“Did she come back?”

“Once, on my tenth birthday. She walks into my party, all smiles and tears, loaded down with presents. It’s not my birthday party anymore.”

“No, it’s her Big Return, putting her in the center again.”

Rowan stared at him for a long moment. “That’s exactly it. I hated her at that moment, the way a ten-year-old can. When she tried to hug me, I pushed her away. I told her to get out, to go to hell.”

“Sounds to me that at ten you had a good bullshit detector. How’d she handle it?”

“Big, fat tears, shock, hurt—and bitter accusations hurled at my father.”

“For turning you against her.”

“And again, you score. I stormed right out the back door, and I’d have kept on going if Dad hadn’t come out after me. He was pissed, all the way around. I knew better than to speak to anyone like that, and I was going back inside, apologizing to my mother. I said I wouldn’t, he couldn’t make me, and until he made her leave, I was never going back in that house. I was too mad to be scared. Respect was god in our house. You didn’t lie and you didn’t sass—the big two.”

“How did he handle it?”

“He picked me right up off the ground, and I know he was worked up enough to cart me right back in there. I punched him, kicked him, screamed, scratched, bit. I didn’t even know I was crying. I do know if he’d dragged me in, if he’d threatened me, ordered me, if he who’d never raised a hand to me had raised it, I wouldn’t have said I was sorry.”

“Then you’d’ve broken the other big one, by lying.”

“The next thing I knew we were sitting on the ground in the backyard, I’m crying all over his shoulder. And he’s hugging me, petting me and telling me I was right. He said, ‘You’re right, and I’m sorry.’ He told me to sit right there, and he’d go in and make her go away.”

She tipped back her glass. “And that’s what he did.”

“You got lucky, too.”

“Yeah, I did. She didn’t.”

Rowan paused, looked out over the pond. “A little over two years later, she goes into a convenience store to pick up something, walks in on a robbery. And she’s dead, wrong place, wrong time. Horrible. Nobody deserves to die bleeding on the floor of a quick market in Houston. God, how did I get on all this when there’s fudge cake and champagne?”

“Finish it.”

“Nothing much left. Dad asked me if I’d go to the funeral with him. He said he needed to go, that if I didn’t need or want to, that was okay. I said I’d think about it, then later my grandmother came into my room, sat on the bed. She told me I needed to go. That as hard as it might be now, it would be harder on me later if I didn’t. That if I did this one thing, I would never have to have any regrets. So I went, and she was right. I did what I needed to do, what my father needed me to do, and I’ve got no regrets.”

“What about her family?”

“Her parents cold-shouldered us. That’s who they are. I’ve never actually spoken to them. I know her sister, my aunt. She made a point of calling and writing over the years, even came out with her family a couple times. They’re nice people.

“And that concludes our exchange of life stories.”

“I imagine there’s another chapter or two, for another time.”

She eyed him as he refilled her glass. “You stopped drinking, and you keep filling my glass. Are you trying to get me drunk and naked?”

“Naked’s always the goal.” He said it lightly as he sensed she needed to change the mood. “Drunk? Not when I’ve witnessed you suck down tequila shots. I’m driving,” he reminded her.

“Responsible.” She toasted him. “And that leaves more for me. Did you know Dobie and Stovic scrubbed up and painted my room?”

“I heard Dobie got to first base with you.”

She let out that big, bawdy laugh. “If he considers that first base, he’s never hit a solid single.” She took her fork, carved off a big mouthful of cake right out of the container. Her eyes laughed as she stuffed it in, then closed on a long, low moan. “Now, that is cake, and the equivalent of a grand slam. Enough fire and chocolate, and I can go all season without sex.”

“Don’t be surprised if the supply of chocolate disappears in a fiftymile radius.”

“I like your style, Gull.” She forked up another hefty bite. “You’re pretty to look at, you’ve got a brain, you can fight and you do what needs doing when we’re on the line. Plus, you can definitely hit a solid single. But there are a couple of problems.”

She stabbed another forkful, this time offering it to him.

“First, I know you’ve got deep pockets. If I slept with you now, you might think I did it because you’re rich.”

“Not that rich. Anyway.” He considered, smiled. “I can live with that.”

“Second.” She held out more cake, then whipped it around, slid it into her own mouth. “You’re a smoke jumper in my unit.”

“You’re the kind of woman who breaks rules. Codes, no. Rules, yes.”

“That’s an interesting distinction.”

Full, she stretched out on the blanket, studied the sky. “Not a cloud,” she murmured. “The long-range forecast is for hot and dry. There won’t be a lot of champagne picnics this season.”

“Then we should appreciate this one.”

He leaned down, laid his lips on hers in a long, slow, upside-down kiss. She tasted of champagne and chocolate, smelled of peaches on a hot summer day.

She carried scars, body and heart, and still faced life with courage.

When her hands came to his face he lingered over those flavors, those scents, the fascinating contrasts of her, sliding just a little deeper into the lush.

Then she eased his face up. “You’re swinging for a double.”

“It worked for Spider-Man.”

“He was hanging upside down, in the rain—and that was after he’d kicked bad-guy ass. Not to mention, he didn’t get to second.”

“I’m in danger of being crazy about you, if only for your deep knowledge of superhero action films.”

“I’m trying to save you from that fate.” She patted the blanket beside her. “Why don’t you stretch out in the next stage of picnic tradition while I explain?”

Gull shifted the hamper aside, lay down hip-to-hip with her.

“If we slept together,” Rowan began, “there’s no doubt we’d bang all the drums, ring all the bells.”

“Sound all the trumpets.”

“Those, too. But after, there’s the inevitable tragedy. You’d fall in love with me. They all do.”

He heard the humor in her voice, idly linked his fingertips with hers. “You have that power?”

“I do and, though God knows I’ve tried, can’t control it. And you—I’m telling you this because, as I said, I like your style. You, helpless, hopeless, would be weak in love, barely able to eat or sleep. You’d spend all the profits you make off quarters pumped into Skee-Ball on elaborate gifts in a vain attempt to win my heart.”

“They could be pretty elaborate,” he told her. “Skee-Ball’s huge.”

“Still, my heart can’t be bought. I’d be forced to break yours, coldly and cruelly, to spare you from further humiliation. And also because your pathetic pleas would irritate the shit out of me.”

“All that,” he said after a moment, “from one round in the sack?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve lost count of the shoes I’ve had to throw away because the soles were stained with the bleeding hearts I’ve crushed along the way.”

“That’s a fair warning. I’ll risk it.”

He rolled over, took her mouth.

For a moment, she thought the top of her head simply shot off. Explosions, heat, eruptions burst through her body like a fireball. She lost her breath, and what she thought of as simple common sense, in the wicked whir of want.

She arched up to him, her hands shoving under his shirt—eager to feel her need pressed to him, his skin, his muscles under her hands.

There was a wildness here. She knew it lived inside her, and now she felt whatever animal he caged in leap out to run with hers.

She made him crazy. That lush, greedy mouth, those quick, seeking hands, the body that moved under his with such strength, such purpose, even as, for just a moment, it yielded.

Her breasts, full and firm, filled his hands as her moan of pleasure vibrated against his lips. She was sensation, and bombarded him with feelings he could neither stop nor identify.

He imagined pulling off her clothes, his own, taking what they both wanted there, on a borrowed blanket beside a shining pond.

Then her hands came between them, pushed. He gave himself another moment, gorging on that feast of feelings, before he eased back to look down at her.

“That,” he said, “is the next step in a traditional picnic.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. And it’s a winner. It’s a good thing I got off on that fudge cake because you definitely know how to stir a woman up. In fact...” She wiggled out from under him, grabbed what was left of the cake and took a bite. “Mmm, yeah, that takes care of it.”

“Damn that Marg.”

Her lips curved as she licked chocolate from her fingers. “This was great—every step.”

“I’ve got a few more steps in me.”

“I’m sure you do, and I have no doubt they’d be winners. Which is why we’d better go.”

Her lips had curved, he thought when they began to pack up, but the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. He waited until they’d folded the blanket back into the well-depleted hamper.

“I got to second.”

She laughed, as he’d hoped, then snickered with the fun of it as they started the hike back.

10

Lucas poked his head in the kitchen of the cookhouse.

“I heard a rumor about blueberry pie.”

Marg glanced back as she finished basting a couple of turkeys the size of Hondas. “I might have saved a piece, and maybe could spare a cup of coffee to go with it. If somebody asked me nicely.”

He walked over, kissed her cheek.

“That might work. Sit on down.”

He took a seat at the work counter where Lynn prepped hills and mountains of vegetables. “How’s it going, Lynn?”

“Not bad considering we keep losing cooks.” She shot him a smile with a twinkle out of rich brown eyes. “If you sit here long enough, we’ll put you to work.”

“Will work for pie. I heard about the trouble. I was hoping to talk to Rowan, but they tell me she’s on a picnic with the rookie from California.”

“Fast Feet,” Lynn confirmed. “He sweet-talked Marg into putting a hamper together.”

“Nobody sweet-talks me unless I like the talk.” Marg set a warmed piece of blueberry pie, with a scoop of ice cream gently melting over the golden crust, in front of Lucas.

“He’s got a way though,” Lynn commented.

“Nobody has their way with Rowan unless she likes the way.” Marg put a thick mug of coffee beside the pie.

“I don’t worry about her.” Lucas shrugged.

“Liar.”

He smiled up at Marg. “Much. What’s your take on this business with Dolly?”

“First, the girl can cook but she doesn’t have the brains, or the sense, of that bunch of broccoli Lynn’s prepping.” Marg waved a pot holder at him. “And don’t think I don’t know she tried getting her flirt on with you a time or two.”

“Oh, golly,” Lynn said as both she and Lucas blushed to the hairline.

“For God’s sake, Marg, she’s Rowan’s age.”

“That and good sense stopped you, but it didn’t stop her from trying.”

“Neither here nor there,” Lucas mumbled, and focused on his pie.

“You can thank me for warning her off before Rowan got wind and scalped her. Anyway, I’d’ve butted heads with L.B. about hiring her back, but we needed the help. The cook we hired on didn’t last through training.”

“Too much work, she said.” Lynn rolled her eyes as she filled an enormous pot with the mountain of potatoes she’d peeled and quartered.

“I was thinking about seeing if we could bump one of the girls we have who helps with prep sometimes, and with cleanup, to full-time cook. But then Dolly has the experience, and I know what she can do. And, well, she’s got a baby now.”

“Jim Brayner’s baby.” Lucas nodded as he ate pie. “Everybody needs a chance.”

“Yeah, and that bromide ended up getting Ro’s quarters splattered with pig blood. Nasty business, let me tell you.”

“That girl’s had it in for Ro since their school days, but this?” Lucas shook his head. “It’s just senseless.”