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      HELEN R. MYERS

      is a collector of two- and four-legged strays, and lives deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas. She cites cello music and bonsai gardening as favorite relaxation pastimes, and still edits in her sleep—an accident, learned while writing her first book. A bestselling author of diverse themes and focus, she is a three-time RITA^® Award nominee, winning for Navarrone in 1993.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      “Marshall, we don’t have to do this today,” Genevieve Gale said the moment the dark-haired, gaunt-faced man exited the hospital and got into her silver Cadillac Escalade. “Under these circumstances, we can postpone for a week, more if necessary. The Carsons are proud to have you and Cynthia buying their house and they’re compassionate and understanding people. They feel terrible that you feel obligated to continue with the closing today.”

      “These circumstances” were that Marshall Trent Roark’s thirty-eight-year-old wife, Cynthia, had been admitted to the hospital here in Oak Point, Texas, two days ago, shortly after their drive up from Dallas. It would possibly be her last time at any medical facility, what with her battle with lung cancer almost over. Now her condition was compromised by pneumonia. It was the worst day possible to be holding a closing on a house.

      “Cyn insisted.” Adjusting his tan sports jacket that he wore over a white polo shirt and jeans, Marshall busied himself with fastening his seat belt. “And it’s not like I can do anything else. Hell, the doctors can’t do anything except try to keep her as comfortable as possible. At least I can get this done. She thinks if I’m settled in at the new house, she can stop worrying about me. Isn’t that a joke?” As he dropped his head back against the seat’s headrest, he uttered a soul-weary sigh.

      To Genevieve, he looked as if he hadn’t slept a solid three hours in months, perhaps years. Chances were that he hadn’t. Fresh from a shower, his black hair glistened as his determined movements made it fall over a high, but increasingly lined forehead that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with stress. His raw-boned face was freshly shaved, but there were dark shadows under his eyes and the corners of his sensual but compressed mouth seemed permanently turned down, a further sign of how tightly under control he was keeping himself. When they’d first met back in the spring, Genevieve had thought him physically striking, but a bit reticent, even aloof; however, she’d soon learned that wasn’t his character at all. She had quickly learned that he was simply a man overwhelmed by life’s turn of events, and was trying to cope as best as he could. It might be a beautiful August day at the northwest edge of Lake Starling, one of East Texas’s prettiest private lakes, but you couldn’t tell it by looking at him. Marshall looked strapped in for his millionth ride through purgatory, instead of what should have been one of the happier and exciting days of his and Cynthia’s lives.

      “Was it like this for you?” he asked after a prolonged silence.

      Genevieve’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as she dealt with the deeply personal question. She was often reluctant to discuss the loss of her husband with family or friends, first because it was all she had left of Adam and she protected that meager thing with almost rabid selfishness. Second because she hated what she saw on people’s faces the few times she did answer. Sharing such feelings with a client put her in a gray area, and Genevieve tried to steer clear of such terrain and the complications that could result without them meaning to. Yet this was lining up to be one of those exception-to-the-rule moments in a break-all-rules association.

      “Adam was a soldier and died overseas,” she said of her late husband. “I didn’t have to endure watching him slowly wither away before my eyes like you are with Cynthia.”

      That drew Marshall’s scrutiny. “At least we’ve had the chance—maybe too many chances—to say goodbye. You didn’t.”

      “No.” What she wouldn’t share was that Adam hadn’t even let her come to the airport to see him off. He’d said that if she was there, he might not have been able to make himself board the plane this time. “Besides,” he’d added, “I want to remember how you look lying here in our bed, naked and dreamy-eyed from me making love to you. Gen, I hope I’ve made you pregnant. Write me as soon as you know, okay?”

      Genevieve shook her head, needing to block that particular memory. It was way too intimate and precious to share even with a friend. And even though it was now almost four years and the raw pain of his loss had healed to a sensitive scar, the reality was that sometimes the simple act of breathing remained a trial for her.

      “I’m

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