LITMIR.BIZ

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and I had to break their hearts by telling them there has been no latest, even for me.”

      Leandra felt a quick knot in her stomach. Not even with Sarah had Leandra been able to share everything over the past several years.

      Not since Emi had died.

      How could she? Sarah—nobody—could ever understand just what Leandra had endured.

      Endured because of her own failings.

      “I’ll be there,” she promised. “After spending a day shooting with Evan and my crew, I’ll be more than ready to sit back and chill for a while.”

      “Well, I promise we won’t make it too late of a night.”

      Leandra smiled faintly. “There was a time when late nights didn’t stop us.”

      Sarah’s light blue eyes twinkled. “True. But right now, you look like you need about twenty hours of sleep, my friend. And those days when we could play all night have passed me by. Too old, I’m afraid.”

      “Old? Please. We’re only twenty-eight. I can still hold my own, even against Axel and Derek.”

      “I seriously doubt it. Particularly where Axel is concerned. I know he’s your little brother and Derek is mine, but even he has said that Axel can wear him out. And they’re the same age.” She glanced at the round clock on the wall. “Gotta run. Hope things go well today.”

      Leandra hadn’t even gotten her “thanks” out, before Sarah had hurried out the door.

      She exhaled, her gaze slipping around the confines of the kitchen. Currently, it was painted in muted green tones. There were pretty pale yellow canisters lined neatly on the counter, matched in color by the placemats on the table and the woven towel draped over the oven door latch. The only mishmash of anything was the collection of photographs sticking to the front of the off-white refrigerator door.

      She hadn’t looked closely at Sarah’s collection before. Hadn’t dared.

      She still didn’t really want to look but, for some reason, her feet inexorably closed the distance until she was standing only inches away. Her heart was in her throat. Nausea twisted at her insides. She felt hot and cold all at once as she looked.

      Her mind automatically dismissed the tiny snapshots that were distinctly school photographs. Sarah’s students, undoubtedly. And she really didn’t pay much attention to the assortment of milestones marked by someone’s trusty camera.

      But the more she looked, the more she’d convinced herself that she did not want to see that beautiful, perfect face, the more she realized that the one face that was not captured here was the one face Leandra most wanted to see.

      Her daughter’s. Emi.

      Eyes burning deep inside her head, Leandra turned away. She felt shaky and her stomach pitched even more turbulently.

      Sarah had removed Emi’s photographs.

      There was no doubt in Leandra’s mind that her cousin’s refrigerator door had once been graced with many pictures of Emi.

      Emi’s birth had marked the beginning of the family’s next generation. There had been dozens of pictures. Leandra had sent them herself. Taken them herself.

      Her heart ached and she bolted for the bathroom, overwhelmed by nausea. But even after, huddling on the cool tile floor with a washcloth pressed to her face, there was no peace for her.

      Coming home to Weaver, no matter how temporarily, was only making the pain inside her worse.

      When she heard the distinctive ring of her cell phone from the kitchen, she dragged herself off the floor. There was only one caller programmed into her cell phone with that particular ring tone.

      Beethoven’s Fifth.

      It had been Ted’s idea of a joke when he’d been messing around with Leandra’s latest cell phone to link the dramatic tune to their boss’s phone number. Leandra hadn’t had a chance to figure out how to change it. Given her propensity for losing cell phones at the rate of two or three per year, was it any wonder that she didn’t sit down with the programming guide every time?

      She made it to the kitchen and wearily pulled out one of the chairs as she flipped open her latest phone. “What’s up, Marian?”

      “Have you talked to that vet of yours yet about our problem?”

      A fresh pain crept between Leandra’s eyes. Only this pain, at least, was not one that tore her soul to shreds. “I don’t consider Evan’s love life our problem, Marian. That’s not the focus of WITS. Remember?” Her tone went a little dry. “We’re presenting his life as a veterinarian.”

      “Hon, if that were all we were doing, we’d call WITS a documentary. Not reality TV.”

      The only reason Marian wanted to call her show reality TV was because it sounded more contemporary. More appealing than a documentary series to her all-important demographic—women aged 24-35. The fact that Walk in the Shoes had been just that—a small, but relatively well-respected documentary series about people and the careers they chose—before Marian came on board over a year earlier was obviously unimportant to all but a few.

      And arguing the point had been getting Leandra absolutely nowhere. “I’ll see what I can find out.” She crossed her fingers beneath the table. Childish, perhaps, but the best she could do for her conscience.

      “Don’t just see, Leandra. Do. This guy you found may be eye candy, but sweets only go so far. I want spice!” Marian’s voice rose. “Either you find it for me, or I’ll find someone who will.” Marian let out a huge breath. “Now,” she said more reasonably and Leandra could picture her sitting there, smiling through her big white teeth. “Are we on the same page here?”

      Leandra grimaced. “I understand your page perfectly, Marian. Unless there’s something else, I need to get on with it. We’ll be taping again in a few hours.”

      “Fine. But don’t forget. Spice, Leandra, spice.”

      Leandra hung up her phone and shoved it in her purse. “Spice,” she muttered. No doubt the reason why Marian had sent Ted unannounced into Evan’s house that morning. A quest for spice.

      

      “Artificial insemination. Ought to look sexier than it is.”

      Leandra frowned at Ted. It was late afternoon and they’d been taping since midmorning. It was a toss-up who was more tired. Leandra and her crew set up on the outside of a small arena, or Evan and his, working with a showy black horse on the inside.

      “Breeding horses is not just a business. There’s an art to it.” She kept her voice low, not wanting to add any more disruption to the day’s already frustrating attempts. “And the insemination isn’t happening right now, anyway.”

      “No, they have to get that black horse to shoot his—”

      “Yes,” Leandra cut him off. She’d been listening to jokes about the semen collection process long enough.

      “Well, I guess you’d know all about it, growing up here.”

      Here was Clay Farm, the horse ranch that her father had founded when he and her mother had been newly married. “Mmm-hmm.” She kept finding herself more distracted by the action they were trying to film than by her duties behind the scene. More specifically, she was more distracted watching Evan.

      It was ridiculous, really. The man stood the same height as her own father, Jefferson, who was working alongside Evan. He wore similar clothing—dusty blue jeans and a T-shirt. His short black hair was slightly disheveled and there was definitely a hint of a five-o’clock shadow darkening his jaw—and it was only around two in the afternoon.

      What was it about the guy that was so intriguing?

      “Earth to Leandra.”

      She moistened her lips,

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