She'd been watching the Howlett men for over a month, and aside from an almost daily skirmish about driving privileges, there didn't seem to be an inordinate amount of tension between the father and the son.

  "Why wouldn't he hang around?" she asked.

  "Kansas exports." She turned her head to look at him. He went on. "It doesn't seem to matter that we always take first or second place in wheat production. Or that we raise enough beef every year to feed half the nation. Or that we produce over a hundred percent of our own energy needs within the state. Or that our aerospace industries—like Cessna, Beech, Learjet, Boeing—are comparatively small potatoes here even though most of this country's private and commuter airplanes are still built over in Wichita. What Kansas is best known for are her exports. Her children. We give birth to presidents and Rhodes scholars, and they scatter in the wind."

  "Can't keep the boys on the farm, huh?" she asked, turning to prop her bottom on the porch railing, hardly aware of the chill in her toes. The sound of his voice warmed her. His presence blocked from her mind such minor worldly details as frostbite and pneumonia.

  "Girls either," he said, flashing her a grin. "Matthew says that if the girls would stay, more of the boys would too. He's convinced that men living together in groups, in caves, was a woman's idea. And villages were invented so she could wander from one to the next, shopping for the prettiest pots and the brightest beads."

  She might have taken a gender-based affront to this theory if it wasn't so plausible. Instead, she laughed.

  It was a sound she'd almost forgotten. A sound Gil wouldn't soon forget.

  "Well, I'm certainly glad that he decided to stay on the farm. He could do some serious damage in the field of sociology," she said, looking away when she caught herself silently sharing something more than mild amusement with him, something as intimate as like-thinking or a basic understanding.

  "He'd paint a new picture for sure, but it would be better than you think. He loves women. He's completely indebted to them for the conception of fast food and microwaves."

  She chuckled. Growing thoughtful, she asked, "What will you do if Fletcher does want to leave? Has he talked about it yet?"

  "No. But then I didn't either. Not until I had my mind made up and it was too late for my folks to do anything about it," he said. "Of course, I hope he decides to stay, but if he feels he has to leave, I'll understand that too. Wheat and beef aren't the whole world. Farming isn't for everyone."

  "You left then. And came back?"

  He nodded. "It didn't work out."

  "Why? What happened?" He gave her a boy!-you-ask-a-lot-of-questions look and yet, was about to answer her when she stopped him. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business. Does Fletcher know what he wants to be yet?"

  He chuckled. "An Indy winner if his driving habits are any indication. But first he has to get his license."

  "Oh. He doesn't even have it yet, does he?" she asked, marveling further at Gil's patience with his son.

  "He has a permit but he won't be sixteen for a few more months. It's hard on him though. He's been driving trucks and tractors around here since he was ten or twelve."

  She nodded her understanding. "You have nice boys, Mr. Howlett."

  "Gil." He sighed. "Thanks. I do. I'm a lucky man."

  He was a lucky man—and she was glad he knew it.

  "What about you?" he asked. "What do you do back in Chicago?"

  What do doctors do when they can't doctor anymore? she wondered, not for the first time. What do you do when the smell of a hospital gives you a head-ache; when the sight of blood makes the room spin and turns your stomach upside down; when sick, hurting people terrify you? What are you then?

  "I'm a…" doctor, she was about to say. A physician, she tried again. Physician, heal thyself! The words echoed through her mind, growing louder and louder, rocking her like a rowboat in a sudden summer squall. "… secretary… in a doctor's office," she said, torn between the truth and exposing herself as a coward. "I'm not even too sure I'll be going back when I'm strong enough. I guess you could say I'm between jobs at the moment."

  He was thoughtful as he nodded his understanding. Medical secretaries must make boatloads of money. A seasoned Porsche in the garage. Renting an empty farmhouse indefinitely. Seemed to Gil, medical secretary was a pretty lucrative profession… or she had money coming in from elsewhere.

  "You're not married," he said, making his assumption on the obvious evidence. No husband. No ring. No stress in her voice at being unemployed—and clearly, a huge divorce settlement would keep the furrow of financial worries from her brow.

  "No."

  "Divorced."

  "Four years ago."

  He nodded, satisfied.

  "Happens to the best of us," he said, wondering if her ex-husband had been put through the wringer and hung out to dry as badly as he had. Poor guy.

  Suddenly, he wasn't feeling nearly as sympathetic or as friendly or as attracted to her as he had been a moment before.

  "Well, I guess I've kept you out here in the cold long enough," he said, getting to his feet. "Freezing you half to death wasn't what I had in mind when I offered my help."

  "Not at all," she said, amazed by the truth. "I'm not cold at all, and I… hadn't realized how lonely I was. I'm glad you stopped by."

  Lonely was something he knew. The thought of leaving her alone in the big old farmhouse pulled uncomfortably at his heart—but then his heart had been pulled and pricked and stabbed and broken by things that were a hell of a lot worse than loneliness.

  "Call if you need anything," he said, mostly because it was the Kansas way.

  "I will. Thanks." She watched him hurry down the steps.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her on his way back to the pasture. She was too thin, he decided, too all-by-herself, too much a woman in a weakened and vulnerable state.

  "Why'd you come here?" he asked, blurting out his question as suddenly as he turned to face her. "I know why this particular farm, but why Colby? Why'd you leave Chicago? Don't you have family? Or friends? Isn't there anyone to take care of you?"

  It was a fair question, one she was ready for anyway.

  "I don't need to be taken care of," she said, frank and undisturbed. "I need time to heal and regroup. Pull myself together again."

  Okay. That was reasonable.

  "Sounds like a good plan," he said, for lack of something better to say. "I wish you well with it."

  "Thanks. Good night."

  No more afternoon naps.

  It was a new, firm get-with-it rule she made as she wandered the house, restless and zombielike until nearly dawn.

  Clinical depression was a fact of life where she came from. Her patients got it. Her colleagues got it. Most everyone in Chicago had it during the winter. Even her mother was deeply down in the dumps on occasion. She knew the symptoms.

  For a while, being clinically depressed was okay. She deserved it. It was understandable. Doctors were people too. They bled and hurt and sank into the shadows of hell just like everyone else. Being human was a good thing. Really.

  Although, being human and knowing it; being able to predict and define it was… well, it took a lot of the gratification and enthusiasm out of it.

  Being able to attribute every ache and pain in your body to a specific muscle and cause was tedious and tiresome. Ascribing every self-derisive thought, every derogatory opinion of the world, every impulsive and bizarre act, every timely midday nap and every half-formed or feeble decision about your life to something as common as trauma-related depression was… Well hell, it sort of wet-blanketed the whole thing.

  It was dull and boring. Realizing that, Dorie thought perhaps it was time to forget about the past and get on with the future! Which was what for her? Good question.

  Her newfound resolution was still pretty much limited to staying out of bed during daylight hours and hadn't quite gotten to going home and returning to work.

  Falling into a pit of despair had been quick and effortless on her part. But you couldn't simply fall back out of a pit. You had to work your way out, climb, scale the walls. But first she had to get up and decide to try.

  "Dad! Look! It's the lady," Baxter exclaimed, pointing up to the window and waving furiously as they walked back to the truck from the barn that morning. Both Gil and Fletcher looked up.

  Fletcher smiled, but Gil was thoughtful.

  "Hi! Hi! I can see you!"

  Dorie, holding the old lace drapes wide open, smiled down at Baxter and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

  "Are you better now? Are you done being sick?" he called.

  She raised the window and bent to call back. "I'm getting better. Thanks to you and your pictures. Did you bring me mother one?"

  "No. I didn't have time. We had to go to Matthew's doctor after school yesterday. He has a hole in his stomach and his guts are stuck in it, and if he doesn't let Doc Beesley look at it, he won't be able to go to the bathroom," he said in one breath.

  "Oh my. Does he sometimes call that a hernia?" she asked. She hoped.

  "Yeah." Her acumen pleased him. "Do you have it too?"

  "Not yet," she said, thinking of all the heavy bodies she'd help shift from stretcher to stretcher and back again. "Hi, Fletcher."

  "Hey." He waved.

  She wanted to address Gil directly as well, but somehow it felt as if she would be singling him out.

  Absurd—possibly another manifestation of her disoriented id.

  "What do you fellas do out there every day?" she asked, motioning with her head toward the acres and acres of pasture behind the house.

  "Check the cows," Baxter said, like what else could they be doing?

  "Check'em for what?"

  "We make sure they have food and water and that they're all standin' up. If we see any layin' down, we go see why and sometimes we kick'em and mak'em stand up, so we know they ain't sick."

  "Aren't sick," his father corrected automatically.

  "Aren't sick."

  "And you have to do that twice a day?"

  "It's best," Baxter said like a wise old farmer. "Sometimes one gets sick and then they all get sick real fast."

  "I see. It's probably best to keep up on those things," she said, while he nodded. "Are you off to school now?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, have a nice day then."

  "I will. You have a nice one too," he said, waving and climbing into the big pickup truck.

  "Thanks." Then as his brother was about to follow him in, she made a point of adding, "You, too, Fletcher."

  He cast her a yeah-right glance over his shoulder and closed the door with a small smile on his face.

  Instinctively, her gaze met Gil's over the hood of the truck. Her heart was racing, and she had a giddy urge to giggle, much to her dismay.

  "Do you need anything?" he asked politely, his eyes as intense and discerning as ever.

  At that moment she felt very needy.

  "I was going to ask you the same thing. I'm going into town this morning. Can I bring you back anything?"

  "I can't think of anything. But thanks."

  "Can you recommend a good hairdresser?"

  "We go to Ed's Barber Shop," Baxter said, climbing over his brother to yell out the window. He was immediately elbowed back into his seat.

  Gil shrugged and grimaced helplessly. He wasn't really up on his hairdressers.

  "Try Trudy Holiday. She's good," Fletcher said casually, grinning and lifting both hands in the air when his father stared at him through the windshield.

  Dorie laughed. God bless the Howletts. They were getting to be more fun than watching old I Love Lucy reruns.

  There were exactly two beauty salons in the greater Colby area. Trudy's Palace of Beauty was one of them, and it was located in the woman's garage.

  "Good golly," Trudy said, turning Dorie's face from side to side. "It's a good thing I like to be creatively challenged now and again. Talk about your bad hair day!"

  This came from a big-haired blonde who probably had Made by Mattel stamped on her butt. Dorie gave her a closed-lip smile.

  "Well, don't you worry, honey. Your last beautician was clearly a maniac, but now you're sitting in my chair." She laughed and then began to snap her gum in earnest as she scrutinized the possibilities. Dorie's heart sank through the floor.

  "Maybe I should wait till it grows out a little more," she said nervously, touching the precious short growth at her temple.

  "No indeed-dee, honey," Trudy said, reaching blindly for her shears. "I am about to turn your life around."

  Around to what? She thought about making a run for it, but froze solid. Trudy cut hair like Edward Scissorhands. Hair flew. Great gobs of dark brown hair fell to the floor at their feet. Handful after handful of pampered long tresses were discarded and stepped on. Dorie closed her eyes.

  "So, what do you think, honey?" Trudy asked at last, turning her chair to face the mirror.

  From a one-eyed perspective, Dorie thought she might have been reborn. Trudy had sculptured her hair short and close to her face, feathering the top to the left to help conceal the shorter hair on that side. It made her eyes look huge, and highlighted cheekbones that would have made a model weep with envy, if only…

  "I have some wonderful concealer for those scars. No one will even know they're there."

  "I can't," Dorie said, half-dazed by the marvel in the mirror. "Ah, they're still too new. Infection."

  If she held her face just right, she couldn't see the scars anyway. She looked as she always had—only with a great new hairstyle. Why hadn't Carmella suggested short hair to her before the accident?

  "Look at this," Trudy said, pulling up her smock to show off her scar from a gallbladder surgery. "I had this done two years ago, and you can't hardly see it now. And yours are so thin. Not puckered or anything. You must have had one of those plastic surgeons working on you. Good golly, I get worse-looking marks than that just sleeping with my face on the bedspread."

  She turned her head to see her scars through Trudy's magic mirror. Unfortunately, they were still very red against her pale skin and very noticeable—but if she listened to the physician in her, she knew they wouldn't stay that way. They'd fade. They were so skillfully thin, they'd all but disappear.

  So would her other scars, she realized, pushing herself out of Trudy's enchanted chair. The superficial ones anyway. The invisible scars, where the lacerations were deeper and the bruises more tender, could take much longer to heal. They could, if she didn't correct and care for them now.

  "How much do people charge for miracles these days?" she asked, smiling at Trudy.

  "No charge." She held up both hands to stop any payment coming her way.

  "What? Why?"

  "It just wouldn't feel right. Collecting all that money and then charging you too."

  "Collecting what money?"

  "Oh, honey, you're going to get a kick out of this," Trudy predicted. "At the Farm Bureau meeting last week they were betting on who you'd go to see first, Doc Beesley or Denise Wayne over at the drugstore. Well, you know me. I had to get my two cents in on that one. So I told them that with you being a woman and all, the first person you'd go lookin' for would be a good hairstylist. Honey, I'm going to make enough off those silly old farmers to do your hair free until Christmas." She paused. "Is something wrong? You look a little funny, honey."

  "No. I'm fine. And congratulations," she said, shaking her head and chuckling despite her ailing pride. "Enjoy your winnings. You've earned them. But you have to let me leave you a tip," she said, placing a ten-dollar bill on the Formica worktable.

  Though not one head turned her way as she drove down Range Street, she knew everyone was looking at her. Passing farmhouses, she could all but feel the eyes that tracked her with binoculars. She scrunched lower into the soft leather seat of the car even though she knew the "being watched" sensation was all in her head. They didn't watch as much as they talked. From Trudy and any one of a dozen people who might have glanced briefly in her direction, the whole town would know how she'd spent her morning and what she looked like before lunch.

  And so, she wasn't the least bit surprised when she heard the Howletts' truck pull into the yard and the knock at the door shortly after that.

  "We came to see your new hair," Baxter stated the moment she opened the door.

  "You did, huh? Well… Hi," she said, amused.

  "Trudy said it was a must see," Fletcher said, his eyes twinkling as if they were sharing a private secret.

  "Then you must see it," she said, stepping out onto the porch, drawing her sweater closed against the nippy April wind. Gil was leaning against the rear of the truck, having given his permission to the boys but clearly declining on his own grounds to show any interest in her new hairdo. Unreasonably, it irritated the hell out of her.

  Turning slowly with her hands out at her sides, she asked the boys, "So what do you think?"

  "I think you're beee-uuutiful," Baxter said with feeling, while Fletcher simply nodded with uncommitted approval. She ruffled Baxter's red hair, satisfying a month-long yen and pleasing Baxter at the same time.

  Then she turned to Gil.

  "No comment?"

  She looked too happy and too beee-uuutiful for him to simply say he liked it. Or that he liked it a lot. Or that he didn't know how acutely a woman with big, bright, happy eyes and a radiant smile could affect him. This was one of those women situations that called for more than words, he decided, pushing himself away from the truck and stepping up onto the porch.

  He walked slowly around her, winking at his sons when she couldn't see. He considered her looks carefully, touched a fluffy curl close to her cheek. It was the first rime he'd seen her in the light without her dark glasses. Large golden-brown Gypsy eyes were fringed with thick dark lashes, smoldering with heat and humor, marking his soul as an easy target.

  Finally he stood nodding in front of her.

  She was undeniably excited. Her hands were trembling again, but not in fear. She could see the approval in his eyes; that he liked the way she looked very much. He was going to compliment her any second now, she braced herself and hoped she wouldn't blush much more than she already had.

 

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