property for a long time with nobody living here."

She left the barn and covered the twenty yards to the one-story storage building, its exterior painted and trimmed to match the barn. The latch and padlock were rusted, but they'd been cut off, probably with bolt cutters. The door creaked and Clay grabbed Catherine and pushed her behind him.

"Hello," he called inside and looked over toward the car to see if Junior had somehow gotten here without being seen. Junior was just coming out the front door of the house.

The door creaked again and Clay grasped ahold of it and swung it wide. The sun entered and filled the small interior. There were shelves on both sides of the narrow building, but they held nothing but yellow Texas dust. Narrow cantilever windows were closed tight and the same dank smell that wrinkled their noses in the barn greeted them here.

"Nothing," Clay said and smiled at the relief on Catherine's face. "Amazing how a creaking rusty door can put you on edge, isn't it?" he joked.

"Very funny," she answered.

Clay put an arm around her and chuckled. "Come on, let's get back to Ionasbranch. All this dust has me drooling over a shower."

"Yeah, me too."

When Clay saw Catherine's mischievous smile, the wicked sparkle in her eyes, he had to stop himself from throwing her to the ground right then and there. Two things stopped him. One was the anticipation of a creative, unhurried experience with Catherine beneath a shower's warm spray. Second was knowing they'd be hearing a repeat shout of pervs should Junior happen to glance this way.

Catherine grabbed one of the barn doors. "Help me close these," she said, then spotted something inside and released the door to go and check it out. Clay watched as her hand slid over a wall switch and flipped it. A line of overhead lights illuminated the corners the sun didn't reach.

"Well, I'll be," Clay murmured.

Catherine turned to Clay, clearly puzzled. "Who's paying the bills, Clay? If nobody was paying them there would be no power, that's common sense."

Clay shook his head, at a complete loss. "Catherine, maybe we'd better get out of here. It looks like somebody owns this place."

Catherine had an odd smile on her face. "Oh, no, Clay. When I asked Aunt Margaret where this place is, she would have said then not to bother because somebody else owns it, or my grandparents sold it years ago, or whatever. She didn't, and she didn't because she knew that they never sold it."

Clay was dubious. "I don't know..."

"I do," she exclaimed in excitement. "And that means that I own this place."

Clay rolled his eyes. "And someone's been forking out bucks to pay for your utilities when nobody lives here? Come on, Catherine," he chided. "You can't actually believe that."

"I do believe that," she insisted. "I don't know the why behind it yet, but I will. You can put that in the bank. I will find out why."

She flipped the lights back off and grabbed the barn door to close. Clay took the other one and they resecured them.

Holding Clay's hand, Catherine took off on a run for the house, calling to Junior.

When they neared and they'd caught their breath, Catherine asked, "Junior, did you happen to try any of the light switches inside the house? Or anything that requires power or water?"

Looking surprised by her question, Junior answered, "As a matter of fact I did. Not only is the power on, the house is furnished."

Catherine stopped dead and stared at him.

"I told you," Clay reminded her. "We're trespassing."

Junior shook his head. "I'm not so sure about that. It looks like nobody's been inside for a long time, years maybe. There's not a lot of furniture, but enough to get by for bare living. The dust on everything is pretty undisturbed. I think the place is abandoned, but there's no visible reason why it would be. The house isn't falling down and the roof isn't half off."

Catherine turned to Clay, and his heart dropped when he saw a line of ideas swirling behind those pretty blues.

"Let's go, Clay. I have a lot of people to see."

He held his ground. "Okay. But before we see anybody, we're going to the hotel, get a room, catch our breath, and you're going to tell me exactly what happened in that funeral parlor."

"But..."

He held up a hand to silence her. "Then we'll figure out our next logical step. Take it or leave it. Deal?"

Catherine wrapped her arms around him and drew him into a long kiss, her hands trailing inside the bottom of his shirt, her fingers teasing his bare skin, making promises as they feathered downward, downward, until he had to again fight the urge to drag her to the ground.

Clay raised his head and when green eyes met blue he saw her smug you know you want me look. He grinned and whispered into her ear, "Play your cards right and I'll let you take carnal advantage of me. And then repeat it as often as you like. Or I like."

Junior made a sound and Clay chuckled, but kept his gaze on Catherine's laughing eyes. "Go ahead, Junior. Say it."

Junior grunted. "We've got company."

 

Chapter Forty Seven

Clay and Catherine turned to where Junior pointed.

The woods on the far side of the house, opposite those where they'd walked through and found the baby's grave and the outbuildings.

A tall man dressed in a gray suit strode from the woods, an unfriendly look on the lean, tanned face that watched them from beneath a white Stetson.

He was still ten yards away when he asked, "Can I help you people?"

As he neared, Clay gave him a quick eye and signaled Junior that he'd do the talking. Catherine had other plans.

Catherine answered the man in a chilly voice. "That depends."

The man gave her a look that said he was used to running this or any show and that he'd ask the questions, questions to which they'd better have answers. "This property is not for sale," he informed them. "And you're trespassing. Please follow the road back out to the highway."

Undaunted, Catherine lifted her chin. "Where did you just come from?"

"I was driving along on the other road, patrolling the rest of this acreage when I saw you people over here. You have no business on this property."

"Says who?" Catherine asked.

The man's polite facade hardened. "Miss, this is private land. It isn't posted as such, but rarely does anyone make their way back here. Now, if you don't mind..."

Clay smiled, cut off Catherine's retort and gave a warning sign to the increasingly angry Junior. "We had no idea," Clay explained. "This is your property?"

The man didn't smile. "No. But I handle it for the owner. Have a nice day," he said pointedly.

When the man didn't move, Clay understood that he intended to make sure they left with no further problem or delay.

Clay gave him a thoughtful look. "If the owner does become interested in selling, how would we contact him or her?"

"That's not going to happen," the man told him. "Good afternoon," he added flatly.

Clay's gaze warned Catherine and Junior to stay cool and he headed them walking toward the cars. Junior didn't concern him, but Catherine sure did. He nudged her along several times, afraid she was going to stop and start reaming into the man. Only when Clay offered her ear a harsh whisper of, "Don't tip your hand," did her face change and she finally nod agreement.

But he knew it was going to be one long drive back to Ionasbranch.

**

The Ionasbranch Inn was like everything else in Texas. Big. Spacious. Beautiful.

Clay booked a suite of rooms for himself and Catherine and the room across the hall from theirs for Junior. He told Junior they wouldn't need him again until after dinner.

Catherine had been seething to the point of bursting while they checked in and Clay kept a close eye on her while he registered as Mr. and Mrs. C. Holmes Parker of Las Vegas.

They were barely inside the suite when Catherine let loose.

"Do you know how badly I wanted to order that man off my property?"

Clay's tone was mild as he put away hastily packed clothes. Too few. He'd definitely need to buy more. "You're only assuming it's your property. You don't know that or anything else yet for sure."

She started for the door. "I need to see Aunt Margaret right away, now. She owes me a few more answers."

Clay grabbed her arm and spun her back toward him. "Oh, no, not while you're in this mood you're not. You need to calm down and think, really think about what you want to ask. Also make sure that these are answers that you won't regret asking her to give you."

"Why do you have to throw a wet blanket on everything?" Catherine asked sourly, and sat down heavily in a wing chair. "You always insist I stop and think. That's very irritating."

Clay laughed. "What's irritating? That I make you think before you jump or the fact that you have to think, period?"

"Oh, aren't you so very clever," she shot back at him.

He walked over to her and grinned, then bent down and brushed her lips with his. "Actually, I am pretty clever."

Clay watched Catherine battle not to smile, but she lost, like he knew she would.

"Come here," he said and tugged her hands so she stood up. He put his arms around her. "Let me show you just how clever I can be..."

Clay's tone had been light but when his head lowered to Catherine's and her slender arms wrapped around his neck he saw flames of desire leap into her eyes.

His heart caught, and his hungry mouth sought and found hers, sending his own already smoldering fire into full ignition. The flames quickly spread downward, not stopping until his entire body felt encompassed by an inferno he hadn't thought possible.

Catherine drew her head back and when she lowered her gaze from his, Clay didn't know what to think. Was she nervous? Scared? He knew sex was as new to her as it was to him, but the signals she'd sent through her kiss and her body weren't those of fear. They were signals of excitement, of love, of anticipation of joining with him on an even deeper emotional level.

Clay tipped her face and forced her to look at him. There was such love in her eyes he thought his heart would burst. She turned her back and stripped, but instead of turning to face him she walked to the bed and threw back the blankets. She lay on the right side but her honey blonde hair spread on the left pillow, then she batted her eyelashes playfully at him and patted the bed beside her. He drank in the sight of her waiting for him to make love to her.

She was so beautiful.

Clay removed his clothes and stretched out on his side next to her, his mouth seeking hers before he was all the way on the bed. Her hands were cool on his hot skin as she caressed his back, fanning his already high flames into a bonfire.

Her moan was soft against his lips and he moved his mouth lower, inching a slow way to the hollow of her throat, feeling his breath echo against her gentle pulse.

He moved unhurriedly, lower still, dragging his mouth across her skin, barely touching her, but aware from Catherine's involuntary writhing that her inner heat was going to match his in a combustion of bonfire. When his lazy mouth found her nipple he teased, he taunted, one, then the other.

Catherine's hand had moved to touch him but she was still shy, still unsure of how to please him, how to let him know how much she wanted him, how much she loved being loved by him.

Clay raised his gaze and met hers. Little did she know that just the sight of her melted his heart, and when the sight of her melded with touching her he was on a fast track to Heaven. Heaven that was complete only when she was in his arms.

Her whisper of, "Make love to me," almost pushed him over the edge.

He rose above her and as he slowly, gently, joined their bodies together, her eyes closed and he saw tears spill.

His heart was so full he couldn't speak. Catherine opened her eyes and her hand raised to the side of his face.

Her voice was soft. "I never knew love was so beautiful."

Clay bent his head and kissed her, tears burning behind his eyelids as their bodies started to move together. Never had he felt such wonder, such love, such perfection.

Catherine matched his movements, slow for slow, fast for fast, her moans driving his heartbeat into a pounding cadence, her heat inciting his own to higher temperatures.

When she threw her head back and dug her nails into his shoulders in release he could take no more.

Clay's mouth burned his you're mine brand onto Catherine's lips when his body's warmth exploded inside of her in blessed release.

 

Chapter Forty Eight

They lay spent, still as one, until ragged breathing in two sets of lungs became normal.

Clay moved to the side and Catherine snuggled into his arms.

Clay said nothing. Words between them at such a moment were not only unnecessary, they would intrude into a perfect world.

Catherine's head was on Clay's chest, just below his left shoulder, and his left hand stroked her soft hair. He lightly kissed her head and his right arm went across her, holding her completely against him as his heart regained a steady beat.

Several minutes passed, then Clay gently whispered into her ear, "I love you."

Catherine's head tilted upward and her gaze met his. Her smile was so tender, her eyes so filled with awe of the love they'd found it left him breathless.

Her gaze dropped to his lips and she raised a finger to trace their outline. When her gaze lifted to his, she smiled and whispered, "I know."

She drew his head down and when her breath fell upon his lips her quiet voice sent his spirit, his essence, soaring into an unflawed sky. "I love you, husband. Heart, body and soul. Now and always."

She settled against him again and they simply enjoyed the nearness, the shelter from anything the world waited to throw at them. Clay knew he had all he needed right here in his arms.

Clay smiled at how Catherine had come roaring into his life out of nowhere. Thanks to Raleigh and a frisbee. He certainly never expected his life to take the turn it had, not at the hands of a beautiful honey blonde who drove him crazy, one who routinely sent his emotions ricocheting from one end of the spectrum to the other.
All of a sudden he realized the steady rise and fall of Catherine's breathing meant she'd fallen asleep. One look at her peaceful face, a small smile curving the corners of her perfect mouth, confirmed it.

Clay smiled at the image and eased Catherine onto the pillow and himself out of the bed. He padded into the bathroom and turned on the water, regulating the shower's temperature.

The intense needle spray felt wonderful and Clay chuckled, wondering how, after the physical moments he and Catherine had just shared, there could possibly be any tension in his body.

But there was.

Unbidden, memories of the stalker attacking them in Doc's house and then taunting them in the park entered and dominated his mind. He tried to shake the visuals off, but he knew Catherine believed she was taking charge of a game in which she was only someone else's pawn.

He and Catherine were going to have a talk she wouldn't like. At all.

Catherine.

If there was one image that could instantly cleanse Clay's mind of anything unpleasant, it was that of Catherine, his beautiful blue-eyed honey blonde wife. Her face flooded his mind, and when it did, a sense of incredible peace settled into his heart. As he washed, he found himself singing a very quiet, There's somethin' about the way you look tonight...

When he'd finished his shower he tied the towel around his waist and walked back into the bedroom.

Catherine was seated on the edge of the bed and offered an impish smile. "Was that for me?"

He laughed, knowing full well what she meant, but he played innocent. "The shower? No, more like because of you."

"Oh, funny, funny, funny," she mocked and went into the bathroom.

Clay heard the shower start and a grin spread across his face. How long, he wondered, should I wait before I show her that two people can fit in there?

"I forgot the shampoo," she called. "Can you reach it for me, please?"

"Can I?" he answered. "Sure."

"Okay, wise guy. I know you can. Will you?"

He returned to the bathroom, tossed her the small bottle and heard it hit the bottom of the tub.

"Nice catch," he complimented.

She pulled the shower curtain back. She had the face of an angel, but the devil had taken full control of her eyes. "As soon as I finish washing, how about if you help me lather up with this shampoo?"

"Oh, yeah," he breathed, and winked at her. "And I'll let you know if you're not finishing up washing fast enough, okay?"

"You're bad," she scolded and closed the curtain again so the puddles collecting on the floor didn't get too much bigger.

Clay heard her start to hum to herself and he smiled when he recognized the tune to one of his favorite boyhood church songs. Her humming grew louder and louder and when she burst out singing Clay realized the spirit had been too much for her. She had to sing, to share her joy with all in hearing range.

Clay lowered his head, tears stinging his eyes when Catherine moved with ease from one verse to the next of the long song.

It was the most God-awful thing he'd ever heard.

 

Chapter Forty Nine

Clay wasn't sure what the impetus was; putting a halt to Catherine's singing or visualizing her naked body under the cascading water, but he drew the curtain back, stepped inside and closed it.

She squealed in surprise when his hands went around her waist from behind.

He leaned down and nuzzled her neck. "You called for assistance?"

Catherine giggled and turned to put a dollop of soap on his nose, then her mouth met his mouth in a light-hearted kiss. "I'm just rinsing the soap off now, but I will need your help washing my hair."

"How about if I help you rinse off?" he teased and reached to take down the Water-Pik shower head.

Catherine gave him a critical eye. "Think you're up to the job?"

"Try me," he whispered into a heat-seeking kiss and directed the spray to his hand to test the temperature. Perfect. He grinned at Catherine and knew the glint in his eye said her body was about to turn to pure steam.

Clay eased Catherine's warm body back until she leaned against the cool shower tiles. His left hand held the spray, pointing it to where his right hand then gently wiped soap from her body.

He watched as Catherine leaned her head all the way back and closed her eyes, a sign that she'd turned herself over to his care, trusted completely anything he was about to do. His own body was pleading with him to hurry and get to the point, but the serenity on Catherine's face was the gauge he used to take them both down a perfect road.

He began at her shoulders, letting warm water glide the soap from her shoulders down onto her chest. Was it the combo of the gentle spray and the teasing soap that set her nipples erect? Or was it his fingertips, a feather-touch on each nipple to make sure the water removed the soap?

Clay watched as Catherine bit down on her lower lip, but she didn't open her eyes. Just watching her enjoyment of his deliberate strokes increased his heartbeat, set his body again arguing with him to hurry.

Not a chance.

Clay moved the shower head lower, to her stomach. His left hand moved the soft spray slowly back and forth, and he watched as narrow rivulets of water ran down Catherine's flat, smooth stomach and disappeared into the honey blonde area that protected his body's main interest.

Clay knelt down and aimed the spray at her thighs, outside and inside. He moved his hand gently along the inner length of Catherine's legs, first one, then the other, his fingers doing a thorough, supple massage of every inch, all under the guise of rinsing soap.

When Catherine's involuntary moans penetrated his head and he looked up from where he knelt in front of her, he nearly threw the shower head and grabbed her to complete what they both wanted, both needed.

Controlling the inferno raging inside him wasn't easy, but he fought and won.

Clay took his time.

He rose to his feet and with his right hand, gently turned her to face the shower tiles. She raised her arms and leaned her head on her hands as Clay went back to work with the spray.

"Relax and enjoy," he told her in a quiet, soothing voice as a gentle waterfall gracefully produced a wet, warm path down her back.

The fingers of his right hand moved lightly beneath the water, tracing invisible lines from her shoulders to the hollow of her back. Then, with only his index finger he lightly traced a path left to right, then up and down, stopping each time at the exact spot her back curved into her buttocks. When his finger stopped there he fanned his hand across her skin, resting lightly for no more than a second before he started all over again.

Catherine groaned and turned to face him. Her eyes smoldered.

Without a word, Clay replaced the shower head and drew Catherine into his arms.

Her mouth sought his, and her found her lips were as hot as the flames he'd seen in her eyes.

Nearing the point of explosion, Clay could wait no more.

Their mouths never parted when he lifted Catherine up, then gently eased her body down onto his, her legs encircling his back.

Clay's excitement, his passion, intensified when he felt Catherine's fire, heard her gasp at the blistering hot intimate contact between them.

He held her hips, at first unhurriedly guiding her up, down, repeating, then his pace increased. Her muffled groans combined with his within the private world where only the two of them existed.

The sounds each made was as though lightning had struck and the power of a shattering completion catapulted them both into violent release.

Sated, but holding tightly onto Catherine as still part of him, Clay somehow ended up sitting on the tub's bottom. They both breathed as hard as if they'd run twenty miles in under ten minutes.

Clay could hear his own thundering heartbeat echoing back at him through Catherine and knew easy breathing was still well out of reach.

Overcome with the power of love and seduction she held him under, Clay kissed her deeply, a kiss she more than returned, her arms wrapped around his neck.

"Clay, honey," she whispered into his ear.

"What?" he answered, his lips ministering to her neck's pulse beat.

"You never did wash my hair."

He groaned, then grabbed her in a sultry kiss. "Okay, but you need to give me at least ten minutes."

 

Chapter Fifty

Clay grinned to himself while he dressed and Catherine dried her hair.

He had washed her hair all right, and in less than his predicted ten minutes. It was nothing short of a miracle either of them could still walk.

He strolled to the window to look out on the broad, spectacular red-and-gold vista otherwise known as a Texas sunset. His initial appreciative smile wiped off when he remembered why he was here to see it in the first place.

Clay sighed. The kind of talk he and Catherine needed wasn't going to be easy and he knew ahead of time they had to reach an understanding of cooperation, of no secrets. And she would just have to accept that Junior was going to be with them everywhere, under all circumstances that didn't take place in this room. Clay didn't think Catherine would race off again like she did from Vegas to Ionasbranch, but he was going to set some hard-and-fast ground rules.

Catherine came into the bedroom from the bathroom, freshly scrubbed, her wet hair neatly combed. She walked to Clay and put her arms around his waist.

"We need to talk," he said lightly.

She leaned back and gave him a look of mock horror. "Hey, that's the typical beginning to a 'break up' talk. You're not going to add 'it's not you, it's me', are you?"

Clay didn't smile and Catherine's expression changed to concern. "What's wrong?"

He drew in, then expelled, a short breath, but managed an even tone. "We need to talk about this afternoon - about your romp at Caskets R Us."

Catherine placed both hands on her hips, scowled and shook a playful finger at him. "Now, Clay, I wasn't so bad in the shower, was I, that you're planning my funeral? Besides, you asked me not five minutes ago if I was trying to kill you, not myself, remember?"

He shook his head. "This is serious, Catherine. And there's no room for jokes."

"I can see that," she said, but her puzzled expression said she wasn't entirely sure where he was leading.

"Sit down," he said, then after she did, he took a seat on the leather wing chair, opposite where she was on the curved love seat.

Clay leaned forward, legs apart, hands clasped between his knees, his gaze intent. "Why were you in the funeral parlor?"

"I followed someone in there," was her evasive answer. "Then he almost caught me spying and I had to hide fast. It was too far to get back out the door, and, well, there was nowhere else."

He closed, then opened his eyes, struggling to keep irritation from his voice. "I'm guessing you weren't chasing after the Domino's delivery boy, so I'll assume it has something to do with your stalker."

"Yes and no."

He smiled, but kept his green eyes impassive. "Not good enough."

He wasn't impressed when her eyelids fluttered in exasperation and his unaltered look of you'd better answer me conveyed she'd wasted her time.

She nodded. "Okay. That night in Doc's house, the man that came inside...I noticed something odd about his build and noticed the same thing about the man I saw go inside the funeral parlor."

"Noticed what about his build?" Clay asked, his memory all too aware of the tremendous strength and muscle of the man who had attacked him. "A physical trait? The way he walked, stood...what?"

She shook her head and stammered, "I...I...don't know how to describe it. It's one of those things that highlight in your mind, but you can't put into words."

Clay's look was evaluative. "And you think you saw this same characteristic, or whatever, on a man who entered the funeral parlor? That's why you followed him?"

"Yes," she said, eagerness in her voice and eyes. "I didn't see him after he was inside, but I sneaked toward the office and heard them talking. About Aunt Margaret. I couldn't understand everything they were saying, but I heard her name very distinctly, as well as something about buying her house and property."

She stopped and Clay gestured with his hands for her to continue.

She grimaced. "That's when I heard them coming into the room and I panicked and jumped inside. I had just gotten into the casket when you came in and scared me half to death."

"Scared you half to death?"

"Well," she explained. "I sure didn't expect to see you standing there. I had no choice but to hurry you up to get in there with me."

Clay ignored the hint that this, too, was his fault. "And the man you heard?"

Catherine shrugged. "He must have left by another door. The second man, the one Mr. Yearwood was with when we...left...the funeral parlor, isn't the same man I followed inside."

"Can you identify the first man?"

She thought for a minute, then nodded. "I think I'd recognize again whatever it is that caught my attention at the funeral parlor."

Before he could say anything, she cut in with, "Tomorrow, will you take me out to my grandparent's homestead?"

He stared, not liking the request, but at least she hadn't said she was going, or worse, just took off on her own. "Why?"

Incredible sadness swept her face. "There's something I need to do at my brother's grave. I have to, Clay." Her smile faded, but the sadness stayed in her eyes. "I am going out there, Clay - with or without you."

 

Chapter Fifty One

Against his better judgement, Clay agreed to take her to revisit the homestead the next day, but let her know that in addition to himself, Junior would be her constant companion.

He saw the irritation in her eyes, but when she relaxed further into the love seat all she said was, "Okay. I want to go out there first thing, and when we get back I'll have my questions together for Aunt Margaret."

He cleared his throat. "Fair enough. Now, I made the connection, just like you did, that it's no coincidence that your stalker, in lieu of yours, needed a phony body and that he and Yearwood had their heads together. Any idea why?"

She grimaced. "If I did, I'd have this pretty well figured out."

Clay frowned. "Is it possible this man convinced Yearwood that he's your brother?"

Catherine shook her head and her eyes showed deep thought. "According to Margaret, no one knew I had a brother."

Clay's laugh held no humor. "Oh, I beg to differ. It's looking more and more like your mother's secret is so secret after all." A flashback of how Yearwood's expression changed when Catherine asked to whom he'd been talking jumped into his mind. "But it does look like Yearwood was willing to help out with something illegal. How long have you known him?"

"Most of my life," Catherine responded. "His son, Ray, was in my class from kindergarten through high school. Even though Ionasbranch is a small town, my family wasn't friendly with his family. No one said why, other than that it was over something that happened long before I was born."

Clay was quiet, then, "Could he be helping out of revenge?"

Catherine laughed. "If you mean is Mr. Yearwood willing to help someone either kill me or pretend I'm dead because of a feud with my family, and one that started more than twenty years ago to boot, I hardly think so." Her face sobered. "One good thing did come from hiding in that casket."

Clay stared at her, unsure he'd heard correctly. "I don't think I want to know what it is," he stated.

Catherine's smile was tight. "If the stalker didn't know I was here before, there's not a doubt in my mind Mr. Yearwood filled him in, and fast."

Clay leaned back and gazed into space, at nothing, his words not really for anyone but himself. "And if Yearwood is involved, who knows how many others have at least a finger somewhere in this? It could be anyone."

**

The following morning, the drive to the old homestead was as slow and tedious as it had been the first time. Every time he glanced in the rearview mirror, Junior's expression was as displeased as on the initial trip.

Clay was vigilant the entire drive and saw no one and nothing suspicious. They weren't followed and the peaceful homestead looked empty of anyone but them.

When they climbed from the car, Catherine's gaze traveled from one end of the house to the other. She turned to Clay, excitement in her voice.

"We can stay here."

Clay nearly choked. "Forget it."

"No, really," she argued, and pointed to the corners of the house. "There are flood lights all over. No one can get close without us knowing about it. What if we send an alarm company out here to install and set up a system? Then no one will have access except us."

"Are you crazy?" he shouted. "Catherine, you don't know that you own this place. The man who tossed us off of here yesterday seemed to know who he works for, and it isn't you."

Catherine tossed her head and sniffed. "I'm confident this is mine."

Clay laughed. "Good for you. Let's see how your confidence holds up in court if someone else has the deed."

She shot him a dirty look and he conceded, "We'll look into it. No promises."

Her face lit up. "About staying here?"

Puzzled, he asked, "Why on earth..."

Catherine's face became a mask. "I want a showdown, Clay. And I'm not stupid. I'll be prepared for anything this stalker can think up, do, or anything else. But it's going to be on my turf, under my conditions."

He sighed, unwilling to upset her further by telling her just how foolish she was being, so he decided to humor her until they returned to town. "I'll look inside the house and see what kind of condition it's in, okay?"

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his nose. "I'm going over...there," she said softly and pointed toward the small grave. "I won't be long."

Junior was instantly at her elbow and when Catherine looked at Clay he only smiled. She sighed, said nothing and started walking.

Clay walked inside the still unlocked house.

The house was more than livable. Furniture was sparse, but sturdy, though coated with yellow Texas dust. Appliances, though old, worked.

When he got to the second floor he entered the front bedroom, walked to the window and glanced toward the spot where Catherine now sat, Junior less than five feet from her.

Clay froze in horror, then, with his heart in his throat, raced downstairs, out the front door and toward the small grave, shouting at the top of his lungs, "No! Catherine, run!"

Junior's gun was in his hand. Junior said something to Catherine and her head turned toward him. Junior fired.

Catherine's slight figure collapsed and Junior fired again.

Screaming in rage, Clay hurled himself at Junior.

 

Chapter Fifty Two

Clay hit Junior with such force the big man had no time to react and went down on top of the small grave, with Clay sprawled on top of him. Clay grabbed the gun that he'd knocked loose and rose to his feet with it leveled on Junior.

Clay's hand tightened on the gun and his voice was hoarse, his heart a raw, jagged open wound he knew would never heal. "Why?" he demanded, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to empty the gun into Junior.

His expression stunned, Junior stayed on his back but raised his hands above his head. He seemed to understand immediately that any sudden movement on his part would not be wise.

Clay took little notice that the gravesite had collapsed under Junior's weight.

Junior's voice was shaky. "I had to do it. What are you doing?"

Clay's tone was so cold it scared even him. "You had to do it?" He knew from the look on Junior's face that green arctic freeze emanated from his eyes.

Still on the ground, Junior did an ungainly backward slither, trying to get away from Clay. "I did what was necessary. What gives?" Junior sent a nervous look from Clay to a spot behind Clay, then back again.

"What gives?" Clay shouted, then from the corner of his eye he saw Catherine, pure astonishment on her face, watching Clay but circling around him toward Junior.

Shocked wordless, Clay's gun hand dropped, in synch with his jaw dropping.

Catherine stared at him as though he were crazy. "Clay..." She said nothing more but hurried to where Junior had now sat up. "Are you all right?" she asked as he rose to his feet. "Do you need a doctor?"

Junior shook his head, his gaze not leaving Clay's. Then without warning, Junior grabbed Clay into a bear hug.

Clay thought he would squeeze him to death.

When Junior released him, Clay was further confused when Junior smiled at him and put his hand out to shake. Leery, Clay hesitated, then shook Junior's hand.

Junior's voice was quiet. "I just figured it out, what you think you saw. And you did exactly what I would have done. No hard feelings."

Baffled, Clay looked at Catherine. "I watched him shoot you. Twice. I saw you fall.''

Junior walked to where Catherine had been sitting when Clay looked out the window. He bent forward and when he lifted his hand from the ground he held the body of a three foot long snake.

Astounded, Clay finally turned to Catherine when she cleared her throat.

"Western Diamondback," she explained to the shell-shocked Clay. "And not even a big one. You saw me faint from fear when Junior told me 'don't move' and I saw the reason for it was less than two feet away and staring at me."

Clay couldn't take his gaze from the rattlesnake.

Catherine giggled and Junior tossed the snake as far as he could into the woods.

Clay ran a hand through his hair. "Junior...I..." he broke off. How do you apologize for something like this?

"Forget it," Junior told him and for one awful second Clay feared he was getting another bear hug.

"Oh, my God, look!" cried Catherine, who had knelt to the small grave.

Clay hurried to her. "I'll have it repaired," he assured her. "Or better yet, we can have him moved..." he trailed off when Catherine started to frantically dig away more of the dirt.

At first Clay wasn't sure what she was doing. The grave was more a shallow hole than a grave, he noted, but the body placed here had been that of an infant so how much space was actually needed?

When Catherine's now dirt-covered hands went into a frenzy of movement, Clay interceded, grabbing her hands in his, knowing she would later be distraught at doing this to the grave.

"Wait," he told her quietly. "We'll have this done officially. Have him moved."

Catherine jerked her hands from his, her eyes blazing with emotion. "You don't understand, Clay. When Junior landed on the grave, well, it's so old it couldn't stand up against the added weight and it kind of fell inward. I just saw the sun reflect off something inside that hole, and I'm certain it wasn't a casket."

This time with Clay's help, Catherine began digging again, brushing to the side small piles of extracted dirt. Then with a crow of triumph she pulled out a small metal box.

The locked gray box was definitely not a casket.

And it was the only thing in the hole.

 

Chapter Fifty Three

Even though he, too, was impatient to open the locked gray metal box, Clay insisted they get it back to the hotel room first. Too many possibilities for mistake or mishap at the homestead, he'd argued to the resistant Catherine.

Ignoring Clay, Catherine kept shaking the box, but other than the gray box itself jangling, the sounds coming from inside the metal box were indistinguishable, impossible to identify as anything.

Resolute in not losing another precious minute, Catherine implored Junior to shoot off the lock. They were on seventy five acres of private ground and it was highly unlikely anyone would hear the shot, especially since no one came around after the two shots fired that killed the rattlesnake.

Clay's final point, and the one to which Catherine had no rebuttal, was that unless she was willing to go public with her connection to the homestead, should the man who'd patrolled here the previous day show up, he could take anything away from her that was deemed private property.

Junior managed to get most of the dirt back into the shallow grave, then brush it back-and-forth with pine branches to give it an almost untampered with look. As an afterthought, he retrieved the body of the snake and threw it onto the grave, insinuating to anyone examining the site that the act of killing the snake disturbed the ground.

Clay gave Junior the high sign of approval when he'd finished setting the little scene. Then they climbed into their cars for the drive back.

All the way to the hotel, Catherine held the box on her lap, the sun gleaming, at times blinding, on the gray metal and its small brass lock.

Clay watched Catherine's face, how her gaze never lifted from the box. Watched how it changed and changed again, running through one emotion to another in less than a fraction of a second. He reached out and gave her hand a squeeze of encouragement, wanting to tell her that all of her answers were inside that box.

He didn't.

He couldn't.

He was as clueless as she was as to whether or not the gray box held the final or any piece of her family puzzle. It could just as possibly hold something that was worthless to anyone but the person who buried it, or, worse, something that might further widen and lengthen what seemed an unsolvable riddle.

All Clay could do for Catherine was squeeze her hand in support. She took her gaze from the box only long enough to offer him a tiny smile of gratitude.

**

Once in the hotel room, Clay said nothing as Junior picked the lock in less than a minute.

"Benefits of a misspent youth," was all Junior would say, but he grinned and handed the box and the lock to Clay.

"Go get some dinner," Clay advised him and gave the box to Catherine. When Junior had left, he joined Catherine on the sofa.

The box was open and in her hand was a note, a half-sheet of lined paper.

Her look to Clay was one of sheer bafflement and she handed him the note. "It's my mother's handwriting," she told him. "But this makes absolutely no sense."

Clay studied the words and said aloud, "Homestead basement. East wall xx - ten bricks north x - four west xx- two south - x - six steps".

Catherine frowned. "What do you make of that?"

Clay shrugged, as stumped as Catherine. "I don't know. I was in that basement and so was Junior," he said, "and there are no bricks. This is directions to locate something in a different house."

Clay's mind was tugging at a memory that wouldn't quite come forward. Then it hit him. "Catherine, the 'homestead' Margaret referred to was built when your grandparents got married?"

"Yes, or right after they married, I think. Why?"

He nodded. "The house we've been going to, the one where we found this grave, isn't old enough to be the one Margaret talked about." His eyes sparked with excitement at what he'd learned from his brief visit inside the house that was no more than thirty years old. It was not the house they thought it was.

"Catherine, where we've been going the last few days. That house is not your grandparents homestead, though I do believe the phony grave was placed there deliberately as some sort of a decoy. There's another, much older, house somewhere on that property, and since it was built 'on site', so to speak, it's probably deep in a wooded area. That's where we'll have to go for the answers we need to find."

 

Chapter Fifty Four

Catherine insisted on going immediately to see Margaret, but kept inside of her thoughts all through the drive over. Clay didn't press and Catherine's face gave away nothing.

When they walked up the steps to the one-time boarding house, Clay pulled Catherine to the side before she could raise the longhorn doorknocker.

His gaze held hers level. "You sure that you're up to this?"

"Yes."

He sighed and stopped her again before she could knock. "Catherine...promise me you'll keep it together if Margaret either doesn't have the answers you need or they aren't the ones you want."

She smiled, but her eyes were sad. "I can't make a promise based on an answer I don't have. Don't ask me to do that, Clay."

He hugged her, his words soft against her ear. "Always know that I'm here for you, Catherine. No matter what, no matter when, no matter where."

She buried her face in his neck. "I do know," she whispered lightly. "Where do you think I get my renewed strength?"

The front door opened and Margaret, looking unsure, offered them a timid smile.

Catherine pulled away from Clay and gave Margaret a brief hug. "I have so many questions," she told her, and hearing the catch in Catherine's voice Clay's quick, reassuring squeeze to her hand earned him a grateful smile.

**

Catherine waited until they were seated in Margaret's living room and they each had a glass of lemonade. The tall iced glasses were more of a prop, a tension breaker, than they were a needed refreshment.

Catherine started to speak twice, but halted, trailing off into nothing.

It wasn't until this moment, when Clay saw Catherine, usually bubbly, effervescent and poised Catherine, saw her confidence and self-assurance at the lowest he'd ever seen it that he understood just how hard this situation had become for her.

Finally, Catherine said, "The homestead, Aunt Margaret. Why did you send me to the wrong place?"

Margaret lowered her gaze. "I don't know what you mean," she murmured.

"You do," Catherine stated and dopped her mother's handwritten note on the coffee table.

Margaret gasped, paled, and her hand flew to her throat. Fear covered her face and she stared at the scrap of paper as though Satan himself was attached to it.

Clay reached out to her, deeply concerned. "Margaret, are you okay?"

Margaret didn't answer him and her gaze stayed glued on the paper when she spoke to Catherine. "Forget you found this, Catherine. Burn it." Then she did raise her head to look at Catherine. "Burn it to ashes and get as far away from Ionasbranch as you can get."

Catherine was speechless, but Clay's mind raced. "Margaret, we need your help. What do you know about this? Where on that property is the old homestead and why was that one specific area made up to look like a grave?"

The front door opened and a deep male voice called, "Hellooooo! Aunt Margaret, are you home?"

Margaret looked stunned, then hurried toward the door, but a tall man in his late twenties entered the room, offering everyone a broad smile.

"I guess you didn't hear the door, Aunt Margaret." He gave a questioning look to Catherine and Clay, then asked Margaret, "Am I early?"

"No...no," Margaret answered, but Clay saw she was flustered and pretty much at a loss for words.

"Catherine," she began. "You remember Lucas Foster. Lucas, this is Clay, Catherine's husband."

The man's smile stayed wide as he said, "Pleased to meet you," and shook Clay's hand. He turned to Catherine, and Clay saw Catherine's quick move that put the paper in her pocket. "I'm betting you don't remember me. I was only six when my family moved to Austin."

Her smile rueful, Catherine shook her head when she took his hand. "I'm sorry, but I really don't remember you."

Margaret broke in with, "Well, no matter. Lucas is here to help me with a personal matter...business. Can we talk later, Catherine?"

Before Catherine could answer, Clay said, "Of course. Margaret, we'd like very much for you to join us for dinner at the hotel. How about if we pick you up at, oh, six o'clock?"

Margaret looked nervous and didn't quite meet Clay's eyes, but she nodded and said, "Thank you. I'll be waiting for you."

After exchanging polite goodbyes, Clay and Catherine left.

Clay laughed. "You don't recognize your cousin Lucas?"

Catherine sighed. "That man isn't my cousin, mainly because Aunt Margaret isn't really my aunt. She was my grandmother's best friend throughout their lives and so much a part of my family that I always called her Aunt Margaret. I never knew the reason, but she was pretty much estranged from a large branch of her own family so I didn't really know them."

Halfway to the car, Catherine's terse voice suddenly sliced the air. "Clay, tonight at dinner I want you to make an offer on Aunt Margaret's house."

Clay raised an eyebrow but said nothing, just waited for an explanation. It didn't come until they'd reached the car and Catherine turned determined eyes on him.

"Lucas Foster...that's the man Mr. Yearwood was talking to in the back room. I didn't get a frontal view of him then, I only saw him when he went into the funeral parlor, but I think I recognize his voice. They were discussing buying Aunt Margaret's house and property. I don't know how or why, but this all has something to do with what's happening to me."

Clay's jaw dropped and his gaze flew to the house, then back to Catherine. "You said you recognized a physical something about the man at the funeral parlor, that it was the same man who broke into Doc's house. Are you saying..."

Clay's heart skipped a beat when he saw a glimmer of terror mix with the ice in Catherine's smile and in her eyes.

"I'm saying," she stated softly, "that we just gave a cordial hello to, and shook the hand of, the man who wants or needs me dead."

 

Chapter Fifty Five

Clay pulled up in front of Margaret's house at exactly six o'clock.

The front door opened almost instantly and Margaret came out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. A pink ribbon adorned her perfect white bun, and Clay teased that Catherine had better watch out, because dynamite competition was coming to dinner.

Clay's eyes sparkled with mischief when he hurried to offer his arm for her to descend the steps. "Catherine wanted to make sure everything is real nice when you get there, but she may be sorry she sent me alone. You're a real heart-thief, Margaret."

Though she waved her hand in merry dismissal, Margaret blushed under Clay's witty banter, her glowing skin a color compliment to her pale pink tea-length dress.

At the car Clay presented Margaret with a wristlet of white baby roses.

Clay smiled to himself at the happiness such a small gesture brought into her aged brown eyes. "Catherine ordered your favorite, fried chicken, for dinner."

"As long as Catherine didn't cook it herself," Margaret stated with a wry grin. "She near burned my kitchen down more than once, trying to be helpful." She smiled at Clay and sighed. "Well, that might be a tad unfair of me. I'm guessing Catherine probably got past all those accidents and missteps a long time ago."

Clay stopped at a red traffic light and leaned toward Margaret. In a conspiratorial whisper he confided, "Then you'd be guessing wrong."

**

Catherine was waiting when they arrived and showed Margaret around the hotel suite, taking particular care at the window to point out the sun dipping toward the horizon over the Palo Duro Canyon and beyond. Then they joined Clay at the dining table, carefully set and decorated by the hotel staff.

All courses to the meal had arrived only minutes before Clay and Margaret, and were kept warm in special heat boxes. Unable to resist, Clay asked in his politest voice for Catherine to share at least one of the many stories of almost burning down Margaret's kitchen.

The shared laughs and good feelings spilled over, lasting right up until Catherine set three dishes of creme brulee on the white tablecloth.

"Aunt Margaret," she said easily. "Clay would like to talk to you about your house. We're very interested in buying it."

Margaret was just about to taste the creme brulee, but stopped at Catherine's statement. Her face and voice were puzzled. "My house? What would you young people want with that big old rambler? Besides," she added and began to eat the creamy dessert, "I have no plans to sell."

"Oh," Catherine said casually, and Clay tensed when he saw Catherine deliberately ignoring his go slow signal. His gut warned him the night would not end on the same pleasant note with which it had started.

"Aunt Margaret," Catherine continued. "I heard Lucas and Mr. Yearwood talking about your house and property. About buying it."

Clay watched Margaret, saw that her steady gaze on her dessert was not so much interest in eating it as it was in not looking at either him or Catherine.

"You're mistaken," she said stiffly.

"I'm not," Catherine said flatly.

Without warning, Margaret threw her spoon onto the table and turned angry eyes to Catherine. "Yes, dear, you are mistaken. That house and property are not for sale. Nor will they be."

Clay shot Catherine a look of reproach and this time she not only acknowledged his chastisement, she blushed. Catherine raised both her hands in a gesture of peace, then negated it when she blurted, "I'm sorry, I really am. It's just that I have such fond memories of that place that I didn't want it to..."

Annoyed that Catherine would further stress Margaret, Clay clenched his teeth, then said, "Catherine."

Clay locked gazes with Catherine, and when she rose to her feet with the light of battle in her eyes, he knew the friendly, intimate dinner had reached an unfortunate end. Despite his attempts to rein her in, Catherine intended to use tonight as an avenue to elusive answers.

Catherine stared down at Margaret. "Aunt Margaret," she said quietly. "I love you more than anything and I would never do or say anything to hurt you. You know that. But someone is trying to kill me," she ended forcefully.

Margaret's head drew back as though she'd been slapped. "Oh, no," she exclaimed, and began to cry.

Now thoroughly angry, Clay threw his napkin onto the table and went to Margaret. He shot Catherine a we'll deal with this later look and bent to ask Margaret if she was okay.

Catherine also began to cry. Her frustrated, "Aunt Margaret!" was a near shout and she threw her own napkin onto the table. "Tell me the truth. The old homestead and those seventy five acres. I own them, don't I? That all passed to my mother when her parents died, and then to me when my mother died, didn't it?"

Margaret brushed Clay out of her line of vision and met Catherine's gaze. "No, they don't belong to you. None of it belongs to you."

When he saw the stunned look on her face, Clay felt almost as sorry for Catherine as he did for Margaret.

Looking stupefied, Catherine asked, "What? They've been sold?"

"No," Margaret said softly. "Not sold. Never sold."

Bewilderment silenced Catherine, then she whispered, "Then who..."

Dry-eyed, Margaret rose to her feet. "Me."

Clay stared at Margaret. The old homestead, the seventy five acres, the house and property Catherine overheard the two men discuss buying from Margaret.

It was all one and the same.

Clay and Catherine's gazes met and held over Margaret's head and Clay saw that Catherine's shocked thoughts mirrored his own.

If it all belonged to Margaret and a plan was being hatched or already underway to buy it, then why did they need to kill Catherine to get it?

 

Chapter Fifty Six

Clay glanced at Catherine, said, "Sit down", then when she did he held Margaret's chair for her. His steady no-nonsense look to Margaret finally received a curt nod and she, too, sat in her seat.

He sighed when he pulled his chair closer to Margaret's and drummed his fingers on the table. "That's it, of course."

Margaret frowned and Clay realized that even if she didn't know what had been happening to Catherine, she wasn't going to be overly surprised by it.

Clay held Margaret's gaze steady. "You're the one."

Margaret shook her head and Clay saw discomfiture in her eyes. He was right. She didn't know various things, but none of them would come as revelation.

All she offered was, "I don't know what you mean."

Clay nodded, affirming to himself what he'd suspected. "You're the one," he repeated. "The man who stalked Catherine these last three months and made attempts on her life - you're the one he needed to show her body to, to prove she was dead."

Catherine and Margaret both gasped.

Margaret leaped to her feet, but she was so shaken that Clay had to rise and steady her with his hands.

Her face ashen, she stared at Clay, then Catherine, then Clay. "That's not true," she protested. She turned to Catherine who had risen to unsure feet. "I would never hurt you. Never." She directed an angry glare to Clay. "How dare you!"

Clay used his grip on her arms to guide her back into her seat. "Simmer down," he instructed and waved Catherine back into her chair. But Clay remained standing, paced as he thought, with silence dominating the room as he walked an imaginary path into the plush carpet.

When he'd collected his thoughts he held up a hand to Catherine, letting her know she was not to interrupt, then he sat down to question Margaret. "How long has it been since you've seen Catherine?"

Margaret sent Catherine a quick look of reproach before answering Clay. "About five years. Not since her parent's death and she sold their house to help pay for her schooling. Up until three years ago I understood she didn't come back because she was busy with school, working through the summer to help pay for extras."

Clay waited, then prompted, "And?"

"Well," Margaret stated. "About three years ago even the phone calls and cards stopped. When I called the school to make sure everything was all right they told me she'd dropped out and they had no further information."

Clay looked at Catherine. "Three years ago. That's when Randall Walker started stalking you, correct?"

Catherine nodded and Clay turned back to Margaret. "A deranged man named Randall Walker was stalking Catherine, but several months ago he was killed in a so-called mugging. We don't know why, but someone has taken over for Walker and the attacks have been stepped up. In Vegas, this person went so far as to kill a very close look-alike. We think he intended to bring that body here, in an attempt to prove to you that Catherine is dead. When he learned the authorities had discovered Catherine is still alive this man panicked and tried to bring cremated remains here instead, hoping they'd be enough for you."

Margaret looked mystifed. "I never heard of Randall Walker."

Catherine shook her head. "I don't think Randall Walker has anything to do with this, Aunt Margaret. He was just a convenient avenue for whatever this other person is doing. I think whomever is chasing me now thought no one would check to see if Walker is dead and he'd get blamed for my death. But it looks like Mr. Yearwood is somehow involved in this."

Visibly stunned, Margaret drew her head back. "Involved? Curtis Yearwood...in trying to kill you? Surely, you're mistaken."

"I'm not mistaken, Aunt Margaret. Lucas Foster is the man I heard talking in the back room with Mr. Yearwood about your property. I recognized certain physical things about Lucas. He's the one stalking me."

Clay studied Margaret's face, saw every drop of color slowly fade.

"That's not possible," she insisted. "Curtis...he would never..." she trailed off.

Clay sighed. "He would. He did."

Margaret waved a fragile hand in the air. "You don't understand. Lucas Foster is his son-in-law, married to Hannah Yearwood."

For a second, Clay was baffled by Margaret's strong defense of Yearwood. Then the reason hit home with all the unpleasantness of reality.

"Margaret," he said softly, and repeated it until she met his gaze. He saw, behind the tears glimmering in her eyes, that she saw his question coming. She nodded even before he'd asked, "Your maiden name. It was Yearwood, wasn't it?"

 

Chapter Fifty Seven

Catherine's, "Whaaat?" split the air.

Clay turned to Catherine. "This is all tied in together and it somehow goes back to that old homestead."

Margaret's voice rose to a shrill protest. "He would never...no, you're wrong..."

Clay snapped, "Margaret," and brought her back from what sounded like the edge of near hysteria.

Tears spilled down her cheeks and Clay's heart ached for what the old woman had no choice but to accept. His voice was gentle. "It looks like Yearwood was going to help Foster cover up that it wasn't really Catherine's body. We need you to tell us why there's suddenly a rush on needing her dead."

Catherine interjected with, "Aunt Margaret, Lucas showed up when we were at your house. I don't think it was coincidence, and he said he was there on a personal matter, business. That jives with what I heard between him and Mr. Yearwood in the funeral parlor. That personal matter is the sale of the homestead and those seventy five acres, isn't it?"

Margaret's tone was harsh. "None of it is for sale. At any price. No matter what."

Catherine persisted. "But that is what he wanted, isn't it?"

The old woman lowered her head and kept her gaze on the rug. "Yes."

Clay frowned. "Did you hire someone, a company or a group, to patrol the property, to keep trespassers off?"

Margaret shook her head. "No."

Clay's laugh was humorless. "Then I suspect that Yearwood or Foster hired thugs to do that. Probably Yearwood, and I'm guessing they told him we've been there."

Catherine cleared her throat. "Aunt Margaret...you knew the grave was empty, didn't you? That the baby isn't buried there?"

Clay saw fear flit through Margaret's eyes when they met Catherine's, but no fear came through in her voice. "Yes, I knew the grave is empty. Your mother had her reasons, Catherine. Good reasons."

Clay gestured and reclaimed Margaret's attention. "The house. Where is the original homestead? The place where you sent us isn't it and you were well aware of it when you gave us directions to it. I can only assume you hoped Catherine would be fooled by the phony grave, be satisfied and go away."

"Where is my brother's grave?" Catherine demanded.

Margaret remained silent, then spoke in a quiet, resigned voice. "Leave Ionasbranch, Catherine. Tonight. Nothing good can come from you being here."

Clay stared at Margaret, but told Catherine to get out the paper she found in the locked metal box. When she'd handed it to him, Clay held it up in front of Margaret. "What does this mean?"

Margaret's smile was the saddest smile Clay had ever seen on anyone. Her, "Disaster," was barely audible.

Something kept nudging Clay's memory but he couldn't pinpoint it. Finally he turned it off and continued, "When was this second house built?"

Margaret smiled at Catherine. "That was a wedding present to your parents, but they never lived there. Your father unexpectedly got a job that kept him out of town a lot and he wanted your mother to stay near to her parents. Then you were born and they never did move out there."

Clay frowned as at least one major question stuck him. "How did Curtis Yearwood know that Catherine had a brother? You said no one knew about it."

"No one did," Margaret confirmed. "There were rumors for awhile but when Catherine's parents married those rumors died off. I don't know how Curtis found out. Certainly not from me."

Catherine tapped the table. "Is that why my mother had a false grave put in? To keep the real one from being found?" She looked puzzled. "But...big deal? If the idea is to not let people know there was a baby, then why put in a phony grave? That makes no sense."

Clay held up the paper. "And why hide something like this in a false grave? Whom did she expect to find it, if anyone?" The he said, "Oh. She did expect, or want, it to be found. By Catherine. Right, Margaret?"

Margaret didn't answer and Clay forged on. "Oh, yeah, I'm right. And that's why you sent Catherine to that spot, to that house. If she hadn't found out on her own that it was a phony grave, then somehow or other you would have made sure she found out and dug up this paper. Even though when you saw this paper you said burn it to ashes, you wanted her to find it. You needed her to find it."

Catherine was floored. "Clay, what are you getting at?"

Clay turned to Catherine. "There's something inside the original homestead that's worth killing someone to get. These are the directions to it. This is why Margaret won't sell that property and why Yearwood wants it so bad." He turned to Margaret. "Now, you're going to tell me how Catherine fits into this."

Clay's cell phone rang and when he saw Doc was the caller he answered it.

"Clay, I haven't heard from you in awhile."

Clay sighed and kept a light tone. "Everything is fine here, Doc."

"Is there any way you can get home for a day or two?"

Clay laughed. "Not really. Is something wrong?"

Doc's laugh was quiet. "Not wrong, exactly. But Raleigh's kind of droopy and I think she needs to see you, not just hear your voice."

Guilt went through Clay. He'd gotten so caught up in everything, and he'd been so satisfied that she was in good hands that he hadn't given Raleigh more than passing thoughts.

"Clay, can you drive back from Vegas for just a day or two?"

Clay drummed his fingers on the table. "No, I'm not in Vegas right now, but I'll tell you what. I'll fly in tonight, pick up Raleigh and bring her back with me. I'll give you a call with what time to get me at the airport."

After pleasant goodbyes they hung up.

Clay put his phone back into his pocket and turned to speak to Catherine and Margaret. "I have to fly back to L.A. and get Raleigh. Margaret, I want you to stay here with Catherine." He glared at Catherine. "Under penalty of extreme pain and punishment you are not to leave this room until I return. Understand?"

Catherine's face was anxious. "Is Raleigh all right?"

Clay grinned. "She's fine. Just missing us, is all." His face sobered. "Promise, Catherine. No baloney this time. We'll pick this entire business up right here where we left off when I get back. And we will get to the bottom of all these secrets everyone but us knows."

"Promise," Catherine conceded.

Clay nodded and headed for the door. "Okay. Now, I have to go and tell Junior I'll be gone overnight and he's to stick to you like a Texas burr."

**

Clay returned five minutes later and found Margaret alone. "Where's Catherine?"

Margaret was making a neat stack of the dinner dishes, something Clay told her to stop, that the hotel staff was paid to do that. He repeated his original question and Margaret smiled at him.

"Catherine got a phone call right after you left. When she hung up she told me she had to meet some man at The Sugar Shack, the hotel's dessert and pastry building out back. He said he had a very special surprise for her."

 

Chapter Fifty Eight

Clay felt as though ice water had been thrown on him, but he ignored Margaret's, "wait!", ran across the hall, pounded on Junior's door and was halfway to the elevator before a startled Junior opened the door.

Clay threw, "Catherine got a call to meet some man...in a building out back," over his shoulder, gave the elevator's down button several hard, frustrated hits, then raced for the stairwell. He didn't even notice the loud, clanging descent down the metal stairs to the first floor, just that Junior was hot on his heels.

The lobby was deserted and they ran outside and into the evening air, with Clay leading the way around the back of the building toward the quaint, one-story, long clapboard building a hundred yards behind the hotel. The Sugar Shack sign was unlit but it was big enough to clearly read at this distance.

He pointed. "There."

Clay slowed as they neared the building, to catch his breath, ease his thundering heartbeat and to mold at least one rational thought of how to approach. His hand on Junior's arm stopped Junior from going up the building's low front steps.

"Hold up," Clay whispered, his gaze scanning the building. Behind the building, the Sugar Shack's parking lot, with the exception of a lone red Nissan, stood empty. "It looks like the front end is some sort of bakery storefront."

He gestured to the left side and kept his voice a near whisper. "You take that side, I'll take this one. There's got to be another entrance."

Making no sound, Junior slid into the shadows.

Clay followed suit and cautiously approached the first of many windows in a long row down the building's side. The first group of windows revealed he'd been right. Nightlights burned in the bakery's storefront.

His steps increased their haste as he found nothing. There couldn't possibly be a second building called The Sugar Shack behind the hotel so he knew he was in the right place. A chill shot through him when he thought, unless Margaret got the message wrong.

Out of the blue, a quiet murmur of voices carried to him on the evening air. He moved from window to window, frustration rising when he saw nothing.

He rounded the building to its rear and saw the open door. Junior was still making his way down the left side and Clay was about to signal him when he glanced inside the back door.

And saw Catherine.

Across the room, she was seated at a long table, her back to him. The only light in the room came from a candle of some sort on the table in front of her. But even in the poor light he could see she was blindfolded.

A short, bald man stood beside her. His voice was low as he bent forward and gestured wildly with his left hand to something on the table in front of Catherine.

Horror flooded Clay when candlelight glinted from the long knife in the man's right hand.

"I wasn't sure I'd be able to surprise you," he said. "But after I use the knife I'll take you to the freezer."

Clay charged. Silently. From behind. With everything he had, with every ounce of force he could muster.

The man yelped when Clay's body slammed his and knocked him to the floor.

To Clay's everlasting relief Junior had arrived less than a breath behind him and jerked the knife from the man's hand.

Catherine yanked the blindfold off, turned and rose, then stared at Clay, then Junior, then Clay, who still pinned the man to the floor.

Clay knew from Catherine's face there would be no tears, no thank God you got here in time.

Catherine held Clay's gaze. "If it's not too much to ask, would you please get off Chef Andrews?"

 

Chapter Fifty Nine

Even though he didn't want to, Clay slowly turned his face toward the man beneath him on the floor, the man he'd bowled over.

The chef's mild look surprised him, but Junior's "uh oh" didn't.

"Well," said the chef. "I thought I'd be pleased to meet you. Now I'm not so sure."

Clay couldn't get off fast enough. The hand he extended to the short man to help him up was a second too slow. Junior beat him to it. Clay pretended not to see Junior's smirk.

"What are you doing here?" Catherine demanded.

Clay's jaw dropped, then he felt the heat of an angry flush spread up his neck. "You're kidding, right?"

"Hardly."

"Look," the chef interjected. "If this is a bad time..."

"No," Catherine answered him, though her gaze stayed locked with Clay's. "This is a great time."

Good manners dictated that Clay offer an introduction and apology, but good manners was far from his mind. He turned to the chef, said politely, "I'll be very happy to talk with you in a minute. But first..." Clay moved closer to Catherine, his breathing increasing with his irritation. "I told you to stay put. I wasn't gone five minutes and you disappeared. What did you expect me to do? Say oh, well and fly off to L.A. anyway?"

Junior, standing beside Chef Andrews, leaned over, inclined his head toward the much shorter man and said in an aside, "On the table. Third cake from the left. What kind is it?"

Exasperated, Clay turned to tell Junior he could talk about food later. He stopped when he saw the chef's face beam.

"My specialty. A light french vanilla cake with strawberry butter cream filling and a froth of strawberry butter frosting. 'Always and Forever' glitters by candlelight."

Clay thought Junior would kiss the man.

Clay turned back to Catherine, trying not to smile at the pure adoration in Junior's eyes. He could almost picture Junior bowing down in front of the short, bald chef who had just won his heart.

Catherine was another matter entirely and he was still pretty ticked, though judging by the look in her eyes she matched him tick for tick. "Explain," he demanded, "why you pulled such an immature stunt."

She pushed her face into his. "Chef Andrews saw us in the hotel and contacted me about preparing a wedding cake, a gift from the hotel. I wanted it to be extra special and Chef Andrews went to a lot, I repeat, a lot of personal time and trouble to come up with these samples for me. He made an innocent phone call to me tonight to say he was ready for me to make a choice."

Junior's face lit up. "Can I try them all?"

"Junior!" was Clay's frustrated reaction. He glared at Catherine. "If you're waiting for me to say I'm sorry...I'm not."

He immediately turned to the chef and extended his hand, exhanging a warm handshake with the man. "To you, Chef Andrews, I am very, very sorry and you have my deepest, heartfelt apology. What happened here will all be made right. You have my word."

Clay turned back to Catherine. His voice was cool and he crossed his arms. The itch to throttle her for her unthinking spontaneous act had yet to subside. "To you, my darling Catherine, I am not the least bit sorry. And for once, you can't deny that something is all your fault."

Catherine nodded and Clay was immediately suspicious when she smiled. "Maybe I should have stressed harder to Aunt Margaret that everything was fine, that I'd be right back. Maybe I shouldn't have tried so hard to keep this surprise a secret. But you're here now. We might as well try the samples. I've decided on the strawberry butter cream. Let me know how you like it."

In the blink of an eye it was being gently smeared across his face.

Clay heard Junior stifle a sob.

Then through the open rear door, the light evening breeze carried inside to them high-pitched, sing-songy laughter.

 

Chapter Sixty

Clay threw his arms around Catherine and flung them both to the floor. Junior raced out the door, his hand reaching for the shoulder holster he'd grabbed when Clay banged on his room door.

The chef stood stock still until Clay yelled, "Get down" to him. He hit the floor beside Clay and Catherine.

"Is...is someone shooting at us?" came his timid question.

"I don't think so," Clay answered, grabbing a napkin from the table to clean his face. "But stay down and don't move from that spot until Junior gets back."

Only the table candle lighted the room and Clay couldn't clearly see anything of the room or beyond the doorway into the night. He had no idea if Lucas Foster was watching them through any of the windows. Obviously, he had been earlier.

Silence reigned in the wide room for several minutes until Junior returned.

In tow was a slightly overweight boy of about thirteen. Junior repeatedly gestured with his thumb inside the room until the frightened, but defiant, boy entered.

Chef Andrews got up from the floor, walked to the door and hit a wall switch that flooded the room with bright light.

Clay got to his feet and helped Catherine up, and when he looked at her he kept his face a deliberate mask. This would be hashed out in private and it would be far from pleasant. After what had just happened words would not be minced.

"Found him trying to hide behind the hotel in a bush. Had this shoved in his pocket," Junior said and tossed the voice changer onto the table.

Clay picked up and studied the rectangular box. It was black and battery operated, with what looked like a speaker or amplifier on it's front.

"Who put you up to this?" he asked.

Defiance drained from the frightened boy's expression and he looked from one of them to the other. He took what seemed an involuntary step away from the ominous-look of Junior before he answered, "Nobody."

Clay frowned. "You're saying this was your idea? That no one suggested it to you?" He offered what he hoped was a friendly smile. "Relax. No one here is going to hurt you. What's your name?"

The boy's response was a nervous, "Tom...Tommy."

"Well, Tommy," Clay continued and handed the voice changer back to the boy. "Even though you scared the bejesus out of us all, and probably got yourself a good laugh in the process, I hope you understand that what you did is wrong."

Tommy stared at the voice changer, surprise clear on his face. "Yes, sir," he stated, then added in a rush of words, "You're not going to call my daddy, are you? He'll wear me out for sure this time."

Junior started to speak, but Clay held up his hand. He gave his best smile of reassurance to Tommy, with, "It'll be our secret. But only if you promise not to do anything like this again. To anyone."

Tommy's face was so relieved Clay thought the boy might cry. "Go on," he added gently and nodded toward the door. "We'll forget this happened."

"Thanks," Tommy gushed. Within seconds he'd been swallowed into the darkness.

Catherine turned to Clay. "I know you love kids, but, come on, Clay, you can't possibly believe this...this...Tommy just happened to come out back here, to an almost totally dark building, happen to see us in candlelight and happen to have a voice changer in his pocket. Somebody put him up to it."

Clay's raised eyebrow accompanied his mock surprise. "No! You think?"

 

Chapter Sixty One

Catherine stared at Clay. "Then why..."

"Because we really don't need him," he said flatly. Clay smiled and though he held Catherine's gaze his head slightly inclined toward the chef with the message to Catherine, we'll discuss this later. He turned to the chef. "Now, about those samples. I know you've gone to a tremendous amount of trouble, but if you've decided to retract your generous offer of a wedding cake, well...I certainly do understand."

Chef Andrews gave Catherine an appraising eye, then pointed to Clay and told her, "You have found yourself a fantastic, wonderful husband. You are a very fortunate young lady."

Catherine smiled. "Yes, I am a lucky girl," she said smoothly. "You and Clay both think that he's fantastic and that I'm fortunate to have him."

The chef chuckled and pinched her cheek, ignoring the scowl she sent Clay.

Clay grinned and pulled out the chair at the table. Junior scrambled to find another chair, sat beside Clay and eagerly scooped a fork from the table.

Chef Andrews took up a spot on the other side of the table, excused himself for a second, turned off the overhead lights and returned with another big knife to slice the samples that shimmered in candlelight. Using arm and hand gestures as wild as those that had initially alarmed Clay, the chef began listing mouth-watering details to Clay and a slack-jawed Junior about the array of exquisite cakes displayed in front of them.

Catherine cleared her throat to alert them that she had not yet been seated, but when no one's attention moved to her she sighed and found herself a chair.

**

Clay hung up the phone after explaining to Doc that he'd be there first thing in the morning, not tonight as originally planned. He'd have time only to collect Raleigh and turn around and fly right back to Texas.

At Clay's request, Junior had driven Margaret back to her own house since Clay wouldn't be leaving Catherine overnight after all.

Catherine had been decidedly chilly to Clay the rest of the "tasting" time and even though she'd raved about and praised their final cake choice to Chef Andrews, her glances to Clay were less than warm. He grinned to himself. He'd fix that as soon as what he'd ordered arrived.

He'd taken a shower and had put on the hotel's plush bathrobe while Catherine was taking hers. Stepping in with her or inviting her into his shower wasn't a good idea, conveyed when she tossed him a haughty I'm still peeved - don't you dare talk to me look.

When he hastened to answer the light knock on the hotel room door he was disappointed to find Junior standing there.

"Miss Margaret is home, safe and sound, and I checked all the doors and windows," he told Clay. "She didn't seem too happy about me going room-to-room in her house, but I told her she could take that up with you."

"Thanks," Clay said and checked the hallway again. A waiter carrying a covered silver bowl had just exited the elevator and headed toward Clay. "I'll see you in the morning," he said quickly to Junior, hoping Junior would take the hint and go.

The waiter came up beside Junior and asked, "Mr. C. Holmes Parker?"

"Yes," Clay said hurriedly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Catherine was still inside the bathroom. "I'll take that. Thank you."

Junior gave the covered silver bowl, which sat in a larger, deeper silver bowl of glistening ice chips, a curious look. "What's that?"

"Nothing," was Clay's fast response as he grabbed the bowl.

The waiter snorted. "Nothing? Nothing? This is a bowl of superbly delicate strawberry butter cream made personally by the renowned Chef Marius Andrews. It's his special whipped cream, made only by special request for special people."

Junior said nothing as he stared at the covered silver bowl but his eyes were round with silent laughter. He clapped Clay on the shoulder. "I'd tell you to have a good, special night, but I suspect that's already in your stars."

Junior's door closed behind him.

 

Chapter Sixty Two

Clay turned an attentive ear toward the closed bathroom door. Catherine's shower had ended and he had to hurry if he wanted to catch her after she dried but before she put on bedclothes. He grinned. Then again, maybe the removal of the robe from that inviting body of hers should be an orchestrated event.

Hastily, he lit the tall, pale yellow tapers they'd used at dinner and set one on each side of the bed, on the nightstands. He yanked the bedspread from the bed and tossed it to the floor, pulled the top sheet and blanket off the bed, then took off his robe and threw it across the chair.

Next he turned off the light switch, sending the room into illumination that came only from the gentle, romantic glow of the two candles.

Plenty of light for what he had in mind.

Naked, he removed the cover from the silver bowl and chucked it to the floor on top of the bedspread, then took both bowls, especially the one of chipped ice to keep the whipped cream fresh, and placed them in the middle of the now rumpled bed. Finally, half-sitting, he reclined lazily against his pillow, his left arm flung nonchalantly over the headboard in what he hoped was an inviting pose.

Catherine opened the bathroom door, in her robe and towel drying her hair. Her head was down and her eyes were closed. She wrapped the towel around her head and tossed her head up. And did a double-take. Then a triple-take when she spotted Clay in a sexy pose, making slow, come-hither gestures with his head.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He patted the bed. "Come on over."

She stayed where she was and repeated her question but as hard as she tried she was unable to suppress either her small smile or her interest.

Clay held out his hand to her. "I think amends need to be made."

"Oh?"

Catherine walked toward the bed but at first she allowed his hand to hang in midair. Then she took it, sat beside him and kissed his hand, her warm breath lingering on the soft hairs of his hand before her lips brushed his skin and she dropped his hand to the sheet.

His heart wasn't the only thing that soared.

He watched as Catherine reached up and removed the towel from her hair, threw it to the floor and shook her honey blonde hair until it hung down, a gleaming mass in candlelight.

Clay's heart thundered in his ears and he couldn't take his gaze from hers. Candlelight in those beautiful blue eyes reflected back to him a love unending, pure, unconditional and all his.

She leaned her face down to his, her damp hair brushing his shoulder when her lips whispered, "I love you," to his.

Clay groaned and it took all the control he possessed to merely return her kiss.

When she lifted her head her eyes were smoky and he lay his hands gently on each side of her face. "Catherine," he said tenderly. "I love you more than I ever believed it possible to love another person."

Though she was still seated beside him in her robe, he drew her face to his in a kiss that promised a night of love and passion she'd not soon forget.

"Take off the robe for me?" he asked softly, and knew from the immediate mischief in her eyes that she knew what he meant.

She gave a fast look to the whipped cream, then offered Clay a naughty wink, one that said she looked forward to the evening he'd planned.

She walked to the end of the bed and turned her back to him.

Clay's jaw dropped when she began to hum "The Stipper" and went into slow, provocative moves as she lowered the robe from her shoulders. Still humming, she pulled it back up and batted her eyelashes at him over her shoulder. Her hips ground in rhythmn to the song and she turned and dropped the robe open, revealing she wore nothing beneath it. Her hips moved in a wide circle and Catherine raised her arms above her head, locking her hands together and tossing her head back as she danced for him.

She lowered her arms and allowed the robe to slide down them and off her body, puddling at her feet.

"You like?" she whispered, raising her arms one last time and offering a final bump and grind for his now dry-mouthed pleasure.

"Oh, yeah, I like," he stated and held out his arms.

She ran to him and he laughed when she snuggled up against him.

"You are one naughty, naughty girl," he whispered, then caught her in a kiss so hot his toes curled and his breath left him.

She raised her head, giggled, and nuzzled soft kisses all along his face, into the hollow of his neck. "I accept your apology. You can start showing me how sorry you are as soon as you're ready."

Clay held her fast in a long, inflamed kiss. When he raised his head he brushed the hair back from her flawless face.

"You misunderstood, my sweetheart, my darling," he said gently, then kissed her again. "This whipped cream is so you can make it up to me."

 

Chapter Sixty Three

Catherine shot straight up into a sitting position. "Say what?"

Clay grinned. "I thought it would be a nice gesture on your part to demonstrate how sorry you are for leaving the room when I told you to stay put."

Both her hands went up. "Whoa!" She pointed at herself. "Me?" Then at him. "To you?" She threw her head back and laughed. "You, my darling husband, have lost your sense."

Clay grinned again and grabbed her close to him, kissing her deeply. "I don't think there's any question as to which one of us is missing their marbles, but, if you play your cards right..."

Catherine giggled. "Marbles. Cards. You're on a game kick tonight, are you?"

Clay released her, grabbed ice chips from the bottom bowl and popped them into his mouth. "I needed those," he said, his voice dripping with dramatic relief as he gave her what he considered his best smoldering sex look. "I was just burned by the hottest mouth on the planet."

Catherine leaned forward, kissed the tip of his nose and dipped her index finger into the whipped cream.

Her voice turned husky, and if possible, Clay saw her eyes turn an even smokier blue than before. "Be careful what you wish for," she said softly, and inserted her finger into her mouth. Her cheeks sucked inward when she drew the whipped cream from her finger. "Because you just might get it."

Despite the ice chips, Clay's throat immediately parched.

Catherine redipped her finger and drew a whipped cream line across his shoulder blades, then her tongue barely brushed his skin when she licked it off.

"Mmmm," she whispered into his ear. "I like this game, even if I'm not the one who needs to apologize."

She then took tiny chips of ice and ran them over the same spot. The chill they produced on his hot skin was stark contrast to the hot lips that followed the ice chips trail.

When she moved to the center of his chest and ran a whipped cream finger from his breastbone to just below his stomach, Clay could stop neither the escape of a groan nor the involuntary jerking of his body beneath her touch.

She gently pushed at him until he'd gotten the idea and rolled onto his stomach and then she made sure he saw her dip her tongue into the whipped cream.

Despite the iron control Clay wanted to now display, he couldn't help himself. The inferno was building and he started squirming. His cute comeback to her about him apologizing had flown right out of his mind.

She lay a soft hand on either side of his buttocks and just the anticipation of her lowering her head had him on the edge, was already putting pinpricks of light behind his now-closed eyelids.

Catherine's tongue worked the small of his back, then dropped lower, drawing small circles of whipped cream which she then replaced with ice chips she allowed to melt on his inflamed skin before her tongue did its work.
Clay thought his body would explode when Catherine began working the inside of his thighs.

He could take no more.

The flames in Catherine's eyes said she was more than ready when he rolled over and pulled her up to lay beside him.

"Your turn," he warned. His heart nearly exploded when he felt her body tremble.

But he did as she had done.

He locked gazes with her and saw her sharp intake of breath when he dipped his tongue into the whipped cream. He drew circles with it around her erect nipples, then used the ice chips to remove the whipped cream.
From the look on her face and the way her body squirmed and jerked at his touch he knew she was as far gone as he was, but he had one more thing to do.

He dipped his tongue one last time, then very carefully lifted Catherine's legs to his neck. He turned his head and licked the inside of one thigh, then the other.

Catherine's moan was almost Clay's undoing.

"Oh, God, Clay, no more," she begged.

So fast it was almost a blur, they joined. His mouth muffled Catherine's scream as their bodies rocked together.

They were so deeply together they were one life, one soul.

The anticipatory pinpricks of light behind Clay's eyelids detonated into a myriad of multi-colored fireworks as sweet release exploded and claimed them both.

They stayed together. Catherine's breathing was as ragged and uneven as his and Clay held her tightly until they'd both regained a natural breath. She murmured something in his ear and he drew his head back to read her lips when she repeated it.

"My compliments to the chef."

 

Chapter Sixty Four

Five minutes before he left for a three thirty a.m. flight to Los Angeles, Clay sat Catherine and Junior down at the dining table. He hoped he could keep both his face and tone firm when he laid down the law to her. Again.

The voice and tone would work only if he wiped all three showers they'd needed last night from his mind. Especially the last one, when the last drops of whipped cream had somehow made its way into the shower with them. He smiled to himself. The ice chips, placed anywhere near Catherine's body, hadn't stood a chance of survival. But they'd died happy.

Clay directed his first words to Junior. "Even with the layover time in Denver I should be back here no later than six this evening. I'll only be in L.A. long enough to pick up Raleigh. There wasn't an available 'turnaround' flight or I'd have had Doc meet me right at the airport instead. Remember," he told Junior, then turned and gave Catherine a hard stare. "Except for trips to the bathroom, she's not to be out of your sight. Not even for one second."

"Understood," was Junior's brusque response.

Catherine skewed her face at Junior. "Wasn't it me that hired you in the first place? What kind of loyalty is this?"

Clay smiled at Junior and leaned over to kiss Catherine. "The best kind." He nodded toward Junior, but spoke to Catherine. "I'm trusting Junior to protect the most precious thing in my life. He knows that."

"Now," Clay said. "You're not, under any circumstances, to leave this room. You got that, Catherine? If you think I'm joking, let me find out that you left, even for a minute. You won't like what happens."

Catherine scowled. "I'm not a child. Stop treating me like one."

"Soon as your spontaneity level takes a maturity jump," Clay answered lightly. "In other words, think before you act."

"I know what it means," she snapped. "And for your information there was no mention of obey at that ceremony in Vegas."

Clay raised an eyebrow but kept his voice even. "I don't expect you to obey me or anyone else. But I do expect you to at least respect my wishes. Especially when they're centered on concern for your safety."

Junior threw his hands in the air and stated, "You don't need to worry about her, so just relax and pick up the puppy. Miss Catherine will leave this room over my dead body."

Clay gave him a sad look. "You poor deluded man."

**

The flight was long and Clay was on edge the entire time. Despite Junior's assurances Clay was keenly aware how Catherine reacted on the spur of the moment, under any given circumstance.

He was happy to see Doc and thrilled to be reunited with Raleigh, who danced and threw herself at him in a frenzy. He grinned from ear-to-ear, knowing Raleigh would be equally excited to be with Catherine again. Over a long lunch at Doc's newly repaired and remodeled house he filled him in on what had happened since Doc left Vegas and Clay followed Catherine to Ionasbranch. All too soon, it was time to leave for the airport and the lengthy return flight.

The flight was fairly uneventful and Clay passed most of the time playing with Raleigh, who'd been assigned the seat beside him. When the plane touched down at the Amarillo airport just after six thirty p.m. and Clay walked to his car, his cell phone rang.

A glance said it was Junior.

He snapped it open, bracing for unpleasant news. "Hello?"

"Everything's fine," Junior assured him right off the bat. "But I wanted to let you know to come to Miss Margaret's house. We're there, not at the hotel."

Clay grunted. "Over your dead body, huh?"

He flipped the phone shut and couldn't stop the grin. "Come on, Raleigh," he told the puppy. "Let's go see Catherine and find out how she bullied and coerced a man four times her size."

 

Chapter Sixty Five

Clay wasted no time driving north from Amarillo to Ionasbranch, then across town to Margaret's home.

He parked his car, then with Raleigh firmly tucked under his arm took the steps to the one time boarding house two at a time.

He reached for the longhorn doorknocker, but before he had a chance to grasp ahold of it, the front door opened.

Startled, Clay met the gaze of Detective Oliver and he immediately tried to push past him to get inside.

Oliver grabbed Clay's free arm. "Can we talk for a minute first?"

Fear shot through Clay and he pulled free, then called behind Oliver, "Catherine!"

Catherine ran to the door, exclaimed in delight when she saw Clay with Raleigh and gave them both a tight hug.

"Welcome back," she whispered into Clay's ear. "I didn't realize a day could be so long without you."

Clay grinned in relief, then handed an ecstatic, wiggling Raleigh into Catherine's waiting arms. "That means it took you longer than you thought it would to get around Junior." He rubbed Raleigh's belly, then gave Catherine a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you inside in a minute."

Catherine's face sobered when she looked at Oliver and Clay saw sadness flash through her eyes when she nodded.

Clay stepped back outside and closed the door, then he and Oliver sat on the top step of the wrap-around porch.

"Okay," Clay started. "You said you'd be coming here from Vegas about Catherine's stalker. You've got my attention."

Oliver plucked small leaves from ivy climbing up the porch railing. "It took a few days to get clearance to follow up here, since there's no tangible tie-in of who's doing this and who stalked her in Vegas. I got here this morning. Catherine and Junior filled me in on what's happened since the three of you arrived here."

Clay laughed.

"Oh, yeah," Oliver informed him. "Including the casket incident." He chuckled. "I'll give her credit. She did what she thought she had to do to get information. Don't know if I'd have done that myself, though."

Clay stared at him. "I certainly wouldn't have."

Oliver stared right back. "You did."

Clay grimaced. "Not willingly, trust me. Since you wanted to talk out here, should I assume there's something you don't want Catherine to know?" His head drew back sharply. "Wait a minute. What do you mean there's no tangible tie-in between what happened here and the Vegas stalker? Catherine identified the person as Lucas Foster."

Oliver plucked and tossed a few more ivy leaves, then shook his head. "No," he corrected Clay. "She identified the man who attacked you in your cousin's house as physically similar to Foster. I went and had a look-see myself about an hour ago, prepared to arrest him for the fraud he perpetrated in Vegas and put an end to this for her."

Oliver tossed the remaining leaves to the sidewalk and his sharp gaze met and locked with Clay's. "There's not a doubt in my mind that he's heavily involved in this mess, but Foster is not the man who posed as Catherine's brother."

The sad look Catherine had when she'd looked at Oliver popped into Clay's mind. "And? I could tell by Catherine's face there's more to what you know."

Oliver nodded. "There is, though I didn't uncover it. It sort of...came out. I'll leave it to Catherine to tell you."

 

Chapter Sixty Six

Clay studied him and kept his voice level, though he braced for bad news he expected to be told he had to give Catherine. "The part you didn't want Catherine to hear, what is it? Is it about Foster?"

Oliver shook his head. "No. It's about her brother. Margaret has some info she's been keeping quiet for some time and it seems Yearwood uncovered it during one of his many pitches to get his hands on Catherine's property."

"But it's not Catherine's..."

"I know," Oliver interrupted. "It is and it isn't. Margaret will also fill you in on the whys of that aspect."

Puzzled, Clay asked, "Uncovered? You mean that phony grave that we found at the new house? If Yearwood had found it, then the metal box wouldn't have been there for Catherine to find...unless..." he trailed off.

Oliver smiled. "Relax. Catherine told me about the metal box buried in the grave. She also showed me the paper she found inside of it. It's definitely directions. To what, well, that seems to be a real stumper, doesn't it?" He sighed. "But that box isn't what Yearwood uncovered. Well, more like stumbled onto when he trespassed than uncovered."

Clay stared at him. "What are you driving at, Detective?"

Oliver rose to his feet and after glancing toward the house to make sure nobody was watching, drew an old, faded white envelope from his pocket. "That grave was put in out there, by Catherine's mother, because Yearwood found the rest of a pile of these."

Clay took the envelope. No date, no address.

Oliver tapped the envelope. "Once you read what's inside, don't let Catherine know about it until you and Catherine sit down with Margaret."

Clay gave him a quizzical look, then turned his back to the house and pulled a faded sheet of writing paper from the envelope.

He understood as soon as he absorbed the first words and it was a few moments before the initial shock subsided.

He read again...My darling son,

Clay held up the letter to Oliver. "Catherine's mother could have written this to help her through the grieving process, especially in light of the circumstances of the baby's conception, then his death. It's not uncommon to write a letter to someone you've lost, to pour out your heart in a missive they'll never see."

"Agreed," Oliver told him. "But according to Margaret, there were dozens of these letters. Letters that Yearwood found and stole."

"This means nothing," Clay argued. "Grieving is its own process, completed in its own time. Sometimes it never reaches completion or acceptance. You know that."

"Yes, I do," Oliver conceded. "But this doesn't ring of an emotional process to recover from her baby's death. Obviously, Catherine's mother hoped that Yearwood thought the same way you do."

"What are you saying?"

"The baby didn't die. Margaret told me so herself."

The front door opened and Catherine cast a curious look to Clay. "When are you coming inside?" She glanced at Clay's hand and then stepped out onto the wide wrap-around porch. "What are you reading?"

 

Chapter Sixty Seven

Clay answered, "Nothing," and shoved the letter into its envelope, then into his back pocket and extended his hand to Oliver. "Thank you for coming here with Catherine and Junior, not to mention for the update. I'll call you in a little while."

Oliver shook his head. "I just happened to run into the two of them when they were leaving the hotel to come here. Catherine was kind enough to bring me along and introduce me to her aunt."

Clay turned toward Catherine. "As you were leaving the hotel? Silly me, I was under the impression that the detective looked you up at the hotel and that's how and why you ended up NOT STAYING PUT."

Catherine sniffed at his irritation. "If you'd stop and think about it, Clay, darling, you'd realize pretty fast that it's your fault I couldn't stay in the hotel room."

She turned on her heel and walked inside.

Oliver chuckled and walked toward his car.

Clay sighed and went in the house to find Junior.

Junior rose from the dining room table, a green checked napkin dangling from the neck of his shirt, a pile of golden fried chicken on a plate in front of him.

Junior pointed a fork at Clay. "I know what you're going to say and you're wrong."

Clay's jaw tightened. "I'm wrong? Believing my wife would leave the safety of that room...now, let's see, how did that go...oh, yes...over your dead body, and then she waltzes out with no trouble. Explain to me how that makes me the one who's wrong, not the one who was protecting her."

Catherine entered the dining room and came up behind Clay. "Leave Junior alone," she said and hugged Clay from behind before she moved to the front for an embrace. "This is your fault."

Clay was in no mood to joke. "Junior..."

Saying, "Come on, I'll show you," Catherine left the dining room and headed down the hall to the living room. "Come and see," she called to Clay.

"How, Junior? That's all I want to know," Clay stated. "I thought she couldn't get you, couldn't get around you, couldn't push you around."

Junior's face was expressionless. "She didn't. The puppy did."

Clay gave him a blank look, then shook his head and followed to where Catherine had called from the living room.

Catherine sat on the floor in the center of the room, in front of a large green-checked-lined wicker picnic basket. She was playing with Raleigh who was jumping in and out of the basket.

"Okay," Clay informed her. "I'm here. Now show me why it was my fault that you had to leave the hotel room. This had better be way beyond a good reason."

After Clay hugged Margaret, who sat silently in her rocking chair and who barely looked up at Clay, Catherine pointed to the basket.

Clay raised an eyebrow and spoke with mock awe. "Oh, wow! Now I get it! It was an unpassable opportunity to see and touch that exquisite basket! And it's lined in such wonderfully soft checkered green material. Even better! People on game shows will salivate at the chance to 'Come on down!' and get their hands all over that baby!"

Catherine glared at him. "Your sarcasm is neither wanted nor appreciated. Not to mention you are totally out of line and about to feel incredibly foolish."

Clay sat heavily on a chair. "Do tell," he said, dripping the same sarcasm.

Catherine kept playing with Raleigh and when Catherine played a gentle tug-of-war with her, Clay noted that the sound the old pink rattle made reminded him a little too much of the snake Junior had killed. Clay hadn't heard the snake rattle, but seeing its body had been more than enough to invoke the threatening audio.

Catherine's smile was syrupy. "Are you tired, sweetheart?"

Instantly on guard, Clay waited a few seconds, then nodded. "Exhausted."

Catherine rose to her feet and went to him, but the syrup in her voice was now also in her eyes. "You poor thing," she said with thick compassion and bent to kiss him. "I'll bet you can't wait to crawl into bed and catch up on all the hours you missed, what with so few hours sleep last night and then so many hours in the air."

"Actually, I plan on hitting the bed right away." Clay blinked twice, then it hit him. "Oh."

"Oh," Catherine repeated. "The hotel doesn't allow dogs in the room, Clay." The imp in her soul danced in her eyes. "But Raleigh's family and she'll be sharing our room. I remembered what you didn't, that Raleigh had no place to sleep. I called Aunt Margaret and asked to borrow this basket. Raleigh is so quiet, so well-behaved, nobody will ever know there's a puppy inside."

Clay tried to keep a straight face, but failed. He smiled at Catherine. "That makes once that something was my fault."

He rose from the chair, bent to tickle Raleigh and didn't, until the last second, feel Catherine pull the envelope from his back pocket.

"What did Oliver give you?" she questioned. So fast he couldn't stop her, she opened the letter.

Her choked gasp nearly broke his heart.

 

Chapter Sixty Eight

Clay could only watch as Catherine read the letter. When Catherine finally raised her gaze to meet Clay's, her look was dazed, her face pale. Her mouth moved in a soundless question, then she turned to Margaret, whose eyes had filled with unshed tears.

"Catherine," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Catherine shook her head as though to clear it, then knelt on the floor in front of Margaret's rocking chair, the letter held high.

"This means one of two things, Aunt Margaret. And there's not a doubt in my mind that you know which one."

Clay stood behind where Catherine knelt and put his hands on her shoulders. "Wait, Catherine."

Catherine rose and faced Clay. "Oh, no," she said softly. "All wait is over." She sat on the sofa near Margaret and gave Clay a grateful smile when he sat beside her and gently kneaded the back of her neck.

But her attention was all on Margaret. "Now, Aunt Margaret. Now. Please don't start to say anything that isn't an explanation, that isn't going to tell me what happened all those years ago. Why did my mother write this letter?"

Margaret nodded and pulled a hankie from her dress pocket to wipe freely flowing tears. "I knew this day would come," she admitted. "But knowing it would come never made it easier to accept or to face."

"The letter," Catherine reiterated.

Margaret sighed. "The year of your mother's sixteenth birthday was an extremely rough emotional period for her, Catherine. She made it through only because she was strong." Margaret smiled. "You remind me a lot of her."

Clay saw Catherine's stoic face and compassion for her stirred deep. She was doing her best to not show emotion while she listened to tragic family secrets unfold, but he knew from Oliver at least some of the shock she was about to receive from Margaret. He took her hand into his and squeezed, not at all surprised to find hers ice cold.

Margaret lowered her head, but when she raised it again to meet and hold Catherine's gaze, her brown eyes were clear. "The night your brother was born. It wasn't until the labor pains became severe and your mother's mind could no longer deny the pregnancy that she came here in a panic. She was too ashamed to go to your grandparents, she didn't want anyone to know what those convicts had done to her. She was a child herself. She simply didn't know what to do and came to me for help. I begged until I convinced her to let me call them."

Clay watched the agonizing memory of that night play out in Margaret's aged, sad eyes. Of remembering a hysterical sixteen-year-old realizing she was about to give birth to the child conceived in a gang rape. When Margaret swallowed hard and hesitated at that point, Clay saw Catherine's back stiffen against what Margaret was yet to tell.

"Within an hour of your grandparents arrival, your grandmother and I delivered your brother. Despite the circumstances of his conception," she added in a barely audible tone, "when he came into the world, your mother couldn't help but love that child. Her child." A small smile played at her lips.

Catherine's tone was harsh. "You told me most of that already."

Clay said nothing, but when Junior came to the living room door he gave his head a short shake and silently waved him back to the kitchen.

Margaret sat a little straighter and Clay saw her struggle for the courage to speak. "It was then," she said quietly. "That we made a decision. Your mother, your grandmother and I. Together. The baby was taken that same night to a trusted friend who arranged for him to be given to a loving family in Virginia. Your grandfather was told the baby died, and that we buried him out at the homestead to protect your mother from scandal. He never knew the truth. We thought that what we did was best for everyone."

Catherine's voice cracked. "My mother wrote this letter to the baby she gave away, to tell him on paper what she couldn't tell him herself."

"Yes," Margaret admitted. "That's why when Curtis found the letters..."

"What? Letters?" Catherine demanded, then blurted, "Mr. Yearwood has letters from my mother to my brother? Why would he want them? Why would my mother give those letters to him?"

"She didn't," Margaret assured her.

Clay could tell by the look on Catherine's face that what she was hearing was slowly crumbling the protective wall she'd erected. Emotions were seeping into her eyes and when she looked at him, the raw pain of betrayal was jagged in blue.

Margaret took a deep breath. "When your grandparents built that new house for your parents as a wedding gift...Catherine, your mother never fully recovered from losing your brother and even though your parents never lived there, from time to time she would retreat to that house and pour out her heart to her baby son. Especially on his birthday." Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. "She never came to terms with what she considered abandoning her child. She never forgave herself for something that was in no way her fault."

Clay frowned. "How exactly does Yearwood fit into this?"

Margaret wiped her face with her hanky. "Curtis has been trying, since Catherine was a child, to get his hands on those seventy five acres. About ten years ago he started sneaking around out there. We told him the original homestead had burned, thinking that might kill his interest and keep him out, but..." she stopped, then drew a breath. "The important part is that he started snooping, found the letters and stole them. Your mother panicked, Catherine, thinking he might try to find your brother or use the information as blackmail to destroy your life to get what he wanted. That's when your mother put in the phony grave and did everything she could to make Curtis believe the baby died at birth."

Catherine stared at her. "The homestead didn't burn, did it?"

"No."

Catherine shook her head. "Mr. Yearwood stole the letters. I...I...I'm having trouble digesting all of this," she said in an odd voice, then turned to Clay. "I need a drink of water."

"I'll get it," he said quickly, but her hand on his arm stopped him before he got up.

"No," she said with a tight smile. "I think I need to sit on the back step and clear my head for a minute." She smiled at Margaret. "Please keep talking to Clay while I'm gone. I just need a minute." She offered Margaret a soft kiss on her cheek and headed for the kitchen.

Thirty seconds later he heard the gunning of a motor and screech of tires that said Catherine had gotten her hands on Junior's car keys.

Even as he and Junior sprinted toward Clay's car, Clay knew exactly where she was headed. He only hoped he was in time to avert disaster.

**

Clay and Junior sped through town but Catherine must have been standing on the accelerator because they never even caught sight of Junior's car before they saw it parked but running, half-on, half-off the funeral parlor's sidewalk.

Clay shoved his car into park and he and Junior raced inside the funeral parlor. He heard Catherine and Yearwood in the back room and they strode toward it.

Yearwood was off to the side and couldn't see Clay and Junior approach and must have believed Catherine was alone. Catherine's back was to Clay but all her anger came through in her even-toned demand. "I'm not going to tell you again. I want those letters. You stole them."

"You've got some nerve coming in here," Yearwood sneered.

"I'm not afraid of you," Catherine informed him, her voice dripping with a coolness Clay knew belied underlying fright. "I want those letters."

"Not afraid of me?" Yearwood said in a quiet, very deadly tone. "If you have a brain in your head..."

Catherine stood her ground when Yearwood advanced on her. It was then that he caught sight of Clay and Junior standing in the doorway.

They entered and stood on either side of Catherine.

Clay gave him a smile as cold as the look in his green eyes. "Don't leave us hanging," he prompted. "Finish what you were about to say."

 

Chapter Sixty Nine

"Get out," Yearwood ordered and gave a stony, defiant look to each of them in turn, especially Catherine. "All three of you."

Catherine stepped forward, toe-to-toe with him and in a locked gaze with him. "I want those letters. Get them."

Yearwood laughed. "I don't know what you're talking about. Besides, anything and everything on those acres is rightfully mine, or at least it will be shortly. Lock, stock and barrel." He offered another sneer in response to Catherine's blank look. "I guess Margaret didn't tell you that part, did she?"

"Why are you doing this?" Catherine shouted and Clay grabbed her arms when she balled her hands into fists at her side.

"Let's get out of here, Catherine," he said quietly and tugged at her arm until she finally gave in and agreed to leave. "We'll trade rotten air for fresh."

Just as they reached the door, Clay turned back to Yearwood and snapped his fingers. "Funny, isn't it, how Catherine said she wanted the stolen letters back and you said everything out there will soon belong to you. Yet she didn't say from where you had stolen them, did she?"

Yearwood's face darkened with anger, but Clay saw in his eyes that he recognized he'd made a huge error. One that hadn't slipped by unnoticed. Yearwood's eyes sent a challenge to Clay, but Clay just laughed, turned his back and led Catherine and Junior outside.

**

Clay pointed Catherine to the passenger seat of his car and Junior drove his own car back to Margaret's.

Once inside again, Clay sat Catherine and Margaret down, and after easing Margaret's mind that he and Junior had arrived in time at the funeral parlor, he asked her to finish the story.

Clay didn't like the pallor Catherine's face had taken and sat with one arm loosely around her. Raleigh, unimpressed by the goings-on, was curled in the picnic basket, sound asleep.

Catherine's voice was odd. "What did he mean, Aunt Margaret, when he said everything out there is rightfully his, or will be soon?"

Margaret rocked in silence and Clay saw resignation in her eyes.

Catherine's body was tense beneath his arm and Clay knew she needed answers or she would soon snap.

"Margaret," he started. "Why does he think he can buy this land from you?"

Margaret's smile held neither humor nor warmth. "He doesn't. He thinks he can blackmail me into turning over the deed. He's tried and failed several times."

"We're getting nowhere here," Catherine pointed out. "My grandparents left that land to you. I'd like to know why."

"They didn't," Margaret said. "Your mother did."

Catherine's mouth popped open and she was clearly bewildered. "My mother left it to you...instead of to me? Why would she do that? Because of how you helped her conceal my brother's birth?"

Margaret was silent, then said, "It saddens me how little you knew your mother's heart, Catherine, that you would think such a thing. She left it to me to protect you. Because she knew that if anything happened to her or to your father, Curtis would come after you to get it. She asked me to take possession of it until your twenty fifth birthday. Then you'll inherit everything."

Puzzled, Clay asked, "Come after her to get what? It's only seventy five acres and a very old homestead. Hardly worth the attempts on Catherine's life."

Margaret's gaze was calm. She rocked quietly and smoothed the lap of her dress, then forced a smile to Catherine. "The answer is in the paper your mother placed in the metal box in the grave. You'll understand everything when you find what's hidden where those directions lead you."

Catherine's eyelids fluttered and Clay held her steady, but she indicated she was okay, just upset. "His, Aunt Margaret. Mr. Yearwood indicated this will all belong to him. He had to have a reason. He's your younger brother and I think you know a lot more about his motivation than you've been telling."

Margaret rocked in silence, but Clay saw the color beginning to drain from her face.

"Aunt Margaret," Catherine insisted. "You said you don't know how he knew about my brother. I think what he didn't know is that my brother is alive."

Clay saw the rocker stop short before continuing its rhythm.

"I know," Catherine went on, "that you haven't spoken to your brother for as long as I can remember, that there was never anything good between you. Was it because of how close you were to my family?"

At Catherine's words, the rocker stopped and Margaret's head went down, her shoulders shaking with silent weeping.

The truth rammed Clay's brain at the same time he heard Catherine's ragged, "Oh, my God. He was one of the men who attacked my mother."

 

Chapter Seventy

"Was he?" Catherine rasped to Margaret.

Margaret put her hands over her face, then slowly dropped them and raised her gaze to Catherine's. "I don't know. I suspected it then and I suspect so now."

When Catherine started to rise Clay put a restraining hand on her arm but she brushed him off and shot him a warning look. Undeterred, he clamped down on her arm and forced her to sit beside him. The impact of Yearwood being part of the attack on her mother had put a haunted look in Catherine's eyes and Clay knew she wasn't thinking clearly.

"Margaret," Clay began. "Was your brother one of the two convicts that escaped?"

Margaret shook her head. "No. He was a married man with a family. Supposedly respectable, but Curtis was always..." she paused and brown eyes looked into the distance. Clay realized she was looking back through the years to that long-ago time while bits and pieces of her story fell into place.

Margaret sighed. "I never did like the way Curtis looked at Catherine's mother. She was a youngster, he was grown, married and well past the age to be looking at her. But she was a striking beauty, with a heart as flawless as her face."

Margaret turned her gaze to Clay and he knew her looking at him instead of Catherine was deliberate. "The night young Meggie's son was born I asked her about the father. I literally had to force her to admit she'd been raped. God help us all. The timing of the convict's escape, knowing they'd been caught in her neighborhood, well...her parents accepted that it had been them."

"You questioned that?" Clay asked.

She shook her head. "Not right then. But it didn't take long to notice how Curtis kept finding reasons to ask odd questions about Meggie. He seemed nervous to me, but every time I asked Meggie about him she nearly got hysterical. I think he threatened her that he'd hurt her family if she told anybody what he'd done. I also believe she was determined he'd never know about or see the child so he couldn't do anything to hurt him, either. She allowed us all to believe it was the convicts. She did what she had to do to protect those she loved."

Catherine's face was ashen. "My father...did she..."

"Yes," Margaret confirmed. "She told him about the baby before they got married, of course. But he, too, believed it was the escapees and that the baby died at birth. Your father loved your mother so much," she said softly. "I remember them crying together the night she told him about your brother. He assured her everything would be all right."

Catherine's head jerked up straight and she stared at Margaret, then turned to Clay. "The ring," she whispered. "Oh, my God! How stupid I am!" she cried and smacked herself in the forehead.

She rose and began a fast, frenzied pacing, then halted and pointed to Margaret. "That's how my mother was telling me..." She turned again to Clay. "That was her message to both my brother and to me when she gave me that ring. Everything will be all right. It was no tradition that she gave me that ring on my sixteenth birthday. It was a subliminal message that finally cracked its way through my brain. She was letting me know that I have a brother and that he's alive."

Clay frowned. "What I don't understand," he said slowly, "is why Yearwood thinks he's getting those acres. Why would he?"

"I do," Catherine said and the cold, hard look on her face brought him up short. "Because he's my brother's father and plans to somehow use that to prove a claim on that property. That's why he needs me permanently out of the way, so that I can't inherit from Margaret."

Catherine sank heavily onto the couch and looked at Clay. "I don't want to believe that he's not only found my brother, but that my brother is the third man involved in this, the one we haven't identified."

Clay gently brushed her hair from her face. "We have no way of knowing either way right now, so don't assume the worst or the best. We need to think this through before we do anything at all. We still don't know what's out there that we're supposed to find."

He looked at Margaret. "How did he plan on getting the property from you if you won't sell and he's not in line to inherit?"

Margaret's smile was sad and she opened her arms to Catherine. Catherine sat on the floor in front of the rocker and put her head in Margaret's lap. Margaret stroked her hair like a mother to a child. "He knows," Margaret said, her eyes bright with unshed tears, "that when Catherine came to me and told me someone is trying to kill her that I'd know why. He counted on me preventing it by giving him what he wants."

Clay cleared his throat and despite everything he couldn't help a small laugh. "What Yearwood didn't count on," he stated, "was Catherine being not only more than equal to anything he could throw at her, but ready, willing and able to accept his challenge."

Clay rose and went to the rocker, then bent and hugged both women in a show of close-knit support. "Between the three of us, he's got no chance."

Sobbing broke into the group hug and a startled Clay felt himself literally mashed into the Margaret-Catherine-Clay group by Junior's massive, powerful arms.

"No, man," was Junior's fierce half-sob, half-growl. "Between the four of us that mother doesn't have a chance."

 

Chapter Seventy One

Raleigh's bark got everyone's attention, but to Clay's amazement, Raleigh wiggled her way into the group and snuggled against Catherine, as though knowing Catherine needed just one more show of love.

The group stayed silent when the support hug ended and they moved to other seats. Catherine and Clay sat together on the couch, Catherine leaning on Clay, his arm around her, Raleigh on Catherine's lap.

Junior stood in the background, between Margaret and Catherine, but in a definite protective stance. Clay could only smile to himself at the impact Catherine didn't realize she had on others.

"Margaret," Clay began. "You weren't at all concerned that your brother would harm you, were you? Just that he'd harm Catherine."

"He'd lose everything if he harmed me," she said tightly. "If anything happened to me before Catherine inherits I've made iron-clad provisions for the sale of every last inch of that property to go to charity. I made that clear to Lucas every time he came here with another offer from Curtis. Curtis knows he can't block it."

Catherine interjected with, "But with me out of the way, supposedly Randall Walker's stalking victim, Aunt Margaret would be so upset she might be easier to convince. I believe that's where my brother's claim would come into it, and through that claim, Mr. Yearwood's."

Aunt Margaret nodded. "Your mother never lost her fear of Curtis and took every possible precaution against him taking what belongs to you. Your mother's instructions were very clear. If your brother is alive, the inheritance will be split. If your brother isn't alive, then Curtis' claim is nonexistent because he'd have no way to push for the deed."

Clay frowned. "Catherine's brother. Have you made an attempt to track him down? Do you know to what family he was given?"

Margaret stared at the floor. "Before I answer, let me say this." She raised her gaze to Catherine. "Curtis hired a private detective, just like I did, to find your brother. The man he hired, his best lead seems to have been tracking you through Randall Walker. He decided the fastest route to what he wanted was to get rid of you by eliminating Walker and then pretending to be Walker. No one would think twice when your stalker caught and killed you. Then he'd find your brother, arrange a loving family reunion with his son and start finagling his claim for the property through that end."

Clay nodded, then murmured, "Once he played the role of overjoyed father, weaseled his way into your brother's life and your brother inherited that property, anything could happen."

"And would," Catherine said tersely.

She stiffened. Catherine had no idea that her eyes showed how tightly wound were her nerves, how on-edge every fiber of loathing, yet her hand still gently rubbed Raleigh. "Lucas Foster," she almost spat. "I was pretty sure when we met him here that he was the man in Doc's house. He was. He has to be the one who killed Walker."

Clay wasn't convinced. "Oliver said Foster isn't the man he met in Vegas."

Catherine spun to Margaret. "Aunt Margaret? Is Lucas Foster a private detective? Is that the business he said he had here with you that day?"

Margaret shook her head and started to rock. "No, he isn't a private detective. He's married to Hannah Yearwood, and from what I've known of Hannah through the years, I'm not surprised that she's party to this greed."

Clay saw disappointment flood Catherine's face, and in her eyes he saw the question of whether or not Margaret might not know all about Foster. Then Margaret cleared it up for them.

"But Lucas's brother was a private investigator. Lost his license, though. He's what we older folks would call an undesirable character. You young people would probably call him a dirtbag."

 

Chapter Seventy Two

Clay held up his hand. "Whoa! I just remembered something. Yearwood said he wanted what was rightfully mine. That doesn't sound like something you're jockeying in line to get, that sounds like something you want back."

Margaret paled and Clay nodded.

"I thought so," Clay said quietly. "This goes a lot deeper than it appears to go, doesn't it, Margaret?"

Margaret gripped the arms of the rocker and blinked several times, but didn't look away from Clay.

"You're a bright young man," she said softly and then to Catherine, "You're a lucky young lady to have such a husband, Catherine."

Catherine shot a look at Clay, rolled her eyes and muttered, "Don't even."

Clay gave her a broad grin in return. "Hey, the whole world can't be wrong."

He chuckled, then looked again at Margaret. "Okay. Now, how does that property belong to your brother and why can't he take ownership of it?"

Margaret sighed and looked at Catherine. "Do you remember me telling you that your grandfather bought up those seventy five acres little by little, a bit at a time, over the years?"

"Yes," Catherine answered. "Those weren't your exact words, but I understood that's what they meant. Why?"

Clay answered before Margaret could. "Because Margaret owned them and sold them to your grandfather. Isn't that right, Margaret?"

"Yes and no," Margaret answered. "You know I'm a bit older than Curtis. He was my mother's middle-life surprise and a more spoiled, self-centered child I've never seen. Anyway, when my mother took ill, well, I became the female head of the household. My father started to depend on me for everything and before I knew it he'd turned all his legal affairs over to me, too."

She sighed and took a deep breath, one that induced quiver in her lower lip.

"My father wasn't blind to what his only son was like, how he was all for Curtis and the heck with anyone who got in his way. But he did hold out hope that Curtis would eventually grow up and act like a man. So, rather than allow Curtis to get his hands on my father's land and squander it like he did everything else, my father willed it all to me. With the understanding that I'd sign it over to Curtis on his thirty-fifth birthday."

Catherine gasped. "Aunt Margaret. I had no idea."

Clay tapped his fingers on his leg. "And instead of giving it to Curtis, you sold it to Catherine's grandfather."

Margaret nodded. "Not exactly. Legally, I could do whatever I wished with it. There was no proviso in writing that gave Curtis any right to even a fistful of dirt."

Clay glanced at Catherine. Her mouth was agape, her shock obvious. Then she shook her head as though to clear it and asked, "But why? I've known you all my life, Aunt Margaret, and I'll never believe you sold property meant for your brother just so you could have money."

Clay turned to Catherine, then a quick look to Margaret. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Margaret, but you didn't sell it to Catherine's grandfather. You gave it to him. For Catherine's mother. Because of what Curtis did to her."

Tears streamed down Margaret's face and she nodded. "Like I said, your grandfather didn't know about Curtis. I knew Curtis wouldn't pay a price as far as the law went, but I made sure that in return for ruining that innocent young life he lost what he valued most. I tried to make it up to Meggie in the only way I could, by hurting Curtis in the only way he understood. I was with your grandmother when Meggie was born and I was by her side when your mother held her newborn son for the first and last time."

Margaret rose and Clay was instantly in front of her, concerned for the stress the older woman was under. "It's not your fault," he said kindly. "That was your brother's crime, not yours."

Margaret's eyes were filled with ghosts of guilt and her soft voice hung in the air. "I didn't protect Meggie. I knew better than anyone what Curtis was capable of doing to others. I should have gone to Meggie's father the first time I saw Curtis look at her in that way. I failed her. This didn't need to happen to her."

Clay was almost knocked over when Junior brushed him aside to hug Margaret. The tiny Margaret nearly disappeared when Junior's powerful arms went around her and her feet left the floor when he lifted and squeezed in a show of comfort.

"Don't you worry none, Miss Margaret," he assured her with raw emotion that dropped Clay's jaw. "I'm going to go and find him right now and rip his head off."

 

Chapter Seventy Three

Junior finally released Margaret, but instead of the crushed body Clay expected to see, the older woman flushed, glowed and patted Junior's face. "You're a sweet boy, Junior. Catherine's lucky to have you, too."

Clay suppressed a smile and sneaked a glance at Catherine, who was doing the same. When Catherine's gaze lifted to Clay's she gave him a soft smile that admitted Margaret was right about how lucky Catherine was to have both Clay and Junior with her.

Margaret walked to the pine rolltop desk in the corner, unlocked it with a key from her pocket and removed an envelope from a 'pigeon hole' on the right.

A puzzled look took over Catherine's expression. "Aunt Margaret," she called. "Didn't you tell us that you'd never heard of Randall Walker? How can you now know more than we do?"

Margaret returned to her rocker holding the envelope, twisting it over and over in her hands, an unsure look on her face.

Finally she looked up, and her gaze met and held Catherine's. "This came this morning. All the answers are in here."

Clay watched as a myriad of emotions flicked across Catherine's face and knew that Catherine understood the envelope contained the report from Margaret's private detective. Clay saw fear flicker in her expression, but recognized it as fear that she shouldn't hope the envelope contained the news she wanted most. Terror that what she was about to read or hear would break her heart.

When Margaret began to extend the envelope to Catherine, Clay raised a hand to stop her. He turned Catherine to face him and searched her eyes. Deep-rooted terror battled with soul-wrenching hope in Catherine's blue eyes. He briefly closed his own eyes, then put his hands on Catherine's upper arms.

"Are you up to this?" he asked quietly.

Catherine's mouth moved but she made no sound. Her eyes reflected to him all the possibilities of what she might hear, and the only one she wanted to hear.

His voice was gentle. "Would you like me to read it?"

Catherine nodded and when he saw the anticipation in her eyes, saw her swallow hard, his heart hurt for her and he hugged her tight while he blinked back tears. He'd give anything if he could make the letter say what Catherine wanted, needed, so badly to hear.

Clay took the envelope from Margaret and Catherine sat quietly while he scanned it, but the heat of her expectant gaze never left him.

He cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow, then gave Catherine a soft smile. "The detective found someone he believes is your brother."

Confusion raced through Catherine's eyes. "What do you mean...found someone he believes is my brother?"

Clay nodded toward Margaret, then met Catherine's gaze. "Your mother sent something with the baby the night he was taken away, and his new parents were to keep it and give it to him when he grew up. If the man the detective found really is your brother, he'll bring it with him as proof of his identity."

Clay saw hope and joy mingle in Catherine's blue eyes. "Bring it? Bring it...do you mean...he'll bring it..."

She was obviously unable to complete the sentence and Clay knew it was because she was scared to death that her newfound hope would be jerked away from her.

"Tomorrow," he stated. "The man who may be your brother is to meet with Margaret tomorrow night. And he's been told to bring this item with him."

 

Chapter Seventy Four

Catherine's voice was a croak. "T..tomorrow night, then."

She stared at Margaret, then turned to Clay. "Mr. Yearwood's detective. That's how I was tracked down to that house in California. He found out that my parents lived there a short while, checked it out and found me."

Catherine's gaze to Clay was unblinking and he saw her remembering that night in California. "That's the night I put the bowl of butter on your head."

Despite himself, Clay sent a sidelong glance to Junior who didn't look the least bit surprised that Clay and Catherine had been playing in butter and cast that exact sentiment in a look back to Clay.

Margaret's expression was puzzled, but she said nothing.

Catherine shook her head. "I think the only reason Yearwood's detective bothered sending me that 'surprise' note instead of just killing me outright was that he was afraid that if he didn't follow the stalking scenario police suspicions would be raised. Suspicions that my murder was unrelated to Randall Walker, suspicions that would lead back here to Yearwood."

Compassion flooded Clay when he noted Catherine's paleness, mixed with a flushing that heralded all the emotions which had to be raging inside her. "What do you say we go now?" he asked gently. "I think you need some time to mull things over, think about what you might want to say, questions you might have."

"I'm sure this man..." he glanced at the paper then at Catherine. "The name of the man who may be your brother is Eric McCandless. If this is to be a reunion, you'll need all the hours between now and then to put your heart and your thoughts together. And to consider the questions he's definitely going to have."

Catherine nodded and without a word, picked up Raleigh and placed her inside the roomy, thickly lined picnic basket. "You'll be comfy in here, sweetie," she told the puppy. She picked up the basket's lid and the rattle she and Raleigh had played tug-of-war with, then looked at Clay. "I'm going to have to put the lid on the basket before we get into the hotel lobby or we'll never get Raleigh up the elevator and into our room." She smiled and put the rattle in her back pocket. "Aunt Margaret and I played different games with Raleigh, rehearsals for Raleigh being in the basket with the lid on so she'd be used to it." She laughed and tickled the contentedly-wriggling puppy's belly. "I think she may even prefer it."

Clay smiled, relieved to see Catherine acting normal when she'd been hit with so much that was abnormal in most lives.

**

The lobby was empty and Clay, Catherine and Junior had nearly made it straight across the wide room to the elevator when they were hailed.

Catherine pulled the basket close to her and Clay, turning to see whom had called them, stepped in front of her to block anyone's view of the basket.

Chef Andrews.

Clay bit down hard to block the snicker Junior's look of adoration ignited.

The chef hurried across the room and held out both hands to Clay and Catherine. Clay took them both and hoped it deflected the chef from reaching for Catherine.

It didn't.

The chef gave Clay an odd look, shook his hands free and then stepped around him. He gave the basket a raised-eyebrow look, then offered Catherine, who kept both hands on the basket handle, a hug.

When the chef released Catherine he reached to shake Junior's hand, but Junior grabbed the short, bald man in a bear hug, nearly shouted, "I love you, man!", then set the chef down hard on his feet. The chef wobbled from the impact.

The chef shook a warning finger at Junior but his barely concealed smile said how flattering he found Junior's overt love of his creations.

The chef turned to Catherine and Clay. "Your wedding cake is completed," he said with a flourish and took a small bow. "If it's okay, I will personally bring it up in about a half an hour."

Before Clay could respond, Junior gave a resounding, "Yes."

Clay shot Junior a look. "The three of us didn't get married, Junior."

Undeterred, Junior shot back, "You didn't plan to hog that cake all to yourself, did you?" Then he wheedled, "It's strawberry butter cream. You'll give me at least one little piece, won't you? That's all I want. One little piece."

Clay glared at him. "Junior, that's the biggest lie I've ever heard anyone tell."

Clay turned to the chef. "Half an hour will be fine. You'll join us for the cutting?"

The chef shook his head. "Unfortunately, I can't. I'm due to judge at a show..." he glanced at his watch. "In twenty minutes."

Junior grabbed the chef's arm. "You're judging a baking show? Listen, can I..."

"No," Clay answered flatly. "You can't." He smiled at the chef. "Why don't you bring it up right now so you're not late? It will be our pleasure to accept it and enjoy it while you're there."

The chef smiled his gratitude and hurried off toward The Sugar Shack.

**

The only light in the room came from the small, single candle in the wedding cake. Chef Andrews had been running too behind schedule to stay for the cutting but had provided a gleaming silver knife and special china for the newlyweds to enjoy his special creation.

Raleigh slept peacefully in a corner of the room, snuggled in the lidless basket.

Clay held Catherine's hand on the knife as they stood in front of the cake. It was absolutely beautiful, an exquisite creation Chef Andrews had put together just for the two of them. The couple atop the cake were as close in resemblance to them as Clay had ever seen wedding decorations. Instead of their names, the Chef had cleverly incorporated C&C - Forever & Always into the frosting.

"Wedding wish," Clay whispered into her ear.

They closed their eyes and when Clay opened his again Catherine smiled at him. He kissed the tip of her nose and with his hand atop hers, they sliced into the cake.

Catherine inclined her head and looked at the cake. "Looks a little funny, doesn't it, with one of the 'C's missing."

Clay laughed. "Well, it wouldn't be missing if you hadn't given in and let Junior cut himself a big piece of cake five seconds after Chef Andrews wheeled it in here."

Catherine giggled. "Would we have gotten rid of Junior if I hadn't?"

Clay laughed. "No, definitely not. But did he have to give us a dirty look and announce in front of Chef Andrews that he wanted some of that whipped cream while it was still on the cake, before we got our hands on it?"

Catherine turned her head and her lips were right next to Clay's. "Oh," she said softly, her breath warm against his skin. Her gaze lifted to his and the innocence in her voice was kicked out by the devil in her blue eyes. "So you did hear my wedding wish.

 

Chapter Seventy Five

Three showers later, so sated their bodies were nearly boneless masses of jelly, Clay and Catherine could do no more than smile at each other. Fortunately, they had eaten a piece of the divine cake before Catherine invented yet another shatter-every-one-of-your-bodies-sexual-nerves spin on their initial whipped cream escapade.

Clay pulled her close and held her in a deep kiss, but while just touching Catherine inflamed his heart and soul beyond anything he'd ever imagined, his body protested and complained at the thought of taking those flames any further.

With Catherine snuggled in the shelter of his arms, the soft, steady rhythm of her heartbeat strengthening the cadence of his own, Clay drifted off to peaceful sleep.

It wasn't sound that woke him, because there was none. It was the empty spot beside him in the bed. No light and no sound from the bathroom. A glance at the clock said he'd been asleep nearly three hours. On his side, he half-raised and scanned the room.

Catherine stood at the window, her hand holding the curtain slightly open as she stared out into the night.

Moonlight drenched her honey blonde hair, bestowing the illusion of spun gold. But even before that image penetrated his brain his feet were on the floor. Somehow he knew. Knew. And couldn't reach her quickly enough.

When Clay's hand gently touched Catherine's shoulder she turned and buried her tear-streaked face in his chest. He drew her into the circle of his embrace and stroked her hair, murmuring soothing words into her ear while she cried.

He held her until there were no more tears, then led her to the bed, sat her on the edge and flipped on the bedside light. He knelt on the floor in front of her and his hands softly brushed the last wet remnants from her cheeks. The pain in her eyes sent a knife straight through his heart and he would have tilted the Earth's axis to erase the hurt she carried.

"Talk to me," he said quietly.

"My...mother," she answered, then lowered her gaze to the floor.

She stayed silent and Clay wasn't sure where Catherine's thoughts had led her, what could have sent her into such a driving emotional upheaval.

Clay tipped her chin up and forced her to look at him, though his voice stayed tender. "I can't help if you won't talk to me."

"I failed her," Catherine said in a small voice.

That was something Clay hadn't expected and hesitated, unsure how Catherine had come to the self-damning conclusion.

Catherine rose and began to pace. Her words came in a rush, but Clay let out a relieved sigh that whatever she'd bottled she now wanted to share. "My mother lived her life behind terrible secrets that weren't her fault."

Clay sat on the bed and watched her pace. "That certainly wasn't your doing, Catherine. You didn't do anything to fail your mother. What Yearwood did victimized your entire family."

She came and sat beside him then, her eyes earnest. "But I did, Clay. All those years...why didn't my mother confide in me? Was I so selfish, so self-absorbed she felt I wouldn't understand? That I'd blame her or condemn her for giving away my brother?"

He shook his head. "Don't second guess your mother, Catherine. You can't know how hard it was for her, what she thought or what it did to her everytime there was a reminder of what Yearwood did to her." He lifted her hand and squeezed it. "Remember, she didn't even confide everything to your father."

Catherine's tears flowed freely. "How she must have suffered. She was all alone. Even when she was with my father, who loved her more than life itself, or with me, who absolutely idolized her...she was virtually alone with her pain."

Clay drew her close, then sat her on his lap and rocked her. "Your mother did what she felt she had to do to protect her family," he reminded her. And it was her choice, no one else's, to keep her secret. Have you considered it might have caused her more pain, more worry, to know that she told your father and know that Yearwood might try to bring him harm?"

Catherine sighed and wiped her face with her fingers. "My father would have killed Yearwood," she admitted.

Clay drew her head to his shoulder. "That's my point, sweetheart. That would have caused your mother much more grief than the burden she decided to keep to herself. But, like I said, we can't begin to guess what was in her heart. They were her private thoughts, her private decisions and we have to respect them."

Catherine nodded and Clay felt her tiny smile against his neck. "Her only outlet was to pour her heart out to my brother in letters she couldn't share. At least she had that."

Clay raised her head and smiled at her, relieved to see she'd calmed and was thinking rationally again about her mother. "And she had you. I know you were close to your mother and I'm sure you were a source of great strength to her."

Catherine's hand rested on the side of Clay's face and the love in her heart lit her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "Just for being you."

Clay's heart ached for Catherine and his kiss was gentle, a contradiction to the powerful love and protectiveness that surged through his being, his core, his soul.

From the basket in the corner, Raleigh whimpered.

Catherine gave a gentle tap to Clay's nose. "Do you mind?"

He knew what she meant and just smiled. Catherine grinned and went to the corner to bring Raleigh into bed with them.

Once in between where they each stretched out on their pillows, Raleigh happily jumped from one of them to the other, unconcerned with what time the clock read.

Her voice strained, Catherine said, "I can't wait any longer, Clay. Tomorrow morning I'm getting directions from Aunt Margaret and going out to the homestead. The real one."

"No."

Catherine sighed. "You and Junior will be with me every step. I swear it. And I thought Detective Oliver might be interested in going along, too, since the man he's hunting is connected to Mr. Yearwood in this scheme."

"Catherine..."

"I'm going, Clay," she said quietly. "With or without you. I...I can't put it into words, but this is something I have to do."

He lay back on his pillow, closed his eyes briefly and shook his head in exasperation. He would give anything to not understand how compelled she felt, but unfortunately for both of them, he did understand.

Raleigh was restless and wanted to play, not sleep. Clay turned the light out but it didn't help. Raleigh kept pushing her cold little nose against his hand, trying to lift his hand to either pet or play with her. Clay gave in, turned the light back on played with Raleigh at the same time he smiled at her and told her how badly she needed to go to sleep.

Raleigh was unimpressed.

Catherine reached out and pulled Raleigh to her. "I know what will help her fall asleep," she told Clay. "Let me try."

"Anything," said a grateful Clay.

Catherine put her face close to Raleigh and with one hand softly brushed Raleigh.

Clay's jaw nearly dropped when Catherine began to sing to Raleigh the song he'd heard her sing in the shower, when her heart full of joy burst out in the form of music. His favorite childhood hymn. The very long one.

It was still the most God-awful thing he'd ever heard.

He put his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes and hoped Raleigh found a very quick sleep. Dear God, why does her expressive joy have to mean expressed in song?

Catherine had just hit her stride in the third chorus when it happened.

Raleigh's howl shot Clay's eyes wide open, and he gave a start to the short clips of ensuing howls. He steeled himself and his mind raced for a way to let Catherine know her singing hurt Raleigh's ears. If he needed to, he'd assure her that he loved her singing, but Raleigh's tender puppy ears were too delicate. Or some such baloney.

Clay turned toward the pair and got the shock of his life.

Raleigh was rapt in attention to Catherine, adoration pouring from sweet brown puppy eyes into Catherine's warm, love-filled blue ones.

Raleigh was not howling in protest. Raleigh was singing along.

Clay's smile was forced and he dropped back to the pillow in frustration. So much for Raleigh giving him an 'out' from Catherine's serenade.

The visual he'd just witnessed was one of the most touching scenes of mutual affection he'd ever seen, something he'd carry in his heart forever.

He could only hope the audio would someday fade.

It was almost a physical struggle for Clay to not pull the pillow over his ears.

 

Chapter Seventy Six

Morning sun hadn't quite reached the spot where it would pour into Margaret's living room windows, so the room was still pleasantly cool.

Catherine shook her head and her smile was rueful. She sat on the floor, holding onto the rattle and playing tug-of-war with Raleigh, but directed her words to Margaret. "I'm just too on-edge about your meeting tonight with Eric McCandless to sit still. Clay thought..."

"No I didn't."

"...okay, I thought it would help if I had something to keep me busy. I can't sit in that hotel room and wait. It would drive me out of my mind. That's far too many hours to think and imagine the worst."

Margaret didn't smile and Clay saw fear flit through her brown eyes. "It's not a good idea to go out there yet. I didn't figure on you going to the homestead until it's completely safe, until Curtis and his criminal pals are all behind bars."

"Please, Aunt Margaret," she added. "Clay has already called Detective Oliver and he's agreed to go with us, in fact he's on his way over here right now. And Clay and Junior will be right by my side."

Margaret remained silent and Clay was sure she was about to refuse to give them the directions.

The sound of the heavy longhorn doorknocker interrupted further conversation and Clay rose to answer the door. A short murmur of words preceded Clay and Oliver entering the room.

Oliver greeted Margaret, Catherine and Junior, then stooped to pet Raleigh, who didn't bother letting go of the rattle. Oliver turned to Clay. "Lucas Foster and his wife Hannah have skipped town."

Margaret gasped.

Taken aback, Clay asked, "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah," Oliver answered. "One of their neighbors spotted them stuffing suitcases into their trunk in a big hurry before dawn, then speed off."

Clay took a seat on the couch and gestured for Oliver to sit. "What does that mean? That Yearwood's panicked and given up?"

Oliver shook his head. "Not at all. It's my opinion that Foster and Hannah didn't know how far Yearwood has gone in this, didn't know Foster's brother had tried to kill Catherine. I think they also don't know what the actual stakes are, what Yearwood hopes to gain. I think they beat feet before they get charged with some of the things the other two did." His laugh held no humor. "They're too late, I'm afraid." His face sobered and he turned to Clay. "We've identified the girl in Vegas. Young girl who left a tough home to start a new life. Foster's brother Andrew, the ex-p.i., got desperate for a body, saw her strong resemblance to Catherine and counted on the fact that Margaret hadn't seen Catherine in three years. The bottom line is...well, the girl's now been identified." He sighed. "I think the other Foster and Hannah just found this out. I think all they knew was that Yearwood wanted property that belonged to him and they went along with the other sleazy stuff, but murder, well, they didn't count on that."

Oliver looked at Catherine. "I'm really curious to see this homestead. It seems that the key to everything that happened to you in California, Nevada and now here can be traced back to something in that house."

Clay looked at Margaret. She held his gaze, then nodded.

**

Clay drove Catherine, Raleigh's basket securely in her lap, in his car and Junior rode with Detective Oliver. It was a half-hour highway ride to the first turn-off, but that turn-off soon became a series of winding dirt roads that twisted, crossed each other and became almost a rutty map puzzle.

Neither Clay nor Catherine had any idea if the homestead was anywhere near the other house and grave. Judging by the directions Catherine read to Clay one at a time, the two places were on opposite ends of the seventy five acres.

Clay followed Margaret's directions precisely and forty minutes after making the turn-off, his car preceded Oliver's down a pine-canopied road that emptied into a huge clearing sparsely dotted with grass. An intimidating two-story building overshadowed a massive circular drive, its windows so covered with yellow Texas dirt the sun could barely find a reflective spot.

The homestead, built with love, pride and joy by Catherine's newlywed grandparents with the help of neighbors, had been built deep in the woods, well away from the highway.

Clay slowed and put the car into park, staring at the house. Within seconds Oliver and Junior were at his window.

"Stay here," Oliver instructed, "until we take a look around." He gave a steady look to Catherine. "Do not leave the car. Understood?"

Catherine nodded and Oliver told Clay, "Call my cell number."

Clay did and when Oliver flipped his phone on he put it back in his pocket, with, "This line stays open so we can hear each other on both ends." He pointed with his head to the landscape. "Stay alert and on the watch out here. If you see anything or anybody at all, holler."

 

Chapter Seventy Seven

With Clay's cell phone propped on the dash, Clay and Catherine watched as the detective and the bodyguard entered the house.

They sat in silence, listening to the muted conversaton between Oliver and Junior coming through the phone. As the two men walked from room-to-room, floor-to-floor, Clay found eerie the sound of footsteps that came through the open line.

He did a continual scan of their surroundings, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in the peaceful countryside. Bright sunshine lent a cheerful appearance to the place, with the exception of windows that hadn't been blessed by a thorough cleaning in many years.

From where he sat, Clay noted the house, though noticeably larger, wasn't too unlike the other one in layout.
Wrap-around porch, sturdy railing, flower boxes.

"Uh oh," Catherine said, looking at Raleigh. "Raleigh needs to get out."

Clay sighed, then looked around and opened the car door. "Well, I guess it can't hurt if we stand right beside the car."

Catherine opened her door and stepped out, then put the basket on the ground and lifted Raleigh from it. "Come on, sweetie," she told the puppy and led her to a grassy spot near the porch.

Clay scowled and called, "Catherine."

Catherine smiled at Clay. "Oh, come on," she chided. "That's all dirt over there and she'll splash dirt all over herself. This is much better."

Clay grabbed the phone from the dash and when he walked to where Catherine waited for Raleigh he took a better look around.

The flower boxes on the porch, albeit empty of anything resembling flowers, were filled with dirt so dry it was hard and cracked.

Oliver and Junior came out the front door then and down the steps to where Clay and Catherine still waited for Raleigh to select the perfect spot.

"The inside is clear," Oliver informed them. "Junior's going to wait here while I go and check to see how many outbuildings are on the property." He pointed toward the horizon. "I can just make out the roofline of one of them from here."

"Can we go inside?" Catherine asked. "Just to look around?"

Oliver nodded. "Should be okay. Not much to see, though. Old furniture. Typical house," he added with a frown. "There were a few oddities about the rooms, but I believe that can be chalked up to popular architectural styles in your grandparent's time. I don't think that what you're looking for is in there."

Catherine blinked in surprise. "The basement. My mother's note is a map to finding something hidden in the basement. Did you go down there?"

Junior interjected with, "We did, Miss Catherine. Your map references a brick basement. This basement isn't brick."

"No," Catherine insisted. "The note says Homestead Basement."

"Take it easy," Clay said in a calming tone. "Maybe it means a basement at the homestead. It's possible it refers to another building."

Clay watched as Catherine's jaw set and he sighed. Oliver raised an eyebrow, said nothing and got in his car to go and check out the other building.

"I'll go back down with you," Junior offered when Raleigh finished her business.

"No," Catherine told him. "Detective Oliver asked you to stay by the car. Besides, he's already given the 'all clear' to the basement. I just want to check it out for myself. I'll be right back, Clay."

Clay grabbed her arm. "You really don't have all your marbles, do you, if you think I'm waiting here and you're waltzing into that basement."

"The basement's been searched and there's no one there," she reminded him, picked Raleigh up, put her in the basket and headed for the house.

Clay grabbed her arm. "I'll go first if you don't mind," he said flatly.

"Actually, I don't mind," she admitted and Clay shot her a look.

"Catherine, you have got to start thinking first."

He was more than a little surprised by her nod of acknowledgement, murmured, "Maybe there's hope for you yet," to her and led the way up the porch steps and into the house.

Despite the warm sun outside, the interior was chilly. Closed up for who knew how long, cool had settled into the very bones of the house. Clay saw Catherine give a start when their footsteps on the plank flooring echoed back to them.

"I should be getting creeped out, shouldn't I?" she asked.

"You mean you're not?" he asked, then blew out in exasperation when he saw her head for the second floor landing. "Where are you going?"

"Upstairs."

"The basement isn't upstairs."

She turned and faced him, determination in her eyes. "I know that and don't talk to me like I'm a child. The house was just inspected by a cop and a bodyguard. There's no one here but us. And I'm going to look around."

She turned with a haughty air toward the steps, then turned back and hurriedly added, "But keep that phone line open."

Oliver's voice came through the phone line then, demanding, "Clay, where are you two?"

"On our way to the second floor."

"The basement's not upstairs," Oliver reminded him.

"Moot point," Clay said sourly. "Did you find anything out there?"

"Just a barn. Some old tools, nothing of interest yet. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, do what you're doing and get out of there."

At the top of the stairs, Clay followed Catherine into what looked to be a large sitting room. The room was paneled in a light oak, and an old foot-pedal sewing machine was just one of many antiques that decorated the well-lit room.

Catherine sighed and walked toward the sewing machine. "My grandparents wanted a large family, but it didn't happen for them. They had this big old house and only one child. My mother said she'd always wanted a lot of brothers and sisters, but..."

Raleigh started wiggling in the basket and Catherine lifted her out and put her on the floor to run. Catherine smiled as she and Clay walked back to the doorway. "I can picture my mother in here as a little girl, playing with whatever pets she had, and according to her, she had a lot of them when she was little. My grandparents were very indulgent."

Raleigh chose that moment to race toward the sewing machine. Afraid she'd hit the foot pedal and hurt herself, Clay and Catherine sprinted across the floor to catch her. When Catherine bent down to grab Raleigh she lost her balance and grabbed for the wall just before her butt landed on the floor.

Her hand smacked down on the paneling and she cringed, rubbing it where the side of her palm had made contact.

Clay reached to help her back to her feet, then the paneling caught his attention and he came to a dead stop. In the paneling was a depression noticeable only when the light fell on it just right.

Clay ignored Catherine, still seated on the floor, and put his hand on the paneling, sliding his fingers around lightly, making sure he saw what he thought he saw, that it wasn't illusion.

He nodded and when he turned excited eyes to hers, he saw her expression mirrored his own. He pushed the well-concealed depression and a large section of paneling slid soundlessly to the side.

Inside was a pulley-operated dumbwaiter.

Chapter Seventy Eight

"Clay!" came crackling through the phone line and Clay grabbed it, suddenly aware he wasn't responding to Oliver's first shout.

"I'm here," he said quickly. "What's wrong?"

"That's my question," Oliver answered. "What was that thud?"

Clay grinned without looking at Catherine, his hand running slowly up the paneling, his eyes examining what little he could see of the dumbwaiter's interior. "Little accident. Catherine fell on her butt."

"Hold on," Oliver told him and the line went dead.

Clay waited.

A few seconds later Oliver clicked back on, with, "Junior's now online with us so we've got open communication between the three of us at all times."

Relieved to hear this, Clay, said, "Good. Question, Detective. When you were upstairs, did you see the dumbwaiter, or anything that looked like one, anywhere else when you walked through the house?"

"A dumbwaiter? No, I didn't. Junior, did you?"

"Negative," Junior said. "What room are you two in upstairs?"

"Large room with antiques, an old sewing machine, things like that. It looks to be a sitting room," Clay answered. "I'm going to check this dumbwaiter out and see where it ends up. I'll let you know if I find anything."

He put the phone back into his shirt pocket.

He stuck his head inside the dumbwaiter's opening and looked it over. Pulleys on both sides operated the up-down mechanism, but it struck him that there was probably a button in each room it visited to summon and dismiss it, depending on where you were and what you wanted. The dumbwaiter's back wall and ceiling were paneled to match the sitting room. The floor was wide enough and deep enough for even someone of his height to sit in, but he refrained. He cast a glance toward Catherine, knowing she wouldn't have passed the opportunity, especially if she thought her mother had played inside this thing as a child.

He leaned farther inside, twisted his head for a better look at the pulleys and called to Catherine, "It looks like this was its last stop. Literally and figuratively." He came back out and said, "I'll be surprised if any of the other rooms up here have one of these, but let's check and see."

Raleigh followed along behind them as they went into each of three bedrooms, the bathroom and a large walk-in linen closet.

"I didn't think so," Clay explained as they went back to the first floor. "They go in a straight line and I can't imagine anyone wanting the hassle of putting in, much less maintaining, two of them."

Catherine, now holding Raleigh in the crook of her arm, the basket in her free hand, nodded. "And you know what? I wouldn't be surprised if the buttons and controls were hidden because my grandfather didn't want my mother sneaking off to play inside the dumbwaiter. I know children have met tragic accidents playing inside dumbwaiters. My grandparents were very, very protective of my mother's safety..." her voice trailed off and Clay turned, realizing that Catherine's innocent statement of her grandparent's protectiveness had invoked memory of the day her grandparents weren't home to protect their daughter.

He took Raleigh from her arm and placed her on the floor, gave Catherine's hand a warm, tight squeeze, said, "Come on," and led her across the planked living room floor toward the back, to the kitchen.

"Unless I miss my guess," he said, "the dumbwaiter will line up on the wall between the kitchen and the dining room."

They both cast admiring glances around the old-fashioned kitchen, the oak cabinetry fronted by doors of solid glass. An old gas stove sat between a 1950's refrigerator and a dual tap sink; a solid oak counter lined a second wall, open shelves above it a place for cookbooks and cooking aids.

"Over here," Clay called and because he now knew what kind of depression to look for, spotted the one that concealed the dumbwaiter's controls. "Eureka," he said in a kidding tone. "I believe we found it, Stanley."

Catherine shot him a smile that said he was nuts, then said, "Now that you've found this one I can probably locate its other side," and walked off, to the hallway and into the dining room.

Clay waited, and in less than a minute, the opposite side opened. Catherine grinned at him. "Not bad, Aiken. Not bad."

He stuck his head inside and did his best to peer downward, but saw little to nothing. "This definitely goes to the basement," he told her, "but I can't see anything, even a shaft of light, like I could from upstairs."

He pressed his button to close his side, listened as Catherine's side closed, then met her in the hallway. "We're on our way down there anyway, so that's one more thing to check out."

He pulled the phone from his pocket. "Everything still okay outside? Junior? Detective, are you still at the barn?"

"Yes," said Oliver.

"Everything's still clear here," Junior told him.

"The dumbwaiter has first floor openings in both the kitchen and dining room," Clay told them. "I could see the pulley leading down toward the basement so we're going to see where it starts down there."

He put the phone in his pocket and walked back to the kitchen. "I think I saw a door in a small cove over past the refrigerator," he told Catherine and made her stay behind him.

She scooped Raleigh up and after Clay found and opened the door, he watched as she took a tentative pace behind him down the first few wooden steps into the basement.

The empty basement, as wide and long as the house, was well lit via plenty of windows on the front and two sides, even if those windows were dirty. He was pretty sure that despite what Oliver and Junior had already told them, Catherine was as disappointed as he was to see concrete walls and floor. The only positive was the cool held by the concrete against the warm Texas air outside.

"Not a single brick," Catherine murmured.

Clay turned and saw her blink back tears of frustration. "Well," he said lightly, "let's see if we can find that dumbwaiter."

He went to the wall where it should be, but could find no depression. No button. No hinge. No latch. No switch.

He did a long, slow, careful search with both hands, powdery white dust gathering on his fingers and palms as he repeatedly pressed them into different spots on the concrete wall. He rubbed his hands clean on his pants and shook his head.

"I don't get it. Maybe they eliminated this end of it because they never used it."

"Maybe," Catherine agreed with a dubious tone. She put Raleigh in the basket with, "Be a good girl for a minute," and started a visual tour of the wall.

When she turned to Clay her eyes sparkled. "I've got an idea. I'm going up and send that dumbwaiter down. Tell me what happens."

Before he could say anything, Catherine raced up the steps. Within seconds she yelled, "Here it comes."

She returned to the cellar as fast as she'd left. "Well?"

Clay looked at her, puzzled. "Well what? It obviously didn't come down."

"Yes, it did," she corrected him and pointed. "Behind that wall."

Clay wasn't convinced. "I didn't hear anything and those old pulleys aren't exactly quiet. Maybe you only think it came down here. It might have a 'stop' platform below the kitchen, a failsafe, if you will, in case the pulley breaks."

"Or," Catherine stated in an excited tone, "this isn't the entire basement."

Taken aback, Clay asked, "What?"

"Clay, when we pulled up to this house, did you notice the basement windows?"

"No," he admitted.

"I did," she informed him. "They went all the way around, like the rest of the windows on the house. But there's only windows on three walls here."

"The basement appears to be the same size as the house," he said thoughtfully, but he was now looking at the concrete wall from a different perspective, with a more critical eye.

He went to the far left wall and glanced outside, then turned to Catherine. "You're right. Unless I miss my guess, this basement is about two feet shorter than the rest of the house."

Excitement fairly leaped from Catherine's eyes into his. "Let's find something and knock that wall down."

 

Chapter Seventy Nine

"No," came a double shout through the phone, then Oliver tossed in, "Junior, get in there before they started knocking anything apart."

Clay picked up the phone and laughed. "Don't panic. She doesn't exactly run rampant."

They heard Junior snicker, then try to cover it with a throat-clearing cough. "I'm on my way inside."

Clay replaced the phone, then looked at Catherine. "Well," he conceded, "you don't run rampant all the time."

Catherine made an indignant "hrumph" noise, then told Clay, "You people give me no credit for having any brain at all."

Junior called to them from the top of the basement steps, then hurried down to meet them at the wall.

Catherine scowled at him. "I heard you snicker, Junior. That wasn't very nice."

He looked innocent. "I don't know what you mean."

She smiled at him. "Oh, really? Well, just for your information, the cake is all gone. Every last incredible nibble, every big delicious bite."

It was Junior's turn to scowl.

Clay shook his head and admonished Catherine, "Now, that wasn't very nice. Take away Junior's dream of another slice of cake and he may throw you to the wolves himself."

Catherine and Junior both laughed, but Junior gave Catherine a questioning, raised-eyebrow look.

"Yes, there's more," she cried in exasperation. "Honestly," she said to Clay when she turned her attention to the concrete wall. "The only fun I had all day and you have to go and spoil it."

Clay stared at her. "Fun?" He snapped his fingers. "Oh, that's right, I forgot. We came out here to have fun."

She gave Clay a playful smack on the butt. "Get back to work," she ordered. "We know that not only is the dumbwaiter behind this wall, but with luck, so are the bricks referenced in that map."

Clay stopped Catherine. "Think a minute, now. There's two feet or less behind that wall. A slimmed down version of the dumbwaiter? Maybe. A room? Hardly. We're missing something and we need to stop and take stock of the possibles and the probables."

He looked around. "There doesn't seem to be another door leading in here to or from the outside." He walked from one set of windows to the other, one side to the other.

"Catherine, you noticed the basement windows, but did you notice if there was a door there?"

She shook her head. "No, that didn't even occur to me."

He looked at Junior. "Go up, go outside and see if there's a door lined up on the blocked side of the basement. And see what's visible through those windows."

When Junior left, Clay and Catherine went back to examining the concrete wall.

Catherine, near the center of the wall, gasped. "Look," she cried.

Clay came over to where she held her finger on the wall and saw a nearly invisible seam that went from the floor to just below the ceiling.

"It's a door," she exclaimed.

Puzzled, Clay peered closer. "Maybe," he granted, unwilling to commit one way or the other. He ran a careful finger slowly along the seamline. "But a door to where? Catherine, there can't possibly be enough room between this concrete wall and the real outside basement wall to even fully open a door."

Junior came back. "No door. From what I can see through the dirt, the windows have been blacked over."

Clay sighed and his forehead wrinkled in a frown. "This just gets more and more odd. Let's start looking for a lever or something that might open that door."

Twenty minutes later they'd found nothing. Oliver called in to say he'd neither found nor heard anything at the old barn and was going to the other house to look around. He'd stop here first.

Catherine tapped her foot, then Clay saw her smack her forehead. "Of course!" she cried. "I know where my grandfather put the other entrance. I'll be right back," she stated and Clay barely caught her before she started running up the stairs to the first floor.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "Wherever it is you're going, you're not going alone."

"Oh, pish tosh," she chided him. "Detective Oliver is on his way here. I'll show him where I'm going...better yet, I'll take him with me."

"Why don't we all go?" Clay said flatly. "I don't want you out of my sight."

Raleigh, who'd been sitting patiently most of the time, started barking for someone to play with her. Clay rubbed her ears, but said, "You need to stay in the basket for now, Raleigh. I'll let you run around when we get back outside."

No sooner had he placed Raleigh into the basket then she jumped back out and started running and barking to play.

Catherine laughed at Raleigh's antics and played tug-of-war with her until Oliver entered the basement.

"Let's take a look at that seam," Oliver said.

"I know where the other entrance is," Catherine informed him. "All I need to do is figure out how far away from the house my grandfather would have put it. And in what direction."

Clay stared at her. "Oh, is that all? You said you knew where to find it."

"Well," she hedged. "Basically, I do." Her excitement increased. "Clay, it has to be the tornado shelter."

He frowned. "What?"

"The tornado shelter," she repeated impatiently. "I'm betting my grandfather put a tunnel of sorts directly between the house and the shelter, in case they heard the warning too late to get there aboveground."

"But why would he block it off?" Clay asked.

Catherine's smile faded. "To conceal whatever is concealed back there."

With that, Raleigh's barking increased and she began to run in circles, trying to get Catherine's attention.

"Not now, Raleigh," Clay scolded. If he hadn't been looking at her, he wouldn't have seen where Raleigh backed up into the wall. Wouldn't have seen Raleigh jump when her little body inadvertently sat on the button that opened the door.

At the first grating sound of the door sliding open, Junior and Detective Oliver had their guns in their hand and had pushed Clay and Catherine to the side.

Clay held Catherine against the wall, shielding her with his body while he watched Detective Oliver and Junior move cautiously beyond the door.

Both men came back out putting their guns away.

"She was right. It's a tunnel. Not quite as high as this room, but a tunnel," Oliver said. He looked at Catherine. "A brick tunnel." He nodded to her. "I think you're probably right about another entrance, too. Do you think you can find it? We're going to need a lot more air and a lot more light than is in there now. It's pretty much pitch black the deeper into it you get."

 

Chapter Eighty

Clay, Junior and Raleigh stayed in the basement while Catherine and Oliver went outside to scout for the tornado shelter entrance.

Catherine shielded her eyes from the bright sun and gave both the flat and the wooded landscape a critical eye. The clearing that accompanied the road to the house was wide, to the point of massive.

"The driveway is close to the front and right side of the house," Catherine murmured, pretty much talking to herself, then aloud, "Detective, were there any clear areas near the barn?"

He shook his head and continued to examine the ground. "There were, but that's an awfully long distance to dig out a tunnel. I doubt the shelter would be away from the house further than, at most, a hundred yards. There was also a series of narrow roads back there by the barn that I'm guessing lead to other sections of the property, including over to the other house. But I don't think the tornado shelter would have been built any extreme distance from this house."

"You're right," Catherine agreed. "If there were middle-of-the-night tornado warnings my grandfather would want to make the shelter as easily and hurriedly accessible as possible."

She continued doing the same type of scan as Oliver, then offered, "I think we're actually looking for a door or doors that would be flush or almost flush to the ground. And," she added with sudden insight, "I'll bet they're covered in some fashion. If my grandfather concealed one entrance to the tunnel why wouldn't he conceal the other one?"

Oliver didn't look convinced. "Maybe it wasn't necessary," he speculated. "The basement tunnel entrance would still be hidden if Raleigh hadn't found the button. It's possible the tunnel entrance in the shelter, if there really is one, is also hidden in plain sight. If that worked on one end, and it certainly did, then it would work just as well on the other end."

Catherine frowned. "Maybe," she said dubiously, "but I'm guessing my grandfather didn't want the shelter found, just in case the basement entrance was located by someone he didn't want finding it."

The search on the front grounds was unfruitful so they went around to the rear of the property. The clearing wasn't as large, but it did go farther back than Catherine realized. It nearly touched the woods.

She stared at a pile of firewood neatly stacked to the right. Like most firewood, the placement was neither too far from nor too near to the house. This pile stood within ten yards of the woods and couldn't be seen from the front of the house. Her inner light bulb went off and Catherine then raced for the firewood with Oliver hot on her heels. Together, using the greatest caution and alertness to possible snake activity, they started throwing the blocks of chopped wood to the side.

The sound of a warning rattle stopped them. Despite overpowering cold fear at the sound, Catherine forced herself to stay put, to not run screaming. Oliver used a very long piece of wood to persuade and prod the diamondback to find a new home in the woods. When the snake had disappeared into the woods, Catherine struggled to relax her fear and helped Oliver carefully remove the remaining wood. The presence of the rattler had apparently discouraged any other creature from venturing into the wood pile.

What they found at the bottom, flush to the ground, was a single gray door, it's lock so weathered and rusted that one hard pull from Oliver freed the door from even the semblance of any constraint. The door was so old the reflection of direct, brilliant sunlight was only a dull glare.

Oliver looked at Catherine and Catherine couldn't contain herself. "Open it or I will," she blurted.

Oliver laughed and drew his gun. "I was just about to ask you if you're ready."

"Wait," Catherine called, surprised to see the gun. "Why..."

"Precaution," he assured her. "We don't know that the basement entrance is the only other way into that tunnel, do we?"

"Oh," Catherine said. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Stand back," he told her. When she retreated he pulled the door up, slowly at first, then gave it one huge pull and threw it back to clang on the ground.

The sun illuminated the interior of the tornado shelter for what Catherine suspected was the first time in many years. Looking side-to-side, Oliver went down the stairs one-by-one to the bottom.

"Come on down," he said and put his gun away.

Catherine hurried down the steps and looked around the musty-smelling concrete room. It was at least twenty feet wide, with two army-blanketed cots along the far wall. Bracketed to two walls were empty wells for kerosene lanterns. One was on the wall left of the steps, the other on the wall overtop the cots. Shelves lined the room, stacked from top to bottom with supplies, canned food, blankets, first aid kits. Her grandfather had taken no chances his family would be caught in any emergency without the barest essentials.

"Look," Catherine cried, grabbing a long box from one of the shelves. "Candles. Now," she added, searching the other shelves, "where are the matches? Got them," she ended in triumph, holding up a box of long kitchen matches. "The matches are longer than the candles," she said with a giggle, "but who cares?"

"Here's something a little better than the candles," Oliver informed her, moving boxes to retrieve his find. "Three kerosene lanterns, nearly full. They'll throw a little more light, anyway. We'll get this tunnel open if we can, do a short exam of it and head back to town for some spotlights."

Catherine barely heard him, her mind had been racing ahead as she did a continual scan of the room looking for anything that might open a door. She went and stood on the bottom step and looked to her right, the wall that faced the house and basement, the wall where the door had to be. Only when she did a very close inspection of the wall could she make out the barest hint of the seam.

Her gaze flicked back to the bracketed kerosene wells. A quick step took her to the first, to the left wall. Eagerness flooded her tone when she told Oliver, "I think I found the way inside." Her anticipation dimmed a little when she pulled down on the wall holder. No give. Nothing happened. Determined, she went and stood on the sturdy cot below the second wall holder. She pulled.

The empty well lowered and a grating similar to that made by the basement door ended with the slow opening swing of the tunnel entrance door.

The pounding of her heart nearly drowned out Oliver's excited, "That's it".

 

Chapter Eighty One

Catherine looked into the opening. Despite the warm sun on her skin, she could feel the chill of cool air coming from inside the brick tunnel. The sun lent its light to a certain degree inside the tunnel, but she had no idea how far they'd actually be able to see beyond that point. Should she tell Clay and Junior to go in, to meet her and the detective in the middle? One thing she did know was that despite the other end being open to the sun, the distance to the other opening was too great for her to see so much as a glimmer of that light. Maybe her eyesight would adjust as she went deeper into the tunnel and the light from the opposite side would be a bigger help than expected.

Oliver grabbed Catherine the moment she tried to step inside the tunnel.

"Hold it," he commanded her, and when she stopped and stepped back he pulled his phone from his pocket.

Catherine felt her face flush. She knew better than to go tearing off into the unknown but had been so excited she didn't think.

Oliver's voice into the phone was calm. "Clay, we've found both the shelter and the other end of the tunnel. Well, Catherine found them. It's behind the house, almost to the woods." He listened for a few seconds, then said, "The sun reaches a short distance into the tunnel and there's three of what appear to be usable kerosene lanterns on this end, but I think it's a better idea to let this place air out while we go back for spotlights."

"Uh huh," he said and glanced at Catherine.

He put the phone away and told Catherine, "I told Clay we'd meet him outside."

Curious, Catherine said, "What did he say to you?"

Oliver smiled. "He said you're to use common sense until he gets over here, that you're not to go into that tunnel without at least one of us in front of you."

"Like I would just rush in there without thinking," she huffed in indignation.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that exactly where you were headed when I stopped you?"

"I was just looking," she corrected him. "I wasn't really going anywhere."

"Uh huh," Oliver said and gestured for her to precede him up the steps and outside.

Catherine stepped out of the tornado shelter entrance just as Clay and Junior came around the house.

"Here," she called and waved.

Clay carried Raleigh in the basket and Junior spent the whole walk scanning the area, apparently satisfied they were the only ones around.

Clay and Junior both peered down the steps while Clay put Raleigh's basket down on the ground.

Catherine's excitement bubbled to the surface. "It's the other entrance," she exclaimed, picking up the basket and, despite Oliver's sigh of frustration, she led the way down the steps.

"There," she said, and pointed to the sunlit opening. "You can't see through to the other end but I don't know if that's because it's too far away or because the tunnel may have a turn somewhere."

"It's probably just too great a distance," Oliver broke in. "And there doesn't seem to be anything inside that catches the light and bends it down the length of the tunnel. Kerosene lamps are fine in an emergency, and if you want to we can use them to see what's just beyond where the sun ends, but I think it's best if we go back and get some powerful lights so we can see what we're doing."

"I agree," Clay said flatly. "I vote we skip the kerosene lamps and go back for the larger lights. Junior?"

"Same here," Junior stated.

Catherine smiled and kept her voice steady. "Okay, I understand where you're coming from, detective, and you make an excellent, valid point. I'll hold down the fort until you get back."

Clay stared at her, then he gave a short laugh. But when he spoke, all humor had vanished. "You're quite the kidder, Catherine, but this isn't up for debate."

Catherine's smile to him was tight, but blue eyes conveyed into increasingly angry green ones that she was not kidding, not by a long shot. "I'm not leaving, Clay," she said softly. "Bigger, brighter lights are a wonderful idea and I wish I had one right now. But I don't. And I'm not leaving this tunnel open for someone else to come snooping around and find. We have no idea if anyone else knows it exists. Common sense tells me not to close it up, leave and come back, simply because we need the fresh air that's going through it now from one end to the other."

Even though Clay's face had flushed an angry red, she gave him a level look. "I'm not leaving. Don't even try to bully me into it."

Clay's face was angrier than she'd ever seen him, but she saw in his eyes he was evaluating what she'd said. The eyes that had turned dark green with anger lightened to a paler shade of resignation.

Clay turned to Oliver. "As much as I hate to admit it, she's right. Junior and I will wait here. But only if Catherine goes with you." He gave Catherine a pointed look. "If necessary, Junior will tuck her into the passenger seat for you."

"Forget it," Catherine said heatedly, then put her hands up in truce. "Look, we still have all the phone lines open, don't we? And there's been no inkling at all that we aren't the only ones here, has there?"

Oliver looked thoughtful. "There's a lot of side roads coming out from that barn area, Catherine. You have no way of knowing, really, that no one else is here."

She snorted. "Oh, I think we'd know by now, detective. Mr. Yearwood or that man he hired to patrol out here would have barged in as soon as we found that first entrance. Mr. Yearwood is far too greedy to let me find or have anything he thinks belongs to him. He made that clear when he hired someone to kill me."

"Forget it, Catherine," Clay grated.

Catherine turned to Clay and her love for him surged through her. God, how she loved his protectiveness. At the same time, her inability to get into that tunnel was driving her crazy and she wasn't one to sit idly and wait for things to happen.

"I love you, Clay," she said firmly. "You're my breath. My life. But this is my decision. And I've made it."

Clay's look to Catherine was one she knew she'd have to deal with later. But he told the detective, "Make it quick. We'll be right here."

**

A few minutes after Detective Oliver left, Catherine, seated beside Clay on one of the cots, pulled the map from her pocket.

Junior, perched at the tornado shelter's opening, had been scanning the area nonstop for movement of any kind. He emitted a groan that told Catherine he'd seen her with the map and the groan caught Clay's attention.

He grabbed the map from Catherine's hand and put it into his own pocket. "Forget it," he snapped.

She sighed. "I only wanted to get an idea of where to start, maybe try to decipher the directions code, things like that."

"Sure you did," Clay said easily, but swatted her hand away when she tried to reclaim the map. "And the next thing I would have heard is the echo of your footsteps going into the tunnel."

She threw her hands into the air. "Clay, I'm going crazy," she cried. "I have to do something besides sit here."

He smiled. "Then you should have gone with Oliver. You're not going near that tunnel. No matter what."

She jumped off the cot, trying to hide her anger. Anger at herself. She knew she was being unfair but she was so on-edge she was unable to stop herself from doing things she knew weren't the best avenue to take.

She picked up the basket. "I'm going to take Raleigh outside and let her run for awhile. She's spent a long time in the basket and should stretch those little legs."

"Don't go anywhere," Clay warned as she went up the steps with the basket.

"You know what?" she said when she stepped out of the shelter. She held her hand out to Junior. "Give me your phone," she demanded, then shot Clay a sour look. "I'll call you every ten steps. How's that?" She knew she was acting childish and felt it even stronger when Clay's jaw set and he chose not to answer.

"Give me your phone," she repeated harshly.

"Oooh, boy," Junior breathed. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes tonight, Miss Catherine. I got a feeling you're in for it." But he handed her his phone.

She stormed off, knowing it was a silly, very immature act. She was in no mood to care, then topped it off by tossing Junior's phone into the basket. She surely didn't feel like listening to a lecture over the phone. Today was one of the most important in her life and she couldn't have handled it more badly if she tried.

She put Raleigh down and they played for awhile. Catherine wandered around to the front of the house, then a short way down the road, waving to Junior as she rounded the bend and out of sight for a moment, letting her mind travel down the path of 'what once was' in her mother's life. There was so much she didn't know, so much she hoped Aunt Margaret would be able to tell her.

A lump formed in her throat and she blinked back tears. Tonight Aunt Margaret would meet with Eric McCandless. Catherine would await the call that would tell her whether or not her brother had truly been found. She didn't know how to sort through so many jumbled emotions, but she knew she'd been making Clay unhappy with her immature actions. Clay. Hot tears formed behind her lids. She'd put him through an awful lot lately. Despite everything, he let her know he'd always be her rock, her strength.

"Come on, Raleigh," she said quietly, scooping her into her arms. "I need to see Clay. I have to tell him how sorry I am." She laughed and nuzzled the puppy's neck. "Not to be confused with how lucky I am. That's what he tells me." She laughed again and in a serious tone told the attentive puppy. "Just between you and me, Raleigh, nothing could be more true. I am the luckiest woman alive."

She took the short walk back and rounded the building to the rear of the house, startled to find Junior not at the shelter opening. Guilt flooded her. Had Clay come out and gone looking for her?

She hurried to the shelter, started to holler, "I'm back," then stopped when she heard a belligerent voice from inside.

She put the basket down and got on her knees, then lowered her face to sneak a cautious look inside the tornado shelter.

Junior and Clay were seated on separate cots.

Though she had only a partial sideview, Catherine recognized the physical traits of the man who held a gun on Clay on Junior. It was not Lucas Foster, but his brother Andrew. The man Curtis Yearwood hired to kill her.

Foster's voice dripped ice. "Where is she?"

 

Chapter Eighty Two

Despite the bone-chilling terror that gripped her spine, Catherine somehow maintained her senses and remained perfectly still. Her heart thumped in fear when she looked through the shelter opening at Clay, his face impassive as he held the gaze of man who'd stalked and tried to kill her. She swallowed hard and looked at Junior, whose expression conveyed that he'd like nothing better than a very private one-on-one with Foster.

Junior's gun was on the concrete floor, at Foster's feet. Next to it was Clay's cell phone.

Clay sounded bored. "I don't know what you're talking about. She didn't come out here with us. You've been watching her day and night, so you should know she's still at the hotel."

Catherine glanced toward the tunnel. Junior had been much too alert to his surroundings to be taken by surprise. Apparently, fresh air wasn't the only thing that had entered the tunnel from the basement. Foster must have sneaked up on Clay through the dark tunnel, grabbed him and forced Junior to get rid of his gun.

"Don't," Foster said flatly, "take me for a fool. I know she's here with you because I saw her with that Vegas cop."

Clay sighed. "Okay," he conceded. "She was here. But she went back to town with Detective Oliver. I convinced her it was too dangerous to wait here."

"Well, now aren't you the smart guy," Foster sneered. "We'll just wait right here for her. And if you're lying, or trying to stall because you think the cavalry will show up at the last minute and save you two...well, I'm here to tell you they won't." His laugh was pure evil.

Horror-struck, Catherine backed away from the shelter opening as quickly and as quietly as she could.

She had to contact Detective Oliver.

Her thoughts raced, whirled and finally coalesced. With a start of sudden remembrance, she hurried back toward the shelter for Raleigh's basket, afraid the little dog might already have whimpered and given away their presence. Grabbing the basket she ran toward the front of the house and started to pull the phone from the basket.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach and she began shaking when she realized she didn't dare use it. The phone was still on three-way. If she hung up on Clay's line so she could talk to Oliver without Foster hearing, Foster would not only hear the disconnect beep, he would still be able to hear Oliver. If she called Oliver while still on three-way, Foster would hear them both. She weighed the choices, but knew she'd never take the chance that Foster, even if she hung up her end of the line to Clay, might figure out who Oliver was talking to and what was up.

"Think. Think." she commanded herself. Then over the treeline she saw the dust rise from the road and realized that when Oliver left he had taken the road to the barn. For what reason, she didn't know. Nor did she care. What she did know was that help was now within reach.

Fear for Clay's and Junior's safety put wings to her feet and she flew to Clay's car, saying a silent prayer of thanks that he preferred a quiet engine, not a loud sports car. Relief flooded her entire body when she saw he'd left the keys in the car, mainly because he'd jumped out with her when she announced Raleigh needed a potty break and climbed from the car.

When she got behind the wheel and put the basket in the passenger seat, from the corner of her eye she saw what she presumed to be Foster's car, hidden on a narrow road in the woods. No wonder no one saw or heard him coming.

Catherine jammed the car into gear but even though she knew she couldn't be seen from the rear of the house, used as much caution as possible to get past the house to the road leading to the barn. The rising dust had settled back and the air was now clear, so she could no longer guess how far ahead of her the detective stayed. No matter. She'd fly to catch him.

Once she knew she was beyond hearing range of the shelter, she floored it. The tires bit into the dirt with secure traction, and with incredible terror for Clay guiding her every inch of the way, the car sped the distance to intercept Oliver.

When Catherine reached the area of the barn, all she saw was the midday sunlight reflect blindingly from the bumper chrome on the side of the barn. The smaller of the two barn doors stood wide open.

Almost in tears from relief, she jammed the car into park, remembering that Oliver also said there were "various tools" in the old barn. As far as she was concerned, that translated into helpful weapons.

"Stay here," Catherine ordered Raleigh, and leaped from the running car, leaving the driver door ajar. Thank God he stopped here, was all she could repeat in her mind.

She raced inside the opened barn door, looking around and yelling in a panic-filled voice up toward the loft, "Detective Oliver? Where are you? We need your help right away. Foster has Clay and..."

"Well, well, well," said a calm voice behind her.

At the sound, Catherine felt as though she'd been drenched in ice water and went ramroad stiff, knowing what she'd see even before she turned.

The amused chuckle is what brought her back to reality and she spun.

Curtis Yearwood.

 

Chapter Eighty Three

Yearwood walked over to Catherine. "There's no one here but us, Catherine."

Forcing nonchalance into her voice, Catherine smiled and said, "Oh, my mistake." She added a casual, at least casual to her ears, "I'll check over at the house," and tried to step around him to leave.

Yearwood snorted and blocked her way. "Nice try."

Catherine gave him a cool look. "What do you want?" she demanded in the biggest display of brass she'd ever attempted. "Get out of my way."

He guffawed, a short laugh which then evolved into a dark look. "I think you know what I want. Foster said you found both ends of the tunnel. Now I want the map your mother drew."

Catherine lifted her chin, her gaze firm, defiant. "Over my dead body."

"Of course," was Yearwood's mild answer. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Catherine took a step back, but kept her gaze locked with his. "Lay a hand on me and you'll regret it," she warned.

"I think not," he said quietly. "I'll give you credit, though, Catherine. You certainly gave that idiot Foster a run for his money."

"Idiot?" she sneered, her gaze flitting around the room for another way out. Nothing. "If he's such an idiot why did you hire him?"

Yearwood laughed. "You know, I've asked myself that a hundred times. Partially because my son-in-law told me his p.i. license had been revoked, partially because he believes in that ridiculous criminal code of keeping his mouth shut. The only things he actually has going for him is that he works cheap and he enjoys his work."

"Enjoys?" Catherine asked, her voice raspy as it came through a mouth from which fright was sucking all the moisture. She took slow backward steps, searching for an escape route.

"Enjoys," Yearwood confirmed. "Call me old-fashioned," he said and gave her a friendly smile, though his eyes were like granite. "But I didn't approve of what he did to you and that young man in that Vegas park, even though he swears he got there too late to see anything. He insists he only had time to scare the two of you and watch you run naked to the car."

"He killed that girl, didn't he?" Catherine asked. "To pass her off as me."

"Yes, he did," Yearwood said and came to within a foot of Catherine. "I'm afraid it was necessary," he added, his voice tinged with regret. "But it couldn't be helped. You didn't make Foster's job easy, you know." He sighed. "I suppose it wasn't a good thing that he really didn't mind killing that girl, was it?"

"You're both sick," Catherine said in disgust.

"Sick?" Yearwood asked. He frowned and shook his head, holding her gaze level. "No, it's simply business. You have no idea what's in that tunnel, do you?"

She was silent and he laughed. "Well, Catherine, let me assure you it's well worth the trouble that's been taken to get to it." His voice hardened. "And it's rightfully mine. Not yours."

"No," Catherine spat at him. "It's rightfully my brother's. Your son's. I know what you did to my mother."

Yearwood laughed. "What did you expect me to do? She came on to me..."

With a scream of rage Catherine charged him, pounding her fists into his chest. She caught him off guard and made a beeline for the door.

"Oh, no you don't," he cried and in two steps he'd caught her and dragged her inside. "End of the line I'm afraid."

Catherine used her only weapon. She kneed him between the legs, but he must have anticipated her move and blocked it. He laughed and grabbed her arms, but let go on impact of her vicious head butt.

Desperate, Catherine ran for the ladder to the loft. She was nearly to the top when Yearwood grabbed the ladder and started jerking on it, pulling it away from where it rested against the loft. In panic, Catherine flung her hands to the rim of the loft and caught it. The ladder fell and her body hung in the air, her feet swinging wilding, looking for something to brace onto so she could climb to the loft. Her fingers were quickly losing their grip on the wooden loft floor.

Below her, Yearwood's laugh cut through the air. "I'm patient," he said pleasantly. "I'll wait until you fall."

Catherine's strength gave out and she fell to the barn floor, a long fall that ended with her body making a horribly painful impact with the barn floor, her head hitting it so hard an instant later that it bounced.

Dazed, dioriented and in more pain than she thought it possible to endure, Catherine could only lay still and watch Yearwood approach. In his hand was a tire iron, in his eyes was not even the slightest regret.

"Like I said, Catherine, end of the line."

With blood trickling down her face from a cut at her hairline, she watched him raise the tire iron, keenly aware of what he had planned. She groaned and tried to shake the fog from her brain. She had to act. Had to react.

Out of nowhere she heard frantic barking, then saw a small flash come barrelling in the barn door and throw itself at Yearwood. Yearwood hollered in pain when Raleigh sunk her teeth into his leg.

"You little..." he screamed and dropped the tire iron to try and grab Raleigh, who stayed just out of reach but barked furiously, letting Yearwood know she was more than ready to do it again.

With strength born of newly-pumped adrenaline, Catherine rolled onto her knees, grabbed the tire iron and swung it with all her might.

Yearwood hit the floor screaming in pain, his knees shattered.

Catherine struggled to her feet, fought to shake off the remnants of disorientation, called, "Let's get out of here, Raleigh," and took unsteady steps toward the car. She was no doctor, but she suspected her fall resulted in concussion.

In the car, she took only long enough to hug Raleigh, who licked her face and barked her continual anger toward the barn.

Catherine laid her head back on the headrest, ignoring the trickle of blood.

She had to reach Oliver.

She had no choice. She pulled Junior's cell phone from the basket, to disconnect the three-way to Clay and hope she could tell Oliver in time to not say anything other than "yes" or "no" because Foster would still be able to hear Oliver on the open line. When she went to close the open line to Clay's phone Catherine's heart nearly stopped.

Someone had already turned Clay's phone off.

 

Chapter Eighty Four

With hands that shook so badly she nearly dropped Raleigh, Catherine put the phone back on the dash, lifted the basket's lid and placed Clay's little heroine in the basket. She picked up the phone again.

Tears clogged her throat and her voice was so raw with fright for Clay and Junior she was unable to raise it above a whisper, "Detective, please don't say a word. Just listen and answer 'yes' or 'no'. Can you hear me?"

Oliver's voice crackled, "That's affirmative", through the line.

The pain in her head was nearly blinding, and she had no idea how severe were any injuries to her body and bones from the jarring impact with the barn floor, but she forced herself to talk. Her words were a stammer as she fought to clear the remaining fog from her brain. "He's...got them," she managed. "Foster. In the...shelter...came through the basement." She paused. "Do you...understand, de...detective?"

"Yes," came the crisp answer.

Catherine tried and failed to bite back a sob. "I'm on Junior's phone...Clay's line... disconnected on my...end..."

A pause. "I just saw it's disconnected on this end, too," Oliver snapped. Through the phone line Catherine heard the long screech of tires and Oliver's next words confirmed his U-turn. "I'm on my way back, Catherine, and I'm calling state police for backup. Stay clear of that shelter."

"I won't allow him to harm Clay..."

"Catherine," Oliver shouted. "DO NOT..."

Catherine threw the phone into the basket.

She pulled the car door closed and put the car into gear. She was closer than Oliver and had no intention of waiting for either him or other law enforcement. If she did, Clay could very well die in that shelter. If he hadn't already.

She ignored the pain wracking through her and drove to the shelter as fast as she'd driven to the barn. Her mind had raced as fast as the engine with ideas on how to provide enough element of surprise that Junior could overpower Foster.

But she was so frightened for Clay that her thoughts became a kaleidoscope of pictures instead of ideas. Pictures of everything that had happened since they arrived here today. She bit down on her lip, fighting tears of frustration.

Then, thanks to those pictures, the idea fell into place. She only hoped she didn't falter, that she was brave enough to pull it off.

She parked near the bend in the road. When Oliver arrived he would see her car, comprehend the importance of its location and hopefully understand why she'd refused to listen to him, understand why she did what she was about to do.

She climbed quietly from the car and stared toward the woods where Oliver had scooted the snake to a safe haven away from the woodpile. She knew what she had to do. Clay would not die in her place. She said a short, fervant prayer that Clay would someday forgive her.

She was fairly certain that what was about to happen in the shelter would end with her death, but a cloak of calm descended and wrapped around her. Clay would live. All she wanted was one final chance to tell him how much she loved him.

She picked up the basket, and, carefully skirting the edge of the woods near the shelter, stopped by the area where they'd last seen the diamondback. It was only a few short steps from here to the shelter. She removed the cell phone from her pocket and stuck it in the back waistband of her jeans. She glanced at the woods. Just one more thing to do and she would enter the tornado shelter.

**

Clay sat on the cot, always alert to Foster looking away at the wrong time, for a possible opening for him and Junior to jump him. He was terrified Catherine would return and fall into Foster's hands. A side-glance to Junior revealed that though Junior looked relaxed, his body was tense, ready to pounce on the man who continually told them he'd like nothing more than to shoot them both. The only reason he didn't was that he knew Catherine was still on the grounds and would hear the shots. Foster had laughed when he told Clay he'd wait and take them out as a triple. Clay was sickened when he saw how much Foster enjoyed the taunting.

Clay's head jerked toward the steps when he heard Catherine's soft humming.

"No," Clay shouted, knowing Foster didn't dare turn his back on the two of them to chase down Catherine because Junior would pound him into the ground. "Catherine, run!"

Foster's hand shot out and caught the side of Clay's head. "Shut up," he ordered.

But it didn't matter.

Carrying the basket, and with one hand inside of it, Catherine began a slow walk down the wooden steps, her gaze riveted nowhere but to Foster.

She stopped two steps from the bottom. There was subtle movement inside the basket and Clay went cold when he heard the rattle.

Foster took a step back. "Drop that basket," he ordered.

Clay's heart nearly stopped. Blood trickled down the side of Catherine's head and she was so pale and unsteady he wondered how she continued to walk. What had happened to her?

But her gaze never left Foster.

"You want me. Let them go."

Foster laughed.

The rattle grew louder. Foster's nervous gaze flicked from Catherine to the basket. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Making a trade," she said softly, and Clay's heart nearly exploded with love. She was offering her life for his.

"No," Clay growled, wanting nothing more than to grab Catherine, hold her tight and fix whatever had happened to her outside.

Foster laughed. "That's right," he agreed. "No."

Catherine nodded with her head toward Foster. "See this?" she said, directing his attention to the blood trickle. A second later she gave a small cry of pain and withdrew her hand from the basket. Two small trickles of blood showed before she put her hand back into the basket.

Clay struggled to stay seated. Foster was clearly unnerved by the snake in the basket and Clay was afraid if he made any movement Foster would lose control and start shooting.

"I've been bitten twice. I have nothing at all to lose at this point," Catherine told Foster. "Either let them go or I'll be tossing this diamondback straight into your face. By the time you shoot the snake Junior will have ahold of you. Let them go and when I hear them drive away I'll give you the basket."

"I have a better idea," Foster said and his laugh was pure menace. "Put the basket on the floor and slide it over to lover boy. We'll let him play diamondback roulette and put his hand in there, too."

Catherine shook her head. "Sorry."

Anger turned Foster's face red and he swung his gun on Catherine. "Put the basket down."

Catherine sighed in resignation. Finally she met Clay's gaze and in those eyes he saw two words: trust me. He nodded.

She turned to Foster and said in a quiet voice. "I'll make you a deal. Since it doesn't look like any of us are going to make it out of here..." she choked off and it was a physical struggle for Clay to not run to her.

She cleared her throat and dignity covered her face. "Will you allow me one last, special moment with my husband?"

Foster's brows shot up. "You want to have sex here in the shelter?" He threw his head back and laughed. "What a pervert!"

"Shut your stupid mouth," Junior commanded and his look told Foster if he got free Foster was a dead man.

Catherine's smile was small and her voice was weak. "There's a special song Clay and I always share. Is it too much to ask for me to sing it to him one last time?"

Shock ran through Clay. What on earth was she doing?

Foster looked liked he'd never heard anything so bizarre. He shrugged. "Sure, I'm in a good mood." He nodded toward Catherine. "Go ahead. Entertain us."

Catherine gave a sad smile to Clay, mouthed, I love you, and opened her mouth to sing.

Wha’cha doing tonight?
I wish I could be a fly on your wall.
Are you really alone,
Who's stealing your dreams?
Why can't I breathe you into my life?
What would it take,
To make you see that I'm alive?

Clay wasn't the only one staring in slack-jawed shock at Catherine, but she didn't seem to notice, she just kept singing.

If I was Invisible,
Then I could just watch you in your room.
If I was invincible,
I'd make you mine tonight.
If hearts were unbreakable,
Then I could just tell you where I stand.
I would be the smartest man,
If I was Invisible.

Wait … I already am.

Clay looked at Foster. Foster's expression was of someone who had just bitten down on, and gotten the full taste of, a rotten egg.

But Clay's only thought as he looked at his beloved Catherine was that her last marble had just rolled out of the bag.

 

Chapter Eighty Five

Foster stared at Catherine. "Holy crap!" he sputtered. "You stink!"

But Catherine wasn't paying attention. Clay saw her eyelids flutter and her hand reached out to grab the wall for support. His heart constricted so tightly he could barely breathe when he saw her use every last bit of strength she had to gently set the basket on the shelter's concrete floor.

When she straightened, her gaze met Clay's and fear shot through him when he saw her eyes were glazing over. Then she swayed and her eyes rolled back into her head.

All concern for his own safety fled as Clay ran to Catherine, barely catching her before she hit the floor.

The cell phone came loose from where she'd hidden it in her waistband and clattered to the floor. Clay looked up into Foster's face and saw that Foster realized Catherine had been on an open line.

Clay thought Foster's eyes would pop from his head when Raleigh jumped from the basket with the rattle in her mouth, wanting to continue the tug-of-war game.

Foster's voice raised to a near screech and his gun went back and forth from Catherine to Clay in a continuous motion. "Who was she talking to?" he demanded.

Clay was silent, but sat on the steps, gently holding Catherine to him while he returned Foster's hard, cold stare. Junior had stood and was edging forward, but kept his movements slow enough to be almost imperceptible.

"I said," Foster screamed, "who was she talking to?"

Foster stiffened as the cold metal of a gun touched his neck.

"Me," Oliver said.

Junior's foot shot out and Foster's gun flew from his hand.

Oliver shoved Foster to the floor and cuffed him. "State police are on their way," he told Clay as he tossed Foster to sit on one of the cots. "They'll get medical help for Catherine real fast."

Clay looked up at Oliver, not ashamed of the tears streaming down his face. His heart was breaking, his emotions in such turmoil it was a struggle for him to talk. When he did he could only manage, "I think she's hurt bad. And she can't tell us what happened."

Junior grabbed Foster by the front of his shirt and lifted him from the cot and into the air, his feet dangling in empty space. Venom crusted every one of Junior's words and he put his face an inch from Foster's. "If she stops breathing," he informed him, "you just sucked in your last one."

Oliver put a hand on Clay's shoulder. "She saved your life, Clay. That's all she cared about. Getting you and Junior out alive."

Clay nodded, then looked at Oliver. "How did you know Foster was in here?"

Oliver sighed. "Catherine called me, scared to death because your phone line had been closed."

"I did that," Clay said. "I didn't want to take the chance Foster would realize the line to her was open and somehow force me to call her in here." He frowned. "But how did you know to come through the basement?"

"You can thank your wife for that. Pretty fast thinking on her part." He chuckled. "She parked at a spot where, when I saw the car, I'd know she was either at the shelter entrance or already inside. I knew when I told her not to go near the tornado shelter, to do nothing and wait for me and the state police, that she was going in anyway."

Clay's small was small. Even Oliver understood Catherine.

Oliver nodded toward Catherine. "Her song choice wasn't an accident, Clay. She had no idea how fast I'd be able to get back here but she sent a message through that song. Catherine was afraid that if I came to the shelter entrance like she did, that there would probably be a shooting, so she used Invisible to tell me to come through the basement. The words also sent me the message that all three of you were still alive, that Foster was alone and that I should watch and wait for my chance."

Clay heard the faint sound of sirens, but they barely registered.

Catherine hadn't moved since she'd collapsed. He rocked her in his arms as he held her tight against him, his warm tears falling against her cheek.

Across the room Junior glowered at Foster, who kept terrified eyes on Junior and tried to push himself into the concrete he leaned against.

Junior came over to where Clay sat on the step with Catherine. He knelt down and put one big hand on Clay's shoulder. With the other hand, Junior softly brushed Catherine's honey blonde hair from her pale face, his gentle touch carefully avoiding the blood on her skin.

He looked at Clay and Clay saw tears swimming in Junior's eyes. "I'm here every step of the way with you, perv," he told Clay in a quiet voice, then looked down again at the unmoving Catherine. "Don't you worry, Miss Catherine. Everything's going to be all right."

 

Chapter Eighty Six

Oliver grabbed Foster's arm and pulled him from the cot. "Put Catherine on one of the cots, Clay. I'll take the dirtbag outside so the state police see us as soon as they enter the road." He looked at Foster. "Soon as Texas is finished with you, Nevada wants you for the Vegas murder of Pauline Marjory."

Clay carried Catherine and gently laid her on the cot where he'd sat earlier. Her breathing had returned to normal but her eyes remained closed.

Oliver made a quick call to the state police, letting them know the situation had ended with a bloodless arrest but that emergency medical help was needed.

When he'd hung up, Foster gave him a bored look. "You can't prove anything."

Oliver smiled. "You keep thinking that." He turned to Clay. "The police have a medical team with them because this was called in as a hostage situation." He looked at Catherine, then back at Clay and offered a quiet, "Keep the faith." The push he gave Foster up the shelter's steps and outside was anything but gentle.

Clay heard Oliver order Foster to lay face down on the ground as the sirens grew closer. The police cars were racing for the house.

Clay closed his eyes in fervent prayer for Catherine, only to have them fly open again when he heard Junior's gasp.

Clay looked at Catherine, his heart soaring as her eyes battled to open. He took her hands into his but at the contact her own eyes flew open in panic and she screamed, trying to pull away.

"It's me, it's me," he said quickly and eased her back down to the cot, aware of the pain that darkened her blue eyes. "Catherine, it's over. Everything is okay."

Catherine's eyes closed again and she started to speak, then stopped. Instead, she started to cry.

Clay placed his hands on either side of her face and his tone was gentle. "It's over, Catherine. Foster is in custody."

She opened her eyes. "Yearwood..." she said weakly.

"They'll get him, too," Clay stated flatly.

"Or I will," Junior said coldly from over Clay's shoulder.

"You don't understand," she said. "He's at the barn."

Clay looked at Junior. "Tell Oliver to send those cops up there," he snapped, "before Yearwood has time to get away."

When Junior had left the shelter Clay turned back to Catherine with a quiet question. "Is that what happened to you?" When she nodded, he was overwhelmed by the powerful instinct to immediately go after the man. When he'd finally resisted and broken that urge he soothed, "Rest, sweetheart. Medical help will be here in minutes."

Catherine's smile, no matter how weak, lit the corners of Clay's heart. "You don't understand," she repeated. "I think I broke his knees."

Taken aback, Clay offered a half-smile. "And how did you do that?"

Pain crept back into Catherine's eyes and Clay started to tell her to stay quiet, that they'd talk later.

Catherine shook her head. "No, I want to tell you. Where's Raleigh?"

Raleigh was still playing with the rattle and Clay scooped her up but held her, not allowing her to jar Catherine on the cot.

Catherine reached out a hand to Raleigh, her gaze on the puppy as warm as her smile. "She saved my life, Clay." She lifted her gaze to Clay. "When Yearwood pulled the ladder out from under me, then when I fell from the loft...he was about to hit me with a tire iron when Raleigh came running into the barn."

"What?" Clay was horrified, his heart thudding when Catherine then described the confrontation with Yearwood, her failure to get away and how close she was to being killed by him. All he could manage was, "Raleigh...?"

Catherine smiled. "She attacked Yearwood. She bit him because she knew I was in trouble and Yearwood wanted to hurt me..." Her last words trailed off and Catherine's eyes drifted closed again.

Clay tenderly touched the side of her face, every emotion possible ripping his heart into myriad pieces. Then relief pounded to every nerve when he heard cars screech to a halt and Oliver's clipped tone direct the medical team inside.

Clay repeated to the EMT's what Catherine had told him of falling from the loft to the barn floor. Despite his desire to not leave Catherine's side he made no protest when they pushed him out of the way to examine her.

From the side he watched as they probed the hairline cut that had trickled down her face, lifted her lids and checked her eyes, ran experienced hands over her limbs. When they lifted her shirt and Clay saw her skin he felt like the wind had been knocked from him. He now had a sense of how badly Catherine had been injured. The bruises were ugly, dark and massive.

Clay clenched shaking fists at his sides as impotence ricocheted through every inch of his body. He could only gaze at Catherine's still figure on the cot. What he wouldn't give to absorb and carry her pain for her.

He barely heard the EMT shout outside for a stretcher and then tersely tell him, "Follow us to the hospital."

 

Chapter Eighty Seven

A second ambulance had been summoned for Yearwood. Andrew Foster sat sullenly in the rear of a state police car, his hands still cuffed behind him.

Clay didn't notice much of the ride to the hospital. Junior drove behind the ambulance and Clay's gaze stayed riveted on the back ambulance door, willing his own spirit to strengthen Catherine's.

There had been a very small satellite treatment center between the homestead and Ionasbranch, but when Clay questioned the EMT's if it would be better to take Catherine on to the hospital and they said yes, he directed them to do so.

When they'd arrived Clay hurried to stay on the heels of the EMT's through the sliding 'whoosh' of the emergency room doors, only to find himself shut out with a "Sorry, you can't come in here" when they led the gurney into an exam cubicle.

The doctor who hastened into the area didn't even offer Clay a sympathetic smile. His air was completely professional when he jerked the curtain closed behind him.

"Come into the waiting room," a nurse said kindly, taking Clay's arm. "They'll come for you the minute they know anything."

Clay shook his head, his gaze never leaving the curtain behind which Catherine was now under a doctor's expert touch. "No...no, I need to be here. Close."

"Leave him alone," Junior quietly told the nurse. "He'll be okay. I'm right here."

The nurse looked sympathetic, but stated, "I think it's best..."

"No," Clay snapped, his tone harsher than intended. He repeated it in a soft, "No. I need to be right here in case she calls for me."

The nurse gave only a nod and walked back to the nurse's station.

For ten minutes Clay listened to the murmur from behind the curtain. Tears burned his eyes when he realized one of the voices was Catherine's, but Junior's hand on his arm stopped him from going into the cubicle.

Junior shook his head. "No, man, you can't go in there."

Clay paced.

Then the curtain parted and an orderly wheeled the gurney out into the hallway. Catherine, clad only in a hospital gown, offered Clay a weak smile and Clay closed the distance to her side in what seemed lightspeed.

"I'm going for an xray," she told him in a tired voice, then she smiled again and squeezed the hand Clay gave to her. "Do you believe they think I need my head examined? Now, how funny is that?"

Clay wanted to brush her hair back, a gesture of the tenderness he felt. But he saw where they'd cleaned her face and stitched the hairline cut and was afraid he'd hurt her with even the gentlest touch.

"Imagine that," he agreed softly.

"Mr. Aiken?" asked the doctor who walked from the cubicle with a clipboard.

"Yes," came his instant answer, his hand still squeezing Catherine's.

"I believe your wife has a Grade Two concussion. We'll know a little more after the x-rays." He smiled. "But she should be fine within a week. Normal activities as long as they're extremely light."

Confused and relieved, Clay questioned, "But she was unconscious for so long..."

The doctor nodded. "The EMT's told me some of what happened out there and I'm not surprised by your wife's reaction. I think the stress of the injuries to her body, plus the mental stress of what was happening caused her body to overload and shut down in a self-preservation mode. The bruising is very nasty but there doesn't appear to be any internal injury. She's very, very lucky."

Catherine looked at the doctor, then at Clay. Her eyes were so filled with love Clay's hand jerked in hers, the need to hold and comfort her overwhelming.

"You have no idea," she murmured in response to the doctor's 'very, very lucky' comment and Clay knew it was her way of conceding she was lucky to have him.

He couldn't help but grin. How Catherine had managed to joke was beyond him.

"Will she be able to go home tonight?" he asked the doctor.

The doctor gave a dubious, "If she stays quiet and gets proper care."

Clay saw the clouds gather on Catherine's face and knew she was thinking about Margaret's meeting with Eric McCandless. He let go of her hand to touch her cheek. "I'll take you home tonight," he promised. "I'll be in the waiting room," he directed to the doctor.

"Clay, wait," Catherine called and the orderly stopped the gurney.

Clay walked back to her. "What is it?" he asked with a smile, waiting for her to argue she was going to Margaret's house. This time he was confident he could contain Catherine's spontaneity. She'd have no choice but to do what she was told to do, like it or not.

"The map," she told him. "Where is it?"

With a start, Clay touched his pocket. He sure hadn't expected her to ask about the map. "I have it," he assured her. "Now, go get that x-ray."

"Okay," she agreed in a voice still far below normal strength. "And later we'll drive back to the homestead and search inside the tunnel."

Clay and Junior both watched with dropped jaws while Catherine was wheeled off to x-ray.

 

Chapter Eighty Eight

Clay kept the lights low in the hotel room, and Catherine, from the bed, used the remote to turn off the television.

Clay was ready when she turned to his chair beside the bed.

"No," he said.

"I didn't ask you anything," she told him.

"You were about to, though, weren't you?" He sighed, his eyes not missing the admission of guilt in hers. "I brought you here only after you made a strict, unbreakable, unbendable, inflexible promise that you wouldn't even try to leave this bed until tomorrow. Watch tv, play cards, twiddle your thumbs. Just do it from either on or in the bed."

"I wasn't about to try to go anywhere tonight," she said in a testy tone.

Clay laughed. "Only because you know you and a snowball have the same chance." He picked up the remote from the bed and turned the television back on, flipping the channels through one boring show after another.

Earlier he'd had a long talk with Margaret, told her exactly what had happened at the homestead, but assured the horrified Margaret that Catherine would be fine. He skipped no details in how Curtis Yearwood tried to kill Catherine, what Catherine had done to get away, and how Yearwood was now in the hospital. Whether or not Margaret would go to visit her brother was unspoken, but Clay was fairly sure that Yearwood's heinous actions had forever cemented the family break. He let her know that Catherine had found the tunnel, but that Catherine's physical condition precluded her returning to the tunnel, and more depressing to Catherine, despite her pleading, she was not going to make it to Margaret's house tonight. Margaret agreed immediately that Catherine should do nothing but rest and sleep, and promised to call Clay first thing in the morning about the outcome with Eric McCandless. Any news tonight, whether good or bad news, would excite Catherine and probably catapault her from the bed to go to Margaret's. Clay wrestled with the decision and made the one he felt best for Catherine's health. She would be told nothing until the morning, though when she questioned him if the meeting was still on he didn't lie. But he was not dissuaded from doing what was best for Catherine.

"Sit up here with me?" Catherine asked.

Clay nodded. "Okay, but only if you promise to at least try to fall asleep. Your body needs to rest, Catherine. Not even you can go forever."

She smiled. "It'll be easier if you're next to me."

Clay went around the bed and eased himself onto it beside her. She snuggled into his arms and he lightly kissed the top of her head. Memory, unbidden, flashed vividly into his mind. Unpleasant memory of a similar situation. The two of them snuggled on a bed, watching television. Catherine saying, "Look, that's this hotel", and his ensuing anger at the Saturday Night Live skit. Anger and angry words that had sent Catherine away from him and out into the night, nearly into the arms of Andrew Foster.

Instinctively, Clay gave Catherine a gentle squeeze, his feelings of love and protection guiding the gesture. This snuggle would certainly have a different outcome. He looked down at Catherine, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he watched her eyes trying to stay attentive to the cooking show, but instead drifting slowly closed.

Then on the tv screen came a local advertisement of 'time and temperature brought to you by' and Catherine gave a start.

"Look what time it is," she cried.

"Relax," he soothed.

"I need to go to Aunt Margaret's," she insisted and Clay had to grip her arm to stop her from getting out of the bed. "Eric McCandless is there right now," she said and Clay saw blue eyes glisten with unshed tears. "I need to be with Aunt Margaret. This is too hard for her to face alone."

"No. Tomorrow."

Catherine turned her head without argument, but not before Clay saw the distress in her eyes and on her face. Her shoulders moved silently and he realized the stress and worry she felt would only produce more harm to her.

He ran his hand through his hair. There was no way he'd let her leave this room. Not because of her promise, but because he loved her too much to allow her to do anything that might hinder or slow the mending she needed. He gathered her close and touched his forehead to hers. Mending included mental mending.

He kissed her forehead gently. "I have an idea," he said softly, "but only if you make another promise to me."

Her eyes lit with hope and his heart constricted.

"I promise," she sniffled, not even waiting to hear the idea.

He smiled and brushed her hair back from her face, very careful to avoid the stitched hairline cut. "First, you need to be quiet while I'm on the phone. Not one word or I won't even bother."

She nodded and he took his phone to the other side of the room, where he knew she'd be unable to hear him.

When Margaret answered he kept his voice low, his tone even so Catherine would have no clue about the content. Well, that was a pipedream. Of course she'd know why he was calling, but she wouldn't actually know the reason. He glanced back several times to find Catherine hadn't moved, but neither had her gaze ventured away from him and his phone call.

Finally he hung up and walked back to the bed.

Anxiety was in Catherine's face, something that bordered fear in her eyes. "The meeting, it's over?"

Clay sighed and sat down on the chair by the bed. He took Catherine's hand in his own and felt her begin to pull it away. Only then did he realize she'd steeled herself for the bad news that the meeting had not borne fruit, that her real brother had not been found.

"The meeting is over," he confirmed in a soft voice. "Margaret is leaving now to come here. Your brother is with her and would very much like to meet you."

As he watched, joy lit Catherine's face and eyes, tears of happiness streamed down her cheeks. Clay blinked back a few of his own.

"Come on," he said. "I'll help you dress."

 

Chapter Eighty Nine

Clay sat at their room's dining table watching Catherine do what, because of her inability to move at a normal stride, almost seemed a slow motion pacing. Under other circumstances it might have been funny. But Catherine's injuries were starkly real and her pacing made Clay nervous. On her hand was the CrackerJack 'everything will be okay' ring that almost gave the situation a full-circle feel. He doubted she knew she repeatedly twisted the ring around her finger.

Her eyes revealed that each step she took induced slight pain, but her face was a cacophony of emotions that ignored that pain. Clay's only wish was that the reunion that was about to take place in this room put an end to the nightmare Catherine had been living. But he wasn't naive enough to believe that as soon as Catherine met her brother birds would fly over the rainbow and sing eternally happy tunes. Real life was hardly ever like that.

What if her brother turned out to be a shady character, more like Yearwood or either of the Fosters, someone who thought a quick buck, gained legally or not, was always the best route to take? He'd said as much to Catherine, in kinder words but words with the same gist, and she'd nodded in agreement. Her half-smile told him she'd already thought it through to that end and had no more answers than Clay did.

Margaret had given no inkling on the phone what to expect.

Catherine gave a little screech at the light knock on the door and she paled, but told Clay, "I'll get it."

He waited, but she remained immobile and did nothing more than stare at the door. Clay knew she was terrified to face what stood on the other side of the door, more to the point, what it represented.

Finally, he said, "I'll get it," and walked to the hotel room door. He put one hand on the knob, but before he opened it he turned to give Catherine a smile of reassurance.

He opened the door and Margaret, her back erect and her eyes bright with happiness, offered him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Behind her stood a well-groomed, reserved looking man that Clay knew was Catherine's twenty-eight year old brother, Eric. Dark brown hair was neatly trimmed and perfectly combed, and Clay immediately noted eyes the exact blue as Catherine's. His height and build rivaled Junior's.

Clay extended his hand. "You must be Eric."

"I am," the man confirmed with a friendly manner, accepting and returning a firm handshake. He held something small and black in his left hand. "You're Catherine's husband, Clay?"

"I sure am," Clay answered and stepped inside the room. He glanced into the dining area to see that Catherine had not moved an inch. Margaret entered the room, Eric stepping tentatively to Margaret's side inside the door that Clay now closed. Clay's heart went out to Margaret. He could see on her aged face how difficult, how emotional this was for her. Margaret had been hit today with more than most people face in a lifetime.

Clay led Margaret and Eric into the dining area and then went straight to Catherine, who had paled even more. Concerned, he took her arm, pulled a chair out and told her, "Sit down."

She nodded, though she never took her eyes from her brother. Clay noted Margaret and Eric also looked worried by Catherine's appearance.

Margaret didn't move, but said softly, "Catherine, there's someone who'd like to meet you."

Catherine remained silent and Clay saw the memory of her mother's ordeal at Yearwood's hand flash through Catherine's eyes when Eric walked toward her. Clay moved to stand beside Catherine's chair and placed a hand on her shoulder. She reached her hand up and squeezed his, then gave him a smile. In her eyes he saw the inner strength of which he knew her capable.

Eric stopped in front of Catherine, looked uncertainly at Clay, then looked surprised when Catherine rose to her feet in front of him. Clay held his breath, unsure if Catherine was going to speak or if she'd wait for Eric.

Eric raised his right hand, lifted Catherine's hand and placed into her hand what he'd been carrying in his left hand.

"I'd like you to have this," he said quietly.

Catherine looked down at it and Clay saw it was a worn, small black child's bible.

Eric's voice was soft. "I'm told my...our mother gave this to me the night I was taken to Virginia. I think she'd like that it's found its way home."

Catherine said nothing, but Clay noted how her hands shook. When she opened the bible Clay saw the handwritten inscription and realized this was the proof Margaret said the man would have if he really was Catherine's brother.

To Meggie...for your beautiful portrayal of an angel in the third grade Christmas pageant. We're so proud of you!

Love Always,
Mom and Dad

Catherine read it aloud trembled so badly Clay grabbed her shoulders, afraid she might collapse.

Instead, she met and held Eric's gaze. Tears choked her voice when she said, "Welcome home, big brother."

Catherine walked into Eric's tender hug.

Clay's heart overflowed for Catherine and he was so heartwarmed by the tears of joy from Catherine, Eric and Margaret that he barely noticed his own.

Never had any room been lighted with such genuine warmth from within.

 

Chapter Ninety

Rather than have Catherine sit for any length of time in a dining room chair, Clay insisted she could talk until she was tired as long as she sat or lay on the bed. No matter how comfortable the padded dining room chairs were, they weren't meant for extended sits by anyone. Especially someone already bruised and sore.

Clay and Eric drew chairs close for Eric and Margaret while Clay sat beside Catherine, to keep an alert eye at all times to any sign of fatigue or stress. No matter what Catherine said, any stress signal meant her evening came to an instant halt. Raleigh, sound asleep in the basket in the corner, hadn't moved since they'd returned home from the hospital.

Catherine held Margaret's hand while Margaret, in a halting voice, told them of the long, painful talk she had shared earlier with Eric. She had left out nothing when she told Eric the circumstances of his conception and his secretive journey to Virginia to protect him from his father. She had told him in great detail all about his birth mother, what she was like, how much she loved him, how she'd written letters to him that his father had stolen and tried to use against his mother. She had also taken great pride in telling him all about Catherine. She'd left out nothing, including the stalking and murder attempts leading to today's events.

Eric frowned and looked over at the basket, then at Catherine. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you know Foster would react like he did?"

Catherine's smile was as weak as her laugh. "I didn't. It was a chance I had to take. Most people aren't going to fool around with a rattler, especially when they're directly threatened with a bite. I think it's not uncommon, when fear kicks in, to see and hear things as being much bigger than their actual size. Raleigh moving around in the basket to play was more help than I'd counted on, but something I was more than happy to use."

Clay picked up Catherine's hand, the one with the tiny bite marks. "This," he emphasized, "was what really hammered it home to Foster. He believed this was from the rattler and you really didn't have anything left to lose. I think your lack of fear at that point was what scared him more than anything."

Catherine smiled and lay back on her pillow. "It was a timing thing," she admitted. "I had to make Raleigh bite me and I knew she'd never do that, so I mentally timed her biting down on the baby rattle when I was pushing it back and forth for her to bite. Then I just shoved my hand into her mouth instead." She nodded. "I can't think of too many things sharper than puppy teeth."

Clay murmured, "How about a snake bite?" and squeezed Catherine's hand.

Catherine squeezed his hand back and smiled, then turned to Eric. "I want to know about you. About your life. What you thought when you were contacted."

Eric sighed and gave Margaret a small smile before he looked at his sister. "I had a really good childhood and a great life. I've always known I was adopted but my parents were reluctant to talk about it, other than my mother gave me up to what she knew would be a better life." He shook his head. "Now I understand why they chose to keep the details to themselves." He smiled at Catherine. "They're still alive and I hope someday you'll come to meet them."

Catherine nodded. "I'd like that."

Eric cleared his throat. "A few weeks ago a private detective contacted me, said he'd tracked me down through information given to him by Margaret. I notified my parents and asked them if what this man said is true. They denied it, and I later learned it was because they were afraid my birth father had found me." He sighed and lowered his gaze to the carpet, then raised his gaze to meet and hold Catherine's. "Then my dad called Margaret to find out if she was really searching for me. To her credit, she was cautious, knowing how underhanded my birth father is, that he also had a detective hunting for me. She said if I was who she really was looking for, that I'd have something to prove it."

He held up the bible. "That's when my dad gave this to me. He'd kept it all those years because he knew what this bible had meant to my birth mother. And that she'd given it to me as her only way of keeping her love with me every day."

"But what about you?" Catherine said. "What do you do?"

A small smile played on Eric's lips and his eyes turned a warm blue. "I went through college, then played a little ball. I made a fair living playing ball for awhile, then injured my hand. During one of my many sojourns into the hospital for treatment," he added with a sardonic smile which then vanished, "I wandered down to pediatrics and met a very sad little boy who was in to visit his older brother." He sighed and Clay saw sadness flit across the man's face. "To make a long story short, the kid's brother died a few weeks later. He told me his family knew that his brother was dying and wanted him to have one last happy moment, so they took the money they'd saved for his treatment and the whole family took him on this trip he'd dreamed about for years."

Catherine murmured, "How horrible," then added, "What did that have to do with you? Did you go into medicine because of that?"

Eric laughed. "No, but those circumstances bothered me a whole lot so I got some people together and we started a little camp for kids with terminal illness. A place where they can go, with their families, to spend a couple of weeks and just let go and have all the crazy fun they want. There's always medical personnel on hand, though, for just about any situation."

Clay nodded, seeing in Eric's eyes the same emotions that went through his heart when he dealt with the handicapped. The sincerity and passion in Eric's voice told Clay more about his character than anything Eric might voice.

"What's your part in this?" Catherine asked.

Eric laughed. "Sports director, more or less, but though the sports are scaled down to an individual level, the spirit level in these kids is not only incomparable, it's unmatchable."

When they heard a small knock on the door Clay went and opened it, then opened it wider to allow Junior entrance.

"Hey, man, I know Miss Catherine is resting and all, but I wondered..." he trailed off and his mouth dropped open. He pointed to Eric. "You're Eric McCandless."

"Yes," Eric answered and rose to shake hands with Junior.

"You're that Eric McCandless," Junior repeated, staring at Catherine's brother. He looked at Clay in disbelief. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Puzzled, Clay asked, "Tell you what? This is Catherine's brother, Eric."

Junior let out a frustrated sigh and looked at Clay like he was dense. "Don't you follow football? He broke all kinds of records his rookie year as a pro quarterback and went to the Pro Bowl as a starter every year that he played." He gave Clay an exasperated, hurt look. "How could you not tell me?" Not waiting for an answer, Junior continued, looking at Eric with utmost respect. "Walked away from it all to start a camp for sick kids."

Without warning, Junior grabbed Eric in a bear hug.

 

Chapter Ninety One

Junior let go of a startled Eric and turned to Clay, passion vividly painting each one of his words. "Man, this calls for a celebration."

Clay's spirit soared when he heard Catherine burst out laughing, and he fought a smile when he directed, "Forget it. We're not calling Chef Andrews," to Junior.

Clay turned to Catherine and could no longer block his smile when he saw how she'd come alive during the last few minutes. Having her family bring so much love and joy to her added a quiet glow to Catherine, and the sight of Catherine's joy ignited infinite exhilaration in Clay's heart.

"Actually," Eric said to Margaret. "I think it's probably wise if we leave Catherine to rest." He reached a tentative hand to Junior. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Oh," Clay said to Eric as the two men shook hands for a second time. "I'm sorry. I forgot to introduce Junior The Manhandler. He's Catherine's bodyguard."

"Yours," Catherine corrected him. "I don't need one now that Mr. Yearwood is..." she glanced at Eric. "Well, he's under police guard at the hospital."

Eric's voice was tight and he nodded. "I know. Margaret told me."

Clay saw an odd look flit across Catherine's face, then watched her struggle for composure. She lowered her gaze to the bed and Clay hurried to her, concerned she was in pain. Her response to his murmured question of care was to shake her head, but she took his hand and squeezed. He recognized immediately it was for support and he instantly covered her hands with both of his. But her gaze was all for her brother.

"Eric," she said in a surprisingly strong voice. "You know that Mr. Yearwood...that he's...your...your..."

Eric nodded, letting her know she didn't need to finish the sentence.

Catherine briefly closed her eyes, then met Eric's gaze. "You have a perfect right to go and see him, to meet him." She cleared her throat and Clay saw her fight and finally succeed in blinking back tears. "I think everyone would understand if you wanted to see him, talk to him, ask him things. Satisfy the normal curiosity that any human being would have about their birth parent."

Eric's face was a mask. "I don't think that would be a good idea," he said in a pleasant, even tone that belied the angry sparks in his eyes. "I already know more about him than is good for that man."

Margaret cleared her throat and walked to Eric. "Andrew Foster is the detective Curtis hired and he never located you, so Curtis wouldn't know you were his son."

"That's right," Catherine exclaimed. She smiled at Clay but pulled free of his hands, and, with his assistance, but not his approval, rose to her feet and went to her brother.

She stood directly in front of Eric and Clay saw the anxiety in her blue eyes. "He doesn't know who you are, so if you have any wish at all to see him, you can do it without him knowing..."

Eric put a finger over her lips to stop her and his voice was kind. "I'm not interested in meeting him, Catherine. I don't have to even see him to know who I am. I'm the man my parents raised me to be. I don't have old ghosts to settle, old puzzles to solve." He laughed and looked at Clay. "Well, maybe one."

Catherine turned to Clay. "Tomorrow?" she asked, but Clay knew it wasn't a question. "First thing in the morning we're going to the tunnel." She raised a hand before he could protest and the black clouds in his eyes didn't deter her. "I'm going and I'd like very much for Eric to go with us. There's no more danger hanging around that tunnel and..."

Clay exploded then. "No? The other Foster, Yearwood's son-in-law, he's still on the loose, isn't he?"

Eric raised an eyebrow at Clay, but Junior leaned toward Eric and whispered, "I'll put five bucks on Miss Catherine. Take the wager?"

Eric turned to Junior but Junior's expression was impassive as he watched Clay and Catherine's heated debate over whether or not Catherine could and would lead an expedition into the tunnel the next morning, about whether or not Lucas Foster and his wife, Yearwood's daughter Hannah, were long-gone, probably trying to flee the country.

"You're on," Eric whispered back. "Clay will never allow that."

Ten minutes and many hot words later, Clay threw his hands into the air. "Okay, Catherine. I can't argue that you seem a lot stronger than we thought and maybe the bedrest this afternoon helped more than expected. But I know you're still very, very sore and bruised and I'm telling you this now, the very first sign that you're tired or hurting," he warned, "and your butt is in this bed for a minimum of two days without moving. Period. Deal?"

Catherine smiled her gratitude, wound her arms around Clay's neck, kissed him softly and breathed into his lips, "Deal".

Junior held his hand out and Eric dug out five dollars to lay in Junior's palm.

Eric shook his head, his smile rueful. "I wouldn't have thought he'd give in to her on such a matter."

"Thanks," Junior said, pocketing the money. He grinned at Eric. "He doesn't give in to her on anything serious, trust me. If he wasn't sure Miss Catherine could do this she'd never get the chance. And tomorrow, if your sister looks like anything at all hurts, my money's on him tossing her butt into bed so fast she won't even remembering it happening."

Eric laughed, but shook his head when he looked at Margaret. "I still wouldn't have thought she could get her way on this."

Junior clapped a hand on Eric's shoulder. "As a wise man once told me...you poor deluded man."

 

Chapter Ninety Two

Clay glanced at Catherine, beside him in the passenger seat, while he drove to the homestead. Eric and Margaret had decided to ride with Junior, allowing Catherine extra time to focus on the map in her hand. Earlier, Junior had picked up halogen spotlights from the hardware store and charged the batteries via a hotel room socket. When he'd placed the fully charged spotlights in his trunk he tossed in the hammers, chisels and shovels Clay had also instructed him to buy.

Clay smiled over at Catherine, trying to ease growing anxiety in her eyes. She'd been hard to keep calm last night, reading the map aloud to him repeatedly over the course of many hours. When she'd gotten up at three a.m. to try a new tact on unraveling the code he'd put his foot down and told her that unless she got right back into bed, went to sleep and let this go until morning, their "deal" was off. Despite her heavy sigh of indignation he was relieved to hear her even breathing of sleep within minutes. But to his chagrin he'd been left wide awake.

With one eye on the dirt road as they made the final turn to the homestead, Clay reached over and touched the map in Catherine's hands. "Read it to me again."

He paid strict attention as she chanted, "Homestead basement. East wall xx - ten bricks north x - four west xx- twwo ssouth - x - six steps".

Clay thought, drew a blank, then shrugged. "I've got nothing. My only guess is that the 'x's' on the map meant 'x's' somehow carved into the bricks as markers, but I think anybody with half a brain would assume that." He shrugged again. "I don't know. I think the best thing is to wait until we're actually there, inside the tunnel, and trying to figure it out rather than trying to figure out something that doesn't seem translatable from paper."

Catherine didn't answer him, but her head bent over the paper and she silently mouthed the map clues, closing her eyes as though to picture walking the directions, then opening her eyes and again chanting the directions.

Finally she gave off a loud "arrggghhhhhhh!" and threw the paper into the air.

Clay caught it and said, "You're absolutely right. It's not worth it." He rolled his window down as though to toss the paper out and she grabbed it back, giving him a dark look when he raised the window again.

"Please allow me to vent my frustration," she snapped haughtily as Clay slowed the car.

"Oh, like you did when you jerked me into the dumpster?" he asked when he'd parked in front of the homestead.

Catherine giggled. "Why do I talk to you when I'm mad? You always make me laugh. I hate that."

Clay grinned at her and she blew him a kiss.

"Come here you," he said softly and drew her head close to his. "Have I told you this morning that I love you?" he whispered against her lips.

"Uh huh," she said as she gave him a sweet kiss. "And am I going to have to listen to that every morning for the rest of my life?"

His kiss deepened and though he stayed kiss-close, he removed both of their seatbelts so he could hold her. "If I'm lucky," he told her and the familiar thrill jolted through him when her mouth melded into his.

A polite knock on his window drew no more than grin from Clay. He looked at Catherine, and, his lips still against hers, said, "Remember where we left off."

**

The tunnel had been left open on both ends so dead or stale air was no longer a problem. Light, however, was a different story and Clay was glad he'd told Junior to get four spotlights. It would take all four lights to illuminate different angles of the tunnel at the same time. One would be enough to shoot a reasonable amount of light from one end to the other, but lighting both ends and both sides would be a little trickier. Especially when hunting small x's that they presumed were somewhere on the dark bricks.

Eric and Junior had dumped the hammers, chisels and shovels onto the basement floor and had already followed Catherine, who was holding the map, into the tunnel, shining their spotlights on every wall.

From the corner of his eye, Clay caught a glimpse of tears in Margaret's eyes. At first concerned she may be ill, all of a sudden it dawned on him and he walked to where she stood at the bottom of the basement stairs.

"Would you be more comfortable waiting upstairs?"

Margaret didn't answer at first, then she said quietly, "I want to be...need to be...here for Eric and for Catherine."

Clay moved so that Eric's and Catherine's view of Margaret would be blocked and he kept his voice low. "Margaret, I think I understand how difficult this is for you. Probably more so for you than for Catherine. There's a lot of memories here for you, bad ones, memories that are going to trigger more bad memories of the reasons that we're all here now."

Compassion filled Clay when tears ran down the old woman's face. Her gaze met Clay's. "I'd give anything to undo what Curtis did."

"But you can't," Clay said gently. "Why don't I just tell Catherine that you needed some fresh air or that you wanted to revisit her grandmother's garden or something like that?"

Margaret hugged Clay and wiped her eyes. "Bless you, young man. Catherine's a very lucky girl."

Clay grinned. "That's what I keep telling her."

Margaret went quietly up the stairs and Clay heard her moving around the kitchen, hopefully finding more pleasant memories than those kindled by this search.

Clay sighed, picked up his spotlight and headed into the tunnel.

 

Chapter Ninety Three

Clay had taken only two steps into the tunnel when he realized the best way to take Margaret's mind off what was going on down here. He walked upstairs and went to the car, retrieved Raleigh and her basket and took her into the house to where Margaret walked from room-to-room, visibly lost in old memories.

When Margaret spotted Raleigh and Clay asked if she'd mind caring for the puppy while they were in the tunnel, Margaret smiled her gratitude for the distraction and took Raleigh outside for a walk and a romp.

A few minutes later Clay was back in the basement, entered the tunnel and flicked on his spotlight. He called forward to Catherine, "Find anything yet?"

"No," came her frustrated answer, muffled by the distance between them in the tunnel. Her added, "I've started in two different areas and still can't figure anything out," accompanied the bouncing light that said she was coming toward his end of the tunnel.

He laughed when he saw the brick dust on her face and used his fingers to try to brush it away. It just made the red smears more prominent.

"Honestly," she said, clearly aggravated. "Eric and Junior are counting bricks from the other end, just in case that's the east wall. But I know it isn't," she said sourly. "I'm not a dope," she announced. "This is the east wall and I can count ten bricks north."

"And?" Clay asked mildly, watching the other spotlights grow nearer.

"And nothing," she huffed. "There's nothing. Nothing carved into the wall bricks, nothing carved into the floor bricks. The shovels were a waste of time," she informed him flatly. "There's nothing here to chisel out from anywhere, there's nothing here to dig up. The directions are senseless and useless."

"Catherine," he admonished lightly, and tried again in vain to clean the brick dust from the bridge of her nose. "It's been, what...ten minutes?"

"You're a poor time keeper," she told him in a noticeably deteriorated mood. "It's been almost half an hour. We've chipped at bricks, nearly attacked anything that even resembled an 'x' carved into the wall or floor, and..."

"Let me see the map," he requested.

She wasn't gentle when she dumped the paper into his hand, but Clay knew the gesture was an act of frustration, and not directed at him. Catherine had been so sure of her ability to solve this puzzle with little difficulty, so sure that once they were all inside the tunnel everything would fall neatly into place. She'd turned a deaf ear to his warnings that being overly confident could cause a stumble or mental block.

Clay read it over and over, his mind coming to the same conclusion each time. But it was a conclusion which made no sense.

"Let's go to the other end," he told Eric and Junior who had just joined them...from the other end. "I have an idea."

Clay was surprised that in such a short time both men had gotten so covered in brick dust. They'd obviously wasted little time once they'd entered the tunnel.

Eric shook his head and Junior shrugged.

"I looked at that map and went through each step of those directions as I interpreted them," Eric said. "But where they lead makes no sense. That's why we went to the other end, to see if maybe the shelter was at one time considered the east wall." He shook his head again. "Maybe you'll have better luck."

Junior was blunt. "There are no 'x's' on any bricks in this tunnel. We've shined our lights on every single one of them."

"Well, let's go and see," Clay said with more enthusiasm than he felt.

**

An hour later, they were close to admitting defeat. Eric and Junior sat on the cots in the shelter, Clay and Catherine on the steps leading from the shelter to the outside. They were all four of them tired and dirty from scratching at just about every brick in the tunnel.

At the sound of a motor Clay and Catherine rose and went outside to see Detective Oliver climb from behind the wheel of his car, waving to Margaret, seated on the wrap-around porch with Raleigh.

"I'm heading back to Vegas," he told Clay and Catherine.

Catherine frowned. "You drove all the way out here to tell us that?"

Oliver smiled. "No. I wanted to tell you in person that Lucas and Hannah Yearwood were arrested this morning in Oklahoma."

Clay put his arm around Catherine and smiled. "That's wonderful. He'll be charged with his brother?"

Oliver didn't look pleased. "Since neither of you can identify either of the Foster brothers as the one who attacked you in California, he'll only be charged with helping his brother try to falsify a death and commit fraud with a corpse." He nodded to Catherine. "Andrew is the one who killed the girl in Vegas and claimed to be your brother. He's the one that I met there. He'll be charged with murder and I suspect his brother Lucas will opt for a deal to save his own skin from going down as an accomplice." His laugh was humorless. "I'm pretty sure that by tomorrow he'll tell us every crime Andrew has ever committed, all the way back to stealing a candy bar at age five."

Clay's expression was somber. "I guess we can be glad those two are complete opposites. Catherine...and me," he admitted, "got a little confused with how much alike they were physically, and, not being aware that there were two of them, thought it was always the same person. Thank goodness that sometimes things aren't what they appear...if not opposite, then at least different."

Catherine's head jerked in Clay's direction. "What did you say?"

Then before he could answer she hugged him, excitedly said, "I was wrong. I am a dope," went back into the tunnel.

Oliver raised an eyebrow to Clay. "Do I want to know what that's all about?"

Clay sighed. "I'm not sure I want to know."

With a farewell wave, Oliver got back into his car and drove off.

Clay followed Catherine into the tunnel and motioned for Junior and Eric to follow. As slow as Catherine's movements had been earlier she'd wasted no time getting to the basement end of the tunnel.

"Junior," she said in an authoritative tone. "Go into the basement and push the button to close the tunnel opening."

Baffled, he asked, "Why?"

"I'll show you," she almost sang. With the map in her hand she counted off the steps in the directions, following each of them to the letter. She grinned at Clay, Junior and Eric. "Nothing, right?"

"Right," Clay said slowly. "It's almost a circle. The directions take you right back to where you started, but there's no marking, no 'x's', nothing." He frowned, but studied the wall, then grinned at Catherine. "I get it. It's the piece I couldn't figure out earlier because we kept going in circles."

"Yes," she cried in elation.

Clay pointed to the basement. "Junior, if you'd do the honors."

Junior strode into the basement and Clay waited for the sound that said the hidden door was sliding shut. In answer to Eric's questioning look he said, "Just watch." When the door was completely closed Clay and Catherine shone their lights on the bricks that were concealed when the door stood open.

Nothing.

Clay put his hand on Catherine's shoulder. She was near tears, tired and depressed by this latest letdown.

"Opposite," she told Clay in a dejected tone. "I was so sure I had it all figured out."

The door slid back open and Junior stood in the opening, grinning from ear-to-ear. "I found it. I found the brick with the 'x' in it."

 

Chapter Ninety Four

"That's not possible," Catherine argued to Junior. "There are no bricks in the basement. We checked it completely on our first visit."

Junior continued to grin, but moved aside for Clay, Catherine and Eric to enter the basement. "You checked the basement for bricks, but your mind registered you were looking at cement, right?"

"Well...yes," she conceded, then gasped when Junior pointed to the wall which held the door opening.

"Painted," Clay murmured, running his hand over two bricks. "Painted gray and mortared to exactly match the size and look of the cement blocks." He turned to Catherine. "You were right. The directions we needed to follow were a one-eighty to what we thought we should do." He frowned. "How did you figure that out?"

"I'm...not sure," she admitted. "I guess so many things just aren't what they seemed to be that when you said something to Oliver about opposite, it just clicked." Excitement again edged her words. "The house we thought was the homestead, and it turned out that it wasn't. The grave that wasn't really a grave. I can't believe it took me this long to realize that I wasn't looking closely enough, wasn't analyzing obvious clues and events thoroughly enough."

Eric raised his chisel to the 'x' marked brick and began a painstaking removal of the white mortar that solidly held the bricks in place.

Seated on the floor, Catherine leaned against Clay while Junior joined Eric in the slow, tedious work that was punctuated with Catherine's exasperated sighs of impatience and Clay's repeated, "Relax, Catherine. You don't want to damage the wall, the brick or what's behind it, do you?"

For the tenth time, Catherine told him, "The wall won't fall down."

For the tenth time, Clay answered, "Oh, now you're an engineer?"

At last Eric threw down his chisel. "The bricks should come out now with little to no resistance," he stated.

Clay helped Catherine to her feet and anticipated the anxiety dominating her eyes now that her moment of truth had arrived. Her eyes searched his and her voice was soft. "Aunt Margaret needs to be here." She turned to Eric. "Will you please ask her if she'll come down and be with us when we remove the bricks?"

Eric smiled. "Of course."

Clay watched as Catherine's nerves drove her to pace while she waited. Junior was quiet, but in Junior's eyes Clay saw the same concern for the tiredness that now slowed Catherine's steps. She hadn't uttered a single word or complaint about being bruised or sore, but he'd seen her involuntary wince when he'd helped her to her feet. He was more than a little grateful this day was almost over. He wouldn't be completely relaxed or satisfied until Catherine was safely tucked into bed and at full rest.

Margaret's animated chatter preceded the arrival of her and Eric. Eric held Margaret's arm until she'd descended the final few steps into the basement.

Catherine cleared her throat and Clay saw her face pale, but he knew it was from stress of the moment and had nothing to do with her injuries.

"Well, Aunt Margaret, I guess this is it," Catherine said lightly.

Margaret nodded, but Clay saw her clasp her hands together, then continually move one on top of the other.

Catherine reached for the bricks, then stopped and turned to Eric with a quiet tone. "Will you take them out, please? It would mean a lot to me."

Clay saw Eric's eyes search Catherine's and thought Eric would refuse. But again he nodded and said, "If that's what you want."

"It is."

Eric went to the bricks and after a short struggle in which he had to shove the bricks side-to-side, then back-and-forth, the top brick came out, revealing a hiding cove about a foot deep, deeper than Clay had suspected.

Eric slid the second brick out and when he stepped to the side to reveal the cavern it left, Catherine craned her neck to look.

Eric's hand went inside the opening and when he pulled it back out he held an envelope. He reached back inside and this time when his hand emerged it held a jar of thick black liquid. Catherine's gasp was almost lost in the sound of Clay's sharp intake of breath.

Margaret was silent, but she spared no glance at the jar. She kept her gaze on Catherine and Eric.

Stunned, Eric held the jar but handed the envelope to Catherine. She fumbled with the sealed envelope and Clay saw she was trying so hard to be careful, to not rip or destroy any paper that might be inside of it.

Finally, she managed to open the envelope without tearing it and after a startled look at what she saw, read the message aloud:

From one dummy to another - you can take it with you.

She raised her gaze to Clay, but he was as startled as she was and unable to say anything at all constructive or useful.

Catherine looked at Margaret. "What the heck does this mean? That my mother is giving us permission to take this jar? I've never heard anything so bizarre."

Junior's voice was kind. "Miss Catherine, is it possible your mother was..." he trailed off before unflattering words were said.

Catherine stared at Junior, then all of a sudden she threw her head back and laughed. All three men stared at her, but Catherine smiled at Margaret, who smiled back at her.

Catherine turned her attention back to Junior. "Crazy? Is it possible my mother was crazy?" She laughed again. "Crazy like a fox," she stated and headed for the basement stairs. "If I'm unraveling this puzzle correctly our next stop is the second floor."

 

Chapter Ninety Five

As they went upstairs, Eric and Junior chatted in quiet tones about football.

Clay couldn't help but note the trembling of Margaret's hands as they crossed the wide planked living room floor to the staircase leading to the second story and wasn't at all surprised when she said, "Raleigh is asleep in her basket and I'll just wait outside on the porch with her."

Catherine went immediately to Margaret, worry etched into her forehead's frown. "Are you okay, Aunt Margaret?" Catherine blushed and looked contrite, offering a quick hug to Margaret. "I am so sorry. In addition to the long drive making this a longer day, I never gave a thought that climbing up and down so many flights of stairs could be too much for you. Forgive me."

Margaret flushed a deep red and didn't look at Catherine, and when she caught Clay's eye she turned away, though not before he read what was in her eyes. Margaret may very well be tired, but her reasons for staying on the porch had little to do with fatigue.

Clay was fairly certain that Margaret didn't trust herself to not give Catherine whatever information or clues she was unable to find herself. He could only surmise it somehow tied into the promise she'd made to Catherine's mother.

"I'm fine," Margaret assured her. "But I do enjoy sitting in the shade out on the porch." Her smile was wan and spoke of years long past. "Takes me back a great distance, to when your grandmother and I were young wives."

Catherine nodded and when Margaret had gone outside Clay noted with satisfaction that neither Junior nor Eric showed any impatience in Catherine's not-so-quick ascent up the staircase. Their expressions verified the opposite. They seemed as intent as he was that Catherine not be overdoing anything.

**

Once in the sunny, paneled sitting room, Catherine shot a triumphant glance to Clay and went directly to the dumbwaiter.

"Do you have some idea of what you're doing?" he asked. "What you're looking for, or even what you're looking at?"

Her look to him was haughty, smug. "Of course. Dummy meant the dumbwaiter. I think it's pretty obvious that from one dummy to the other meant from one end of the dumbwaiter to the other. In simpler words, come to the opposite end of the dumbwaiter."

"Uh huh," Clay responded, not convinced of her theory.

Catherine showed Eric and Junior the dumbwaiter and they took turns sticking their heads inside and feeling the walls, ceiling and floor of it for hidden panels, levers or switches.

Nothing.

Junior frowned. "You said the other end of this is behind the wall in the basement. Do you want us to try and find another opening there, one that might be hiding it?"

Clay started to tell him "yes", but Catherine shook her head. Clay could only sigh as he saw her stubborn side enter her blues eyes.

"Whatever it is, it's up here," she insisted.

"You're probably right," Clay interjected easily. "But what's the harm in the two of them looking?" Before she could voice an objection he raised a hand. "So what if the clue said come up here? Everything so far has been opposite, hasn't it?" He shrugged. "I say let them go and check it out. Nothing to lose and there's a possibility of gain."

Catherine looked at her brother. "Eric?"

Eric nodded toward Clay. "He's right, Catherine. Besides, isn't it more productive to spread out and search? We can do more in less time that way."

"But what if I overlook something here that one of you would have seen?"

Clay laughed. "You must be getting really tired, Catherine, because it sounds like you're pouting just to get your own way."

He saw indignation leap into her eyes, then she smiled. "So what if I am?" she asked, but her testy air was laced with humor. "Go ahead," she told Junior and Eric, though she added, "But you're wasting your time."

Clay looked at Catherine and remembered Margaret's face. Even though it was obvious to him that Margaret knew all the answers he was pretty sure she would not have given any hints about not leaving the basement. The four of them were completely on their own and Clay suspected that if they found nothing, Margaret would continue to adhere to her promise no matter what and remain silent.

When Junior and Eric headed downstairs Clay called, "Holler if you find anything, or even if you just think you did."

"Will do," Eric shouted back.

**

Over the next forty five minutes, Clay worked side-by-side with Catherine, examining every inch of first the dumbwaiter, then the oak-paneled sitting room. It didn't help that Catherine's mood steadily deteriorated from optimism to cautious optimism, cautious optimism that gradually did a freefall into almost a head-banging frustration.

There was no "eureka, we found it" from the basement, either.

Catherine sat on the floor by the window, moodily staring out of it into the hot Texas afternoon.

"Am I really this stupid or blind?" she asked him when he came to sit beside her. "Why would my mother tell me you can take it with you, and then make sure I can't find what she's hidden?"

"You're being awfully hard on yourself," he chastised when she rested her head against his shoulder. "This isn't an easy thing to do and why you thought you could do it with no more than a snap of your fingers, well...it's tough, Catherine," he conceded. He kissed the top of her head. "But at least I didn't hear you say you give up." He chuckled. "I know you're too strong for that. Or maybe it's just that stubborn streak that keeps surfacing."

She turned to smile at him, then again rested her head on him. She began to hum to herself.

Clay caught a hint of a tune, which surprised him, since this was Catherine.

"What's that song?"

She hummed louder and this time the tune escaped him. Dear Lord, don't let her start singing, no matter what song it is.

"One of my songs?" he teased.

She turned and raised an eyebrow at him. "Conceited as all get out, aren't you?" She laughed, but the laugh trickled down into a sigh. "No, it's one I heard on the radio and it's just...well, it's a perfect description of my heart."

He started to make another joke but she turned to look at him. "I can't find the words to tell you...really tell you, what the message in this song does to my heart, at the same time how it uplifts my soul. It puts into words exactly how I feel when I think of you, and also how I feel when I sense a spiritual presence. It's like...like the two greatest joys in my life put to music, though they're very different types of joy."

The passion in her eyes stunned him and the pure love in her eyes sent an indescribable feeling to every nerve in his body. His own heart blazed with the fire of love and life that only Catherine could ignite.

She touched his face and her eyes searched his. "Does that sound crazy, Clay?"

"No," he said quietly. "I've never experienced that through music, but I've gotten that same feeling when I've been lucky enough to see certain places."

Catherine smiled and her lips brushed his.

"What's the song?" Clay asked, more than a little curious.

Catherine blushed and Clay grinned, aware she squirmed about naming a song other than one of his.

"You Raise Me Up."

Clay smiled, nodded and drew her back to lean on him. "Good choice," he murmured. "I'm kind of partial to that one myself."

They sat together for a few moments and Clay was content to hold her, to know she was still for at least a minute and not doing any further damage to her body.

Then she sighed and put a hand on the windowsill to help her gain her footing. "Back to work," she said playfully to Clay and with both hands on the windowsill she gazed out at the peaceful countryside.

Joining her, Clay pointed to the different trees that formed the circle encompassing the clearing. "Pretty as anything, aren't they? And look," he continued, "that must be where your grandfather put in one of the gardens..."

He stopped short, short enough to make Catherine look at him, then back out the window. "I don't see the garden, Clay. Where are you looking?"

"Forget the garden," Clay informed her, his voice electrified. "I just figured out what the rest of that message means."

 

Chapter Ninety Six

Clay pointed toward the treetops, started to say, "there", hesitated, and said, "Wait, I'll be right back."

He could feel Catherine's puzzled gaze burn into his back as he exited the room. One at a time he went to the windows in each second floor room, carefully studying the distant landscape through each of them.

Satisfied he was right, he went back to the sitting room and stood in front of the dumbwaiter and gestured with his hand for Catherine to move away from in front of the window. When she did he looked through the window, then grinned at her.

"Come over here," he stated, "and see if you can see what I do."

"You're a lot taller than me," she reminded him as she covered the steps to the dumbwaiter. "I'm not going to see the same things at the same angle."

He stood behind her, and with his left hand on her shoulder, his right index finger pointed to where she should look.

She was silent, then said, "Okay, I give up, what am I looking at and what am I supposed to see there?"

His left hand squeezed her shoulder. "Look right over there, Catherine, and look closely. What do you see?"

She looked, sighed, then cried, "I don't know, Clay. I see nothing out of the ordinary and I'm just not getting what you think you see."

"Look straight, over the treetops," he advised calmly. "Way, way in the distance. What do you see?"

"Trees. Lots and lots of trees..." she trailed off and hurried to the window. "Is that the roofline of the other house?"

"Yep," he told her when he joined her at the window. "And do you see what's been painted up on the ridge of it?"

"Barely," she murmured. "It's pretty faded."

Clay grinned at Catherine and it took all his restraint not to dance her around the room. "I already checked the other windows," he told her. "That house is only visible from this window. The window at the opposite end of the dumbwaiter."

Excitement sparked to life in her eyes and renewed vitality returned to her voice. "That house is the end of the line, isn't it? Where we started is where we need to end up. Opposite."

"That's right."

The she frowned. "But why the cross on the roof, Clay?"

He pulled the note from Catherine's back pocket, held it in the air but instead of reading it, recited: "you can take it with you."

Catherine had a blank look, then politely told him, "I don't know why my mother gave us permission to take that jar of crude, but..."

"Think, Catherine," Clay exclaimed. "The opposite. Surely, you've heard the old saying, you can't take it with you."

She stared at him, then admitted, "Yes, but I still don't get it."

"The phony grave," he said flatly. "We didn't dig far enough."

Catherine looked thoughtful, then said, "I disagree. That grave was put in to deter Mr. Yearwood from knowing that Eric is alive. My mother used it to hide the map that led us on this hunt...oh."

Clay nodded. "Yeah, and if you remember correctly, we didn't dig at all. But think about it for a minute, Catherine. Common sense tells us that anyone who'd been snooping around there, even if they found that grave by accident like we did...once they found the metal box and the detailed map inside, who would keep looking or digging in that grave? I think the metal box was put there to prevent anyone digging further and finding what your mother hid for you." He blew out a breath. "That map wasn't particularly easy to figure out, and until we realized everything was the opposite of what it seemed we got nowhere."

Clay and Catherine turned to the door when Eric and Junior entered.

"We can't find anything," Eric told Clay. "We'll start..."

"Forget it," Clay interrupted with a grin. "We know where the last piece of the puzzle is and we're about to go and fit it in with the rest."

"That's wonderful, Miss Catherine," Junior offered. "How can I help?"

Clay took Catherine's hand and as they started for the door he stopped to put a hand on Junior's shoulder. "Make sure you have the shovels with you. We're on our way to go dig and play in a graveyard."

Eric's jaw dropped but he said nothing as Clay and Catherine left the room.

Junior's look to Eric was as sympathetic as his tone. "Two pervs. Harmless enough, though, and you do get used to it."

 

Chapter Ninety Seven

This time Margaret rode with Clay and Catherine, in the back seat with Raleigh in her lap, the basket on the floor. Clay's continual glances into the rearview mirror showed Margaret increasingly nervous, but Clay wasn't sure if it was because they were about to uncover a family secret or if they were about to fail to do so. Margaret's visibly jangling nerves gave no hint which conclusion was likely. She hadn't said a single word about the jar of thick black crude that Clay had carefully placed in the trunk.

He didn't know why Catherine hadn't asked Margaret for an explanation of the jar of crude, but when he'd suggested that Catherine ask her she had gone silent and shook her head. Eric's expression had gone through various changes when he'd held and examined the jar, but, he, too, had said nothing. Clay could only surmise that they both expected painful answers that involved their mother, answers neither were in a hurry to hear.

When they reached the house, Clay parked by the front porch and helped Margaret from the back seat. One glance at Catherine said she used every ounce of her will power to not race toward the grave site. Well, will power and common sense. There wasn't a doubt in Clay's mind that the jarring impact from any type run would stop Catherine before she got too far.

Junior parked behind Clay, opened the trunk and pushed the spotlights and tools to the side to gather the shovels.

Eric's look at the house was pensive. "This is where my mother came to write the letters, the ones that...he...stole?"

"Yes," Margaret responded.

Catherine gazed at the house and then abruptly turned to Margaret. "My father's job isn't why they never lived here is it?"

Margaret blinked a couple of times and Clay realized that Catherine had zoomed in on something Margaret hadn't expected.

Catherine softened her voice. "This is at least part of the property you sold to my grandfather, isn't it? And that's why my mother refused to live here. She wanted nothing that had any connection to Mr. Yearwood."

Eric broke in, "That doesn't make sense, Catherine. Why would our mother come here to write those letters to me if she couldn't bear to touch anything connected to him?"

Catherine hugged Margaret. "I think I know why. She wouldn't accept anything for herself that had ever belonged to or been touched by him. But if she sat in this house, a house my grandfather built for her and my father, and she wrote letters to the son she had felt compelled to give away to keep safe...well, then she felt in her heart that Mr. Yearwood really hadn't won. That was probably the only times that she felt strong about what he'd done to her. The only time she could make herself believe that somehow, someday, everything would be all right."

Margaret didn't answer, but, still carrying Raleigh, her eyes glistened and her step toward the porch was slow. Clay knew it had little to do with her age and a lot to do with the crashing and tumbling of the past, of it colliding with the present. He sent a short, humble prayer skyward as his gaze rested on Margaret that a happy ending for them all would erase the shadows of tragedy and grief from her eyes.

The four of them were silent as Margaret took Raleigh onto the shade of the wrap around porch. When Margaret again turned back to them, her gaze moved from Catherine to Eric, then back to Catherine.

Margaret's smile was shaky, but she whispered, "Good luck."

Clay felt a catch in his throat when he saw that both Eric and Catherine were too caught up in emotion to do more than nod to Margaret.

With the three men carrying shovels, Clay and Catherine led Eric and Junior toward the small gravesite.

 

Chapter Ninety Eight

No one spoke until they'd reached the fence that marked the grave site.

Eric and Junior looked at Catherine in question and she shrugged. "I guess we should all start digging somewhere in here."

"Uh, no," Clay corrected. "We all aren't going to dig. You go sit."

Junior nodded. "We'll take care of this, Miss Catherine. You rest under the oak tree and don't concern yourself."

Catherine shook her head. "I can't rest or relax." She began a nervous rubbing together of her hands.

"You're not digging," Clay said flatly, then grinned. "If you don't want to go and sit down, then do what you do best. Supervise."

"You're a real riot," she told him sourly.

But to Clay's surprise she made no attempt to pick up a shovel or to continue the friendly battle.

Within ten minutes Catherine had taken a seat under the shady oak tree, but hollered, "I'll let you know if I see or hear slithering company."

Clay watched her as three shovels rang, repeatedly biting into the Texas dirt, but she seemed only fatigued, not sore or sending off signals that anything hurt. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the grave.

Forty five minutes later they'd excavated at least four feet deep and several feet wide but found nothing. They were all three sweaty and dirty.

Eric used his forearm to wipe sweat dripping from his brow, a tribute to the relentless sun. "I know this grave is empty," he said as he returned to jabbing and shoveling the earth, "but I can't imagine anything more tragic than having to bury a child."

Clay glanced up at him, saw him hold gazes with his sister, watched sadness cross both of their faces.

"Eric," Clay said suddenly. "I don't think anybody thought to ask you about your family. Are you married? Kids?"

Eric stopped digging only long enough to shoot Clay a wry smile. "Broken engagement four years ago. Still looking for Ms. Right."

Junior leaned on his shovel and blew out an exhausted breath. "Are you sure we're in the right place? Do we know what we're looking for, if we'll know it when we see it?"

"Don't know any of those answers," Clay answered patiently and despite the sweat trickling down his face and neck he continued to dig.

"You don't suppose," Catherine tossed out, "that you'll hit oil and it'll bubble like in that tv show about hillbillies?"

Clay snorted. "I can't think of anything less attractive right now than my sweat-drenched stinky body getting showered in thick black oil."

Eric's shovel clanged. "Got something!" he called.

Eric was unable to clear the object he'd hit and Junior and Clay immediately started to help dig it out.

Catherine came to watch the process and Clay offered a small smile of support when he saw the mixture of anticipation and dread in her eyes.

When the object was clear, Clay pulled it from the ground. "It's out," Clay announced and pulled another metal box from the ground.

He held it up and brushed years of accumulated dirt from the top. He didn't even notice that he then wiped that hand over his forehead, leaving a dirt streak.

Surprised, he examined the small box. A plain, simple, totally ordinary metal box. "It's not locked," he told Catherine, handing it to her.

Catherine 's hands trembled but she looked at Eric. "I'd like you to open it."

He smiled, but shook his head. "After what you've been through to reach this point? No way."

Catherine nodded and exchanged a long look with Clay, drew in, then blew out a deep breath and flipped the lid.

Four perplexed faces looked at the very short piece of paper inside the box.

Catherine picked it up and read:

Hickory dickory dock
Time has reversed the clock
The years will fade
The oak shall shade
And the sentry marks the spot

 

Chapter Ninety Nine

"Another map," Catherine said in bewilderment. "But why?"

"No," Clay said. "Directions. We're there. We just need to interpret what that poem means."

Eric squinted into the sun, then looked thoughtful. "I think the opening line doesn't really mean anything, it just kind of segues into the second sentence, which does have meaning. Time has reversed the clock, in my opinion, is saying to look at things not as they are now, but as they were then. And because that oak tree is mentioned I think it means the immediate landscape."

Junior nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that's cool. Sounds like whatever it is could be hidden somewhere underneath that oak tree." He looked at Catherine. "Should we start digging over there now?"

Catherine didn't answer, just did a slow evaluative sweep of the landscape. Then she told Junior, "No," and turned to Clay. "The sentry marks the spot is obviously the key. But what would serve as the sentry?"

All four of them, in turn, scouted and mentioned various trees with branches that seemed to point to the grave site.

"You know," Clay said finally in exasperation. "We could find a thousand things that fit if we tried to stretch them. I could probably convince myself that just about everything in this area points this way. But I believe the message is that whatever this sentry is, it doesn't point to where we need to be, even though pointing can be construed as marking. I may be wrong, but I think that marks the spot is pretty explicit. The sentry is on where we need to be."

"What about the cross painted on the roof, the one we saw from the window?" Catherine asked.

Clay peered toward the roof, then shook his head. "I don't think so. The oak is referenced in that poem and that's pretty specific."

"How do you know for sure it means this oak?" Junior asked.

"I don't," Clay admitted. "It's just a gut feeling that we're in the right place."

"Break time," Catherine announced. "Since we're getting nowhere, let's go sit with Aunt Margaret and Raleigh on the porch, relax a few minutes and let our brains generate fresh ideas."

Clay smiled. "I'm glad Raleigh stayed back there with Margaret. She might be a heck of a guard dog when it comes to you but I don't think she'd get too lucky against anything crawling."

Catherine laughed and started to leave the grave site, then halted so quickly Clay ran right into the back of her.

Catherine spun around and when her eyes met his they were excited blue fire. "Oh, my God! I am so stupid."

Junior jumped in with, "No, Miss Catherine. You didn't know he was that close behind you. It was his fault."

Catherine grinned at Junior and shook her head then turned back to Clay.

"Guard dog," she said.

Stumped, he waited, then said a slow, "Okaaaay..."

"Guard dog."

"I got that part," Clay stated, then added, "Oh. Guard. Sentry."

"Exactly."

Clay wracked his brain, then shrugged. "I'm lost. I don't get what this has to do with Raleigh."

Catherine giggled. "It has nothing to do with Raleigh," she informed him. "You calling her a guard dog is what tipped me."

Eric sighed. "And in English this means...what?"

Clearly exasperated that they hadn't figured it out, Catherine looked from Clay to Eric to Junior, then held Clay's gaze, a slow smile spreading across her face. "What's another word for guard, Clay?"

Growing annoyed at his mental block he said curtly, "We already did that. Sentry."

"And another word for sentry?"

"Catherine, you're driving me crazy," Clay warned. "Spit it out."

She turned and pointed to the fence. "Picket." Her face glowed with the light of knowing the final puzzle piece was at hand. "The sentry marks the spot. What my mother hid for me to find is beneath the picket fence."

 

Chapter One Hundred

Clay held Catherine's gaze, then nodded, a grin spreading across his now dirt-streaked features. "Yeah." He nodded again. "That makes perfect sense."

Clay, Eric and Junior followed Catherine out of the grave site and around to the outside of the fence.

Catherine pointed and said, "Eric, you take the front section, Junior, the left, Clay the right side. I'll take the back."

Clay frowned as Junior and Eric reversed direction to head toward their assigned sections. "Catherine, that back section is kind of close to the woods. Isn't that where the rattlesnake came from? I'll check out that section and you take the right side."

Catherine shook her head and kept walking. "Don't be silly. With all of us tromping around here I doubt anything will leave a hiding spot and come out of the woods. Junior and I weren't moving or making noise and I'm sure that's how we, not to mention the snake, got an unpleasant surprise."

Junior looked up from examining the fence with an emphatic, "The snake got dead. Real dead."

Clay's hand came down on Catherine's shoulder. "You heard me."

Catherine's jaw dropped, but before she could speak Clay held up his hand to silence her. "No. But if you insist on going back there we'll both go." He squinted into the sun and wiped his sweaty brow. "It's hot and snakes will be out soaking up the sun. We'll just add caution to the equation."

Catherine lifted her chin and offered him a haughty, "Caution is my middle name."

Clay and Junior laughed so hard they bent double and had to drop their shovels to wipe their streaming eyes.

With a withering look to them both and a toss of her head, Catherine trekked ahead of Clay toward the rear of the fence, but even though he quickly caught her and made her walk the rest of the way behind him, laughter still bubbled in his throat and he said nothing. Caution is my middle name. He couldn't remember when he'd heard anything so genuinely funny.

Eric looked at Junior, puzzled. "Private joke?"

Junior chuckled. "Not really. All that stuff that Miss Catherine did, or that you learned about since you got here...that's pretty much Miss Catherine."

Eric looked toward Catherine. "Sounds like you've known her quite awhile."

Junior didn't look away from the pickets he ran his hands over, but answered, "Less than ten days."

Clay watched the open ground and scattered rocks for sunning snakes as Catherine bent to examine the pickets. Nothing. No movement. It was so hot in the sun he doubted anything could work up the energy for a mild disagreement, let alone an all-out territorial battle.

Within a few minutes he began working with Catherine on the pickets, running his hands overtop the points looking for a loose one, or even just a loose picket. Anything. He saw nothing but an old picket fence.

He looked over to Eric and Junior. "Find anything interesting yet?" he called.

Two "no's" reached him and when he saw Catherine's disappointed face he gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. "If it was easy to find," he noted, "someone would have already taken it. And we're not going to stop searching until it's in your hand," he reminded her.

Catherine smiled into his eyes and her fingers brushed stray tendrils of hair from his forehead. "What would I do without you?" she asked softly. "You're so...so...dirty. Ewwwww, Clay," she said, her brushing fingers making the brown streaks on his forehead worse with each pass. "You need a good shower," she added with a giggle.

He laughed and winked at her. "We'll discuss my reward later."

Catherine looked down. "Do you see what I see?"

Clay smothered a laugh and stepped closer to Catherine, his breath falling on her lips. "That's what visions of a shower reward do to my psyche."

Catherine smacked his chest and scolded, "Not you, Clay. Get your mind out of the...shower." She pointed to the bottom of the fence. "I meant the fence. Look at that picket. Dead center."

Clay forced his mind out of the shower, forced himself to focus on the object in front of her finger.

"Okay," he said lightly. "What am I looking at?"

Catherine bent to her knees and ran her hand the length of the picket. At the bottom she traced the outline. "Every other picket is fairly square at the bottom. Some are chipped from maybe small animals scooting under the fence, but they're all square. Except this one."

Clay bent beside her and ran his hand over it. "Well, I'll be," he breathed. The bottom of the center picket had been filed to an almost unnoticeable point, a discreet arrow facing downward.

The sentry marks the spot.

Clay rose to his feet. "Eric, Junior. We found it."

 

Chapter One Hundred One

Clay went to the right side, took hold of the picket's post and instructed Junior, "Grab the other end of this section."

"Wait," Catherine cried.

Clay stopped and while Eric held the sentry picket in place and helped her draw a visual line, Catherine marked the ground beneath it.

"Okay," she called. "Now you can lift this section out."

Easier said than done.

Clay and Junior pulled gently on the posts. Other than working up even more of a sweat they got nowhere.

"Maybe the posts are cemented in," Eric offered. "That's pretty routine."

"Out here?" Catherine questioned, then shook her head. "I think it's just this stubborn Texas dirt. Hard and dry and needs to be coaxed to let go."

Clay groaned, knowing another round of shoveling was imminent. "Before we start another clang-and-bang segment, what if we get water from the house to try and loosen the dirt around the post's bottom?"

"You'd still have to dig down to get access to the post. If your idea is to drench the post at ground level and let it work its way down, it would take forever for the water to seep that far into the ground. And," she reminded Clay, "we don't know how far the post is buried."

Eric looked thoughtful. "That can vary from eighteen inches to four feet, depending on the fence."

Catherine raised both hands in the air to quell further discussion. "All those in favor of tearing the pickets off the fence, raise your hand."

Clay sighed. "Catherine, you can tear off all the pickets you want, but the main part of the fence is still there. If we don't physically remove the sections for clear access, then we have to dig under and around the fence. Right now, well, that's okay by me."

"Me, too," she announced and grabbed a shovel.

Clay's noise of irritation didn't cause her the slightest hesitation and when he held his hand out for her to give him the shovel she ignored him. Before he had a chance to take it from her she'd managed to push the dirt-encrusted shovel into the earth. The ringing sound when the tip rammed something several inches into the earth caught all of their attention.

Now Clay did grab the shovel from her and Catherine's reaction was a dropped jaw. Not to Clay taking the shovel, but to the awareness of what the sound meant.

Everyone stood in silence while Clay dug the necessary distance to free what Catherine's shovel had struck. Eric's hand rubbed Catherine's shoulder and Clay threw a tired, but encouraging smile to her.

Seconds later the sun reflected from the top of something round and silver. When the shovel had released a short stainless steel cylinder from the dirt, Clay threw his shovel to the side and dropped to his knees, using his hands to pull the cyclinder the remaining way from its dirt prison.

Behind him he could hear Catherine's stark breathing. Short and clipped. Anticipatory and frightened.

One final jerk pulled the cylinder free of the dirt. It was a round, stainless steel cylinder capable of fending off the elements. What it held inside, protected from all eyes but those of its intended recipient, no one knew. But they soon would.

Clay rose to his feet, disregarding the dirt that clung to his clothes and skin. He wiped a very dirty hand across his sweaty brow, then held out the cylinder to Catherine. He said nothing, but instinct told him it wasn't the time for words.

Catherine gazed at the cylinder, then her eyes met Clay's. In hers he saw a haunting kaleidoscope of every emotion she'd experienced since this began.

Her eyes were bright with tears that quickly receded, and her voice was soft. "Thank you."

Clay waited, but she didn't take the cylinder. "Catherine," he said softly. "Are you all right?"

She didn't answer, then looked at Eric, at the brother she'd never known. "Will you open it? For me? And for our mother?"

 

Chapter One Hundred Two

Eric smiled and nodded, but added, "I think there's someone who'd get a whole lot of happiness watching us open this."

Catherine looked toward the house, at Aunt Margaret sitting on the porch, Raleigh at her side in the shade.

Clay's tone was soft. "Junior and I will wait here."

Catherine turned to him. "You'll do no such thing," she informed him. "Without you and Junior, well, not only wouldn't this have been found, but I probably wouldn't still be alive. I want you by my side." She smiled at Junior. "And you." Catherine handed the cylinder to Eric and the two of them preceded Clay and Junior back to the path leading to the house.

Clay saw Margaret turn in their direction and start to rise. Then she froze and he realized she saw that Eric carried the cylinder. Her hand gripped the railing and what appeared to be wobbly knees put her back in her seat.

Clay kept his gaze on Margaret the whole time of their approach, but not once did she lift her sight from the cylinder to any one of them.

When they reached the porch Margaret continued to stare at the cylinder, then closed her eyes and said simply, "It's over. It's finally over."

When Margaret opened her eyes Catherine asked, "Were you with my mother when she buried this?"

"No," Margaret told her. "But I was a witness to what's inside."

Clay commented, "But you did know she buried it there."

Margaret nodded. "I'm the only one who knew the location. If anything happened to me before Catherine..." Her voice choked then and she barely got out, "...or Eric..." She cleared her throat. "Before you found it, my attorney has clear instructions about a letter in a safe deposit box in Austin."

Junior and Clay took a seat on the ground near the bottom of the steps, Eric stood and Catherine sat beside Margaret. Raleigh bounded into Catherine's lap and after the expected pat-and-rub, snuggled down.

Catherine nodded to Eric and he unscrewed the finely threaded stainless steel cap from the cylinder. He peered inside, then turned it over and put his hand in it, pulling out a wide, overstuffed gold envelope.

He turned it over and said, "It's unmarked and it's sealed."

Catherine urged, "Open it, Eric," but Eric had already taken out a pocketknife and was carefully using it like a letter opener.

He pulled out a folded wad of papers and two smaller sealed white envelopes, and when he read the envelopes his face took on an odd expression. He handed one to Catherine. "One is marked To Catherine, the other To my son."

Margaret's voice was terse, the emotion intense. "Don't. Don't open those now." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Please."

Catherine and Eric looked surprised and Catherine said, "But why, Aunt Margaret?"

Clay interjected with, "Catherine, I think the letters are meant to be private. For your eyes only." He held Margaret's grateful gaze. "And especially Eric's letter."

"Yes," Margaret answered. "The papers are to be read now, the letters when you're alone." Her eyes filled with love when she looked at Eric. "Meggie could only pray that someday you'd see this letter. But I'm not sure she ever truly believed that you would."

Catherine hugged her aunt, then cleared her throat. "Letters later. Papers now. Eric, would you read them, please?"

Eric unfolded the papers and scanned them.

Clay watched Eric's eyes change from normal reading of papers to surprise to shock to disbelief.

"I meant out loud," Catherine hollered, obviously seeing the same as Clay.

Eric said nothing, just lowered the papers. He gave Catherine a long look, then handed the papers to her.

Catherine read them and Clay watched her eyes go through the same surprise, shock and disbelief that Eric's had.

 

Chapter One Hundred Three

Catherine remained as silent as Eric and it was all Clay could do not to grab the papers from her hand and read them himself. A side glance told him Junior was tensing to pounce on the papers, that he, too, had reached the end of a long and patient wait.

Clay stifled a laugh and his cocked eyebrow told Junior relax. With a sheepish grin, Junior did. Catherine seemed to notice nothing and she and Eric exchanged a long, wordless look.

Catherine needed to clear her throat three times before she found her voice. She held Margaret's gaze before turning to Clay. "I won't read the whole thing to you," she said quietly. "But...the...that jar of crude we found..." she trailed off and from her face Clay knew she couldn't continue.

Eric's voice revealed he was still in shock. "Millions."

Clay looked at Margaret.

She nodded. "The personal letters will explain much more, but that crude was discovered on this property. With her husband's full knowledge and permission, Meggie negotiated and sold the rights to a small oil well. After a lot of research and advice, she invested that money in a then-small oil company. The company did exactly as the analyst said it would...struggled for survival, then exploded into wealth for the stockholders. The well on this property wasn't a rich one and it did deplete, but it provided Meggie the money to invest in that small company...Southern Star Oil."

It was Clay's turn to be shocked. Southern Star Oil was one of the largest and richest oil companies.

"Meggie's shares are worth millions," Margaret confirmed.

Clay frowned. "But why..."

Margaret's voice was curt and Clay realized she'd known where his thought headed. "She wanted nothing to do with Curtis or anything that had ever touched him," was her harsh reply. "Certainly Meggie wasn't interested in personal profit from her suffering at his hands." Then she calmed. "When she realized the worth here, all she thought about was her children. She didn't dare tell Catherine, she was afraid of what Curtis would do if it leaked out and he somehow learned about the oil discovery. She lived with a desperate hope of seeing her son just once before she died, but..." her voice caught.

Margaret turned to Catherine and took her hands. "According to your mother's wishes, in my will it states that those shares, as well as this property, are to be yours on your twenty-fifth birthday, equally shared with your brother if I could locate him." She smiled at Eric. "I'm sure Meggie is here with us right now."

She turned back to Catherine and sadness filled her eyes. "I can't wait another year, Catherine. I want to see you and your brother have and use everything your mother gifted to you...now. I'm an old woman," she said softly and brushed Catherine's hair back. "I want the rest of my time lived with the peace of knowing how happy I've made not only you and Eric, but, especially your mother. Even more...that I was able to make right that terrible night of so long ago."

Catherine's tone revealed her confusion. "I...don't know what to think," she admitted. "This is just such a...a..."

"I know," Margaret told her. "It'll take some time to get used to, just like suddenly having a brother will take adjustment."

Catherine and Eric exchanged smiles and Clay saw tears shine in both their eyes. That adjustment didn't look like it would take long at all.

Catherine lowered her head and looked at the ground. "I...I don't want the property," she stated softly. "For the same reasons my mother didn't want it. I couldn't bear the reminder of her suffering, her unhappiness."

Clay went to Catherine and drew her up and into his arms a second before her tears started. She'd gone through so much, and now the hurt was finally coming out. He held her and Eric looked uncomfortable. Clay understood it was because he, Eric, was the result of Catherine's mother's ordeal.

Eric came up the steps and without a word took Catherine from Clay's arms. Catherine immediately hugged her brother tight and sobbed. Clay felt hot tears of compassion fill his own eyes as Eric rocked Catherine and cried with her. Clay didn't think anyone truly recognized this may have been hardest of all on Eric.

Clay put his arms around them both in a brief squeeze, released them and said, "I have an idea."

Catherine moved back into Clay's arms and he rested his head on top of hers, then said, "Catherine, you obviously don't want this property because of the unhappiness attached to it. Eric, I suspect you feel the same."

Eric gave a quick look to Margaret, then conceded, "To be honest, yes."

Clay nodded, looked around, then said, "I don't know about you, but I think this could be transformed into a wonderful, exceptional place for children to come, an escape for those who so badly need one. A place for terminally ill, disabled and disadvantaged kids to not only get to know and understand each other, but to forget real life, to let loose and just have fun."

Catherine's eyes lit with joy and she gasped. Eric nodded, and though he grinned broadly, seemed incapable of speech. Instead, he grabbed Catherine and gently swung her around, obviously mindful of her bruises and injuries.

Margaret's face was serene and when she softly smiled into the distance Clay knew Margaret's thoughts were with Meggie.

Clay's gaze moved from Eric to Catherine. In a quiet voice he added, "I think it would make your mother very happy to know that this property is being used to make children laugh. A place of refuge."

Experience should have warned Clay, but he was too busy watching Catherine and Eric's faces to see it coming.

Junior's bear hug nearly crushed him. "You're the best, perv," Junior sobbed.

 

Chapter One Hundred Four

Raleigh had fallen asleep and Catherine carefully placed her, in the basket, in the rear seat. Clay cleaned the dirt from himself and his clothes as best he could before climbing behind the wheel and preceding Junior's car, with Junior, Eric and Margaret inside, back toward Ionasbranch.

Catherine held the unopened letter from her mother.

The quiet drive back was punctuated only once, when Clay turned up the barely audible radio, smiled and squeezed Catherine's hand. "Hey, they're playing our song," he said lightly while You Raise Me Up filled the car.

A soft smile spread across Catherine's face and her gaze on him was so loving Clay thought the car must surely glow.

"You just capped a perfect day," she told him and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

****

Clay was so grimy he jumped in the shower first. He needed time to think. Now that everything had wound down he had a long overdue phone call to make and how do I say it? dominated his mind.

When he emerged from the shower Catherine was staring out the window toward the setting sun. She didn't turn when she heard him but he saw the now opened letter in her hand. He dressed and still she stared out the window.

When he came up behind her and put his arms around her waist she leaned into his chest.

"I wish you'd had the chance to know her," Catherine whispered.

"So do I," Clay answered gently. He turned Catherine toward him and searched her eyes. "Are you okay? Do you want to talk?"

Catherine smiled then. "For the first time since all this began, I think I can honestly say that everything is okay." Her smile faded and she held his gaze. "My mother's letter..."

Clay put his finger on her lips. "Please don't," he said softly. "Your mother wrote her heart's thoughts to you, painful, very personal thoughts. I think the letter should stay between the two of you."

Catherine's voice was ragged and she hugged him tightly. "Thank you for understanding."

They held each other for long minutes, then Catherine stepped back and giggled. "I'm going to get you dirty and sweaty all over again. I think I'd better hit the shower myself now."

Clay smiled and watched her go. When he heard the shower running, then Catherine singing softly he picked up his cell phone and dialed.

"Hello?" sounded the soft voice on the other end.

"Hi Mom," he said.

"Clayton," she exclaimed. "Where are you, honey? I talked to Doc and he told me you were on some private vacation to rest your voice for the concert tour."

Clay grinned. Vacation? Leave it to Doc. "I have something to tell you, Mom. Someone I want very much for you to meet." He hesitated, then jumped right in with both feet. "Can you fly into Amarillo tomorrow? It's really important or I wouldn't ask."

He could almost see his mother smile. "Clayton, honey, you've met a girl," she teased. "Of course I'd love to meet her." He could hear the puzzlement she felt. "But why the rush, and why Amarillo?"

Clay sighed and decided the blunt way would be the best way. "I'm married."

Dead silence.

"Mom?"

A faint, "I'm still here, honey," came through the line.

Clay looked toward the shower, toward the woman who'd captured him heart and soul. "She's wonderful, Mom. She's...she's...everything," he ended simply.

Faye's voice was still faint. "Surely you don't call your wife she."

Sheepish, Clay cleared his throat. "Catherine. You'll love her, Mom. She's...everything," he finished lamely. "Her family is here in Texas, in Ionasbranch, not too far from Amarillo." He laughed then. "Well, her Aunt Margaret and an older brother Catherine just learned she has. That's pretty much her family, but it's a close, loving one."

Clay's eyes closed in relief and gratitude when his mother said, "Well, tomorrow she'll know she has a second family that loves her."

Clay told his mother he'd have her ticket ready and meet her at the airport. Before hanging up he said a quiet, "Thanks, Mom."

"I trust you, Clayton, and I trust that you know your own heart," she answered simply. "If this young woman truly makes you happy then I already love her."

Clay turned as a freshly-scrubbed Catherine came into the room wearing only a towel, her damp hair combed back. She walked to him, and when she lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck and meet him in a heated kiss, the towel dropped to the floor.

Clay drew his head back just long enough to gaze into Catherine's blue, love-filled eyes. His hands lifted to her face and he lowered his mouth to hers as heat spread to every fibre of his being.

Never had he expected to find such love, peace and contentment. He groaned and lifted her into his arms, but his lips never left hers.

"Make love to me," she whispered, her hot breath against his lips sending tremors of anticipation straight into his soul.

Everything Clay felt for her, every finely woven thread of love, every ignited-by-touch flame of yearning, of desire, culminated in the single word that escaped his lips. "Catherine."

End of the Clay/Catherine Texas adventure...beginning of the Clay/Catherine Tennessee adventure...