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A Family at Last
Jacqueline Diamond
The Wait Might Just Be OverYears after a teenage prank ended badly and a young boy's testimony put his best friend in jail, Downhome, Tennessee, is still trying to heal the scars of the old scandal. Now the two are back in town–one trying to clear himself of murder, the other of betrayal–and long-buried feelings have been stirred.Karen Lowell is once again caught between the two men, with even more now at stake. Her brother's ongoing crusade to shift blame away from himself has already poisoned her past, and now it's tainting her dreams for the future.Because Karen yearns for a life that will include pediatrician Chris McRay, the man who is now–as he was so many years ago–her lover. A life where she and Chris will be a family at last.The choice is hers. Can she make it?



“You can’t prop him up forever.”
“I know that. I’m only asking you to wait a little longer. If Jeremiah really did kill Norbert Anglin, those fibers might prove it. Once Barry clears his record, he’ll have a second chance at the life he always wanted.”
“We have no guarantee it will work.” Chris wrapped his arms around his knees. “I want to fight for you because we belong together. But I have needs, too, Karen. I’ve been on a roller coaster ever since I got back to town. Please promise to marry me. We’ll work the rest out later.”
“I can’t,” she said miserably. “Not now.”
“I won’t force the issue tonight,” he conceded, “but neither am I willing to continue seeing you on the sly. If this business with the fibers doesn’t work out, you’re going to have to choose.”
“I know.”
Karen’s heart felt close to bursting. The prospect of betraying her brother went against her character, right down to her soul. Yet she couldn’t bear to lose Chris.
Somehow she had to find a way to say yes.
Dear Reader,
Although A Family at Last is the third book set in Downhome, Tennessee, it stands by itself. Readers of the previous two books will enjoy meeting old friends, but new readers won’t have any trouble jumping into the story.
This time, the town in need of doctors has landed pediatrician Chris McRay. Although nursing home director Karen Lowell once loved him, his testimony sent her brother, Barry, to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
In an attempt to clear his name, Barry has focused on Chris—even going so far as to accuse him of committing the murder himself. But Chris is determined to put those rumors to rest.
Karen doesn’t know whom to believe or where her loyalties lie. The tricky part is that as Chris fits back into the community, she discovers she’s falling in love with him all over again.
None of them has considered that even in a close-knit town like Downhome, the real killer might still be on the loose. They’re going to have to put aside their divided loyalties and work together if they want a happy ending.
Hope you enjoy their story! Please e-mail me at jdiamondfriends@aol.com and visit my Web site at www.jacquelinediamond.com.


A Family at Last
Jacqueline Diamond


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Books by Jacqueline Diamond
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
913—THE IMPROPERLY PREGNANT PRINCESS
962—DIAGNOSIS: EXPECTING BOSS’S BABY
971—PRESCRIPTION: MARRY HER IMMEDIATELY
978—PROGNOSIS: A BABY? MAYBE
1046—THE BABY’S BODYGUARD
1075—THE BABY SCHEME
1094—THE POLICE CHIEF'S LADY* (#litres_trial_promo)
1101—NINE-MONTH SURPRISE* (#litres_trial_promo)

Contents
Chapter One (#u55afcbed-02ae-5805-8a81-e2902238c50a)
Chapter Two (#u1405766c-5e52-569f-9365-ad92f9c6dcde)
Chapter Three (#u953d480b-355d-55f1-bf32-2d29c8a17a0c)
Chapter Four (#u84e60f6a-c250-5c6e-b010-b5758452588a)
Chapter Five (#ua3946e8b-7143-500d-9337-a5eaffcde73f)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One
Through the gathering dusk, Karen Lowell stared at the one-story brick pediatric clinic in the Green Hills area of Nashville, Tennessee. She had to summon the courage to march inside that building, even if it meant making a complete fool of herself.
She had to stop Dr. Chris McRay from ruining her life.
And her brother’s. And a lot of other people’s. Maybe even his own.
She opened her car door and stepped into a blustery February wind that buffeted her dark green coat. She should have come here months ago, she reflected as she hurried across the parking lot. She’d blamed work and family pressures, but in all honesty, cowardice had kept her away.
Chris had no business returning to his hometown, even if it did desperately need a pediatrician. Karen had opposed hiring him and now he’d set a date less than three weeks away for his arrival.
Before he made the move, someone had to change his mind. Karen couldn’t delay any longer.
She knew practicality wouldn’t sway Chris, who must have already weighed the reduction in income he’d receive by moving to Downhome. Instead, she had to hope he’d retained a shred of common decency.
It was a lot to ask of a man who’d lied on the witness stand. A man who’d sent her innocent brother to prison to cover up a crime he himself had committed.
A man who’d gotten away with murder.
Although her hands felt clammy, Karen refused to let nerves get the better of her. Murderer or not, Chris posed no immediate danger. In fact, to a casual observer, he no doubt appeared quite likable.
He’d been all smoothness and charm when he’d interviewed for the clinic job. As director of the town’s nursing home, Karen had served on the three-person physician search committee, which meant she’d had to sit there acting civil. Afterward, she’d voiced her opposition forcefully, but the other committee members had prevailed.
No wonder, considering how few applications they’d received. Chris was clearly the best qualified, on the surface. And few people in town wanted to confront the miscarriage of justice he’d perpetrated fifteen years earlier.
Karen stepped through the glass door into the inviting warmth. At this hour—a few minutes past five—no one occupied the front counter, which was festooned with red crepe paper and Valentine’s Day hearts. A waiting room opened on each side, one marked for well-child checkups and the other for ailing youngsters.
She hadn’t meant to arrive so late. However, her justification for taking a day off work and making the hour-and-a-half drive to Nashville had been to attend a continuing-education seminar at Vanderbilt University. The seminar had ended half an hour ago, and then she’d become mired in traffic on Hillsborough Road.
Childish laughter and a whiff of cinnamon issued from the waiting room to her right. Above the din, a man urged the youngsters to settle down. Despite the calm words, that voice sent chills through Karen.
Cautiously, she eased into the doorway. Through clusters of balloons, she spotted a group of enthusiastic toddlers and preschoolers gathered around a white-coated figure who sat on the carpet.
Even with his back to her, there was no mistaking Chris’s shaggy brown hair. Then his achingly familiar tenor launched into “The Wheels on the Bus.” With his right hand, he conducted the children in an impromptu chorus, while his left arm cradled an infant.
The children joined in with gusto. Instinctively, Karen hummed along until she realized what she was doing. Did the man’s good humor have to be so infectious?
Finishing the song, he turned and flashed a smile at some of the applauding mothers. The groove in his cheek stirred memories as sharp as glass.
Karen could almost smell the scents of her childhood: sultry wildflowers from summer fields where she used to tag along with her brother, Barry, and Chris, his best friend, as they explored; pungent rainy days in the attic, when they’d donned old clothes and Chris had led the playacting; the roses he’d helped her prune during their teen years, when she’d watched the boy grow into a man. She’d feared he would never notice her—but then he had. One magical night that she’d expected to cherish forever.
Instead, for many years, she’d regretted it with all her heart.
“Would y’all like some cider?” The question, close to Karen’s ear, startled her from her reverie. A young woman indicated a steaming Crock-Pot, the source of the cinnamon scent.
“Thanks.” Gratefully, Karen accepted a cup of the hot liquid. Glancing around, she realized all the mothers were quite young. “What’s going on?”
“We’re the Teen Mom Cooperative,” was the cheerful response. “Dr. Chris sponsors us.”
His application had listed the group as one of his volunteer activities, Karen recalled. “I’m surprised he wants to leave Nashville,” she blurted before considering that the other woman might not know of his plans.
However, her hostess appeared merely resigned. “He wants to spend more time with his crippled grandmother. We’ll miss him like crazy, but I think it’s sweet. That poor old lady deserves a little love.”
Karen suppressed a smile. Poor old lady indeed! Mae Anne McRay might live at the nursing home and have to get around in a wheelchair, but the eighty-one-year-old former school principal served on the town council and tutored students for their SAT tests. She also had a tongue tart enough to sour milk.
In the play area, Chris disentangled the children gently and arose. “I suppose you guys will be wanting a grand finale. Anybody know what a finale is?”
“They go flip-flop in the pool!” cried a little girl.
“That would be swim fins. Very close.” Receiving no further guesses, he explained, “A grand finale is a fancy way to end a show. Sometimes it involves fireworks, but that wouldn’t go over too well indoors.”
“Why not?” demanded a toddler.
“It’d start a fire,” returned a little girl.
“Poof!” Another youngster waved his hands to illustrate.
“So I thought we might—” Chris broke off as a trail of soap bubbles escaped from his sleeve. “What was that?”
Karen heard a few giggles. As more of the shimmering orbs appeared, the children began to shout with glee.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” The doctor pretended to grumble. “How did those get there?”
“You’re making them!” protested a boy.
More bubbles shot into the air, followed by a steady stream of them. Little hands batted them higher and higher. Only a few shy kids hung back, until Chris aimed some directly at them and then they, too, joined the fun.
Dancing around the room, the kids looked adorable. The nursing-home residents would love to watch this, Karen thought, wishing she had a video camera. Focused solely on the children, of course.
“I know what caused it!” the doctor declared solemnly. “I took a bath today. I guess I didn’t rinse off well enough, huh?” Laughter greeted this absurd statement.
Tears filled Karen’s eyes. How could this charismatic man be the cruel boy who’d fooled her, fooled Barry and, above all, fooled a jury?
Bringing the event to a crescendo, he whirled, releasing a torrent of glistening globes. All semblance of order vanished as the kids gave chase around the room.
As Chris spun, Karen fixed on his face—the dark eyes keenly alive, the full mouth quirking with merriment. The strength of his personality hit her.
She averted her eyes. Never, ever would she fall under his spell again.
As the hilarity faded, he clapped his hands for attention. “Your moms have a jar of bubble mix for each of you. But—” he waited until the gleeful response died down “—first, you have to fetch your coats and leave quietly. That’s the rule. Okay, everybody?”
“Okay, Dr. Chris!” little voices chorused. After hugs all around, the race was on to pull on outer garments and make a quick exit so they could claim their prizes.
Masterly, Karen reflected. The man had always had a gift for calculating his effect and arousing the desired response.
She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
The young moms and their children filtered out amid calls of “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and promises to see him before he left Nashville. Along the way, they collected plates of cookies and the Crock-Pot, and tossed disposable plates and cups into the trash receptacle. A tidy bunch, she thought with approval.
Karen felt Chris’s assessing gaze flick over her. He was clearly aware of her presence, although he made no sign of acknowledgment.
Finally, the outer door closed behind the last mother and child. Chris stood amid a jumble of balloons, his expression wary. A few leftover bubbles escaped one sleeve.
To break the silence, Karen asked, “How did you do that?”
He glanced down. “There’s a tube,” he said distractedly. “I ordered it on the Internet.” After an awkward pause: “Care to have a seat, or do you plan to challenge me to a duel? I’m afraid my sword arm’s rusty.”
“No duel.” Although her instincts urged her to stand and fight, Karen knew she would be wise to enlist the man’s cooperation, instead. Tucking her tweed skirt beneath her, she perched on a sofa. “Chris, the reason I’m here—”
He raised one hand to stop her. “First, are you speaking on behalf of someone else or on your own account?”
“Nobody put me up to it,” she assured him.
She had no idea how her brother would react if he learned she’d come here. He might find the gesture touching, or he might snarl that she should let him fight his own battles. Such anger was understandable, considering what he’d been through.
After a soul-searing stretch in prison for manslaughter, he’d struggled to complete a college degree and find work as a journalist, with only sporadic success. Then, nearly six years ago, their mother, Renée—publisher, editor and chief reporter for the Downhome Gazette since their father’s death—had suffered crippling injuries when a tractor hit her car.
Barry had returned to fill in for her at work and, when the permanence of her injuries became evident, he’d assumed the position full-time. While the town had more or less accepted him, he’d developed an obsession with clearing his name. And he’d never relinquished his dream of becoming a world-class international reporter.
“Well?” Chris interlaced his fingers.
“I’m sure you’re aware that I opposed hiring you,” she began.
“My grandmother keeps me current.”
“I don’t doubt that you’re a good doctor,” she added. “And I know you want to be close to Mae Anne…”
“But you still think I should have lied on the witness stand,” he finished, leaning forward intently.
She blinked, trying to figure out what he meant. “About what?”
“Don’t act coy. It doesn’t suit you.” Tension gave his voice a rough edge. “You wanted me to deny what I saw that night, and when I wouldn’t, you cut me off.”
How could he twist the situation so completely? Karen struggled to find the right words. “Maybe that’s what you’ve told yourself all these years. Maybe that’s what you’ve needed to believe.”
Anger burned in Chris’s gaze. “You and your family want to blame me for everything that went wrong. That’s unfair, although I’m willing to accept my share of the guilt.”
That was news to her. “You didn’t say so on the stand.”
“I never denied that I was at least half-responsible for the prank,” he answered grimly. “And it was my dispute in the first place. Do you think I don’t have sleepless nights over the fact that a man died and my best friend went to prison? But I’m not the one who—” He stopped abruptly. “This is futile. It’s just easier to make me out to be the villain because I wouldn’t get up on the witness stand and pretend I didn’t see your brother strike Norbert Anglin with a shovel.”
“Barry only hit him once, not three times like the police said,” Karen retorted. “You’re the one who sneaked back later. You’re the one who finished him off.”
“What?” He stared at her in disbelief. “What kind of nonsense is that?”
Barry says…The phrase died unspoken. Karen had heard her brother’s theories so often she’d almost forgotten how far they strayed from the account presented at the trial.
In the past few years, Barry had undertaken a personal investigation. After interviewing a couple of secondary witnesses, he’d pieced together an alternative scenario in which Chris must have struck the fatal blows after Barry had fled.
Karen hesitated. She wasn’t sure when she’d begun accepting her brother’s speculation as fact. How embarrassing to have relied on it, when she’d hoped to play the diplomat.
Chris forged ahead. “It just goes to prove what Mae Anne says—your family’s been blackening my name. That’s one of the reasons I decided to go back, so I could reestablish my reputation. But accusing me of murder? Give me a break, Karen. That’s a reach, even for you Lowells.”
“I apologize.” Although it irked her to utter those words, she had to focus on her goal. “I didn’t intend to make accusations.”
“You came to tell me to stay away from Downhome.” A trace of pain showed on Chris’s face. “Do you think I didn’t figure that out the minute I saw you?”
Although she wondered at his reaction, Karen focused on making her case. “You’ve built a reputation and a patient base in Nashville. And made a lot of friends, I’m sure. If you want to be closer to your grandmother, we can find other ways to arrange that.”
“I don’t want to ‘arrange’ anything. I love Mae Anne more than anyone else in the world.” The statement emerged ragged with emotion.
Karen found the remark odd, considering that Chris had a mother and sister living in Boston. Still, she understood how much he cared about the feisty old lady.
The truth was, Mae Anne and Karen had become friends, too. The whole nursing-home clientele was like family to her, in addition to her own mother’s decision to live there. The out-spoken Mrs. McRay had become such a favorite that Karen often accompanied her to council meetings and other activities.
They’d grown apart these past few months, ever since Chris had applied for an opening at the town clinic. Karen missed their closeness.
Doggedly, she resumed her argument. “I know you’ve made a habit of visiting on the weekends when I’m off duty.” Her mother had mentioned it several times. “There’s no reason to be so discreet. I’m happy for you to drop by whenever you like. I could also arrange for her to travel to Nashville more often.” Plenty of people would be happy to give the popular lady a ride on their business and shopping trips to the city.
Chris waved away the offer. “Thanks, but no. Besides, that isn’t the only issue.”
“You don’t need to clear your name,” Karen said desperately. “Nobody believes Barry.”
“You do,” he pointed out. “Now I gather he’s gone so far as to suggest I’m the killer. Apparently, my grandmother’s protestations haven’t been enough to safeguard my name.”
“Oh, yes, they have!” she insisted. “The other two search-committee members supported you, and the city council followed their recommendation. You can’t be uprooting your career because you care whether a few people listen to my brother’s grumbling!”
“Your brother runs the newspaper.”
“He’s printed nothing about this. Nothing!”
In the stillness, Karen found herself intensely conscious of Chris’s rapid breathing and the sheen of perspiration on his brow. She waited, hoping he’d rethink this cruel plan to impose his presence on her town.
“I have other reasons for why I choose to return.” All the light in the room seemed focused on his face. “I left a couple of things…unfinished, and I want to finish them. Frankly, I don’t know what I expect to happen or how long I’ll stay. At least a year—I owe the town that much for hiring me.”
She tried to muster an argument. No words came.
“I’m not going to hang my head or keep a low profile, either.” Chris picked up momentum as he went. “I didn’t do anything wrong, but some people I cared about turned against me. Believe me, I’ve paid for it in ways you can’t imagine. Well, I’m sorry if my presence inconveniences you and Barry, but you’re going to have to deal with it.”
Karen flushed with anger. How embarrassing that she’d nearly let this man win her over with a few parlor tricks and a smile. She’d been an idiot to expect him to cooperate.
“You’re sorry if you inconvenienced Barry by sending him to prison?” she repeated. “I wish you’d look a little harder at why those issues trouble you. Maybe it has something to do with a guilty conscience!”
Chris folded his arms. “I’m sorry you wasted your time driving to Nashville. If anything, you’ve only affirmed my decision.”
Karen gathered her purse and headed for the door. She wished she could utter some zinger—a grand finale of her own—if only to ease her sense of failure, but nothing sprang to mind.
All she managed to say was, “Don’t worry, I didn’t travel all this way for your sake. I had to attend a seminar.”
Out the door she went. It closed with a bang and a loud jangle, as if she’d childishly slammed it.
Cheeks flaming, Karen hurried to her car. Not only hadn’t she succeeded, but she’d given Chris ammunition to use against her family.
And she ached in a way she hadn’t in a long time. She recognized the feeling as grief for lost dreams and lost trust.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, she lifted her chin with resolve. Maybe Chris’s return wasn’t entirely a bad thing. At least it would force Karen to face her own unfinished business.
After so many years, she might finally free herself to love someone else.
CHRIS MOVED AROUND THE waiting room, picking up a dropped pacifier and a toddler’s shoe. After putting them on the counter to be reclaimed, he tied the balloon strings together to take for the children in his apartment building.
With her bright hazel eyes and fiery spirit, Karen still had the power to make his heart beat faster. And to infuriate him like no one else.
Years ago, she’d awakened something in him that refused to die, although she’d done her best to kill it. As had he.
When he saw her today, he’d been tempted to touch her soft, red-brown hair. But just when he’d hoped they could reach a new, mature understanding, she’d outraged him and given him a shock.
Chris hadn’t imagined the Lowells would stoop to claiming he’d slain Norbert Anglin. Couldn’t they see that he’d tried to protect Barry on the witness stand? He’d testified that his friend had acted in self-defense after Anglin attacked them with a pitchfork. They’d only been two foolish eighteen-year-olds releasing a few chickens, nothing that merited getting stabbed.
But a man had died, leaving his widow with a farm to run. No matter how much Barry had gone through, Mrs. Anglin had suffered more.
In his office, Chris replaced his white coat with a corduroy jacket. He toured the clinic, making sure the medicine cabinets and examining rooms were locked. Then he clicked off the lights, set the alarm and exited through the back.
Silhouetted between buildings, stark trees raised bare arms to the night sky. He inhaled the chill winter air, in an effort to calm his agitated spirit.
Chris’s thoughts shifted to Downhome. He hadn’t harbored any illusions about the possibility of resuming old friendships. He only wanted to make peace, for everyone’s sake.
Apparently, that wasn’t going to happen.
Much as it galled him to dig up old hurts, he had to make sure he left no doubt in anyone’s mind about the events of that night. Karen had forced his hand.
As soon as he got settled, he resolved, he was going to ask to review the old police reports. The new chief, Ethan Forrest, had served on the physician-search committee and seemed like a reasonable fellow. Once Chris had all the facts in hand, he’d be armed with proof against Barry’s wild accusations.
As he tucked the balloons into his trunk, the breeze tugged at them. Chris wedged them firmly inside and shut the lid with a snap.
He’d learned long ago to keep his life under tight control. Medical cases, personal finances, relationships—anything could spin into chaos if you didn’t pay attention.
Including the matter of Karen and Barry Lowell, Chris reflected as he got into the car. He needed to tie up those strands as well.
If Karen didn’t like the results, she had only her brother’s obsessive antagonism to blame.

Chapter Two
On a sunny Saturday at the beginning of March, Chris drove his packed car into Downhome. Along the highway, the verdant open countryside and the well-kept dairy farms had reminded him of how much he’d enjoyed growing up here.
On the outskirts of town, construction had begun on a housing development. Closer in, along Tulip Tree Avenue, the windows of redbrick shops displayed colorful spring merchandise. To see the town prospering pleased Chris. He still felt he belonged here, although his family had moved to Boston during his college years.
His parents had felt the repercussions of Norbert Anglin’s tragic death keenly, despite the fact that Chris had escaped prosecution. George McRay, Chris’s father, had once been Fred Lowell’s best friend, but after the trial, the two men had barely spoken to each other. Then, after Fred died of a heart attack that some people attributed to the stress of the case, the McRays decided to move.
Chris had never completely cut his ties, however, thanks to his grandmother. Unfortunately, she no longer owned her fondly remembered clapboard house with its wraparound porch. Chris hadn’t given much thought to a rental until a few weeks ago, when he’d had difficulty in finding a place. But most of the town’s few apartments were located in a run-down area, and he didn’t relish the idea of renting an entire house.
Then Mae Anne had made a tantalizing suggestion, and he’d jumped at it. What starving bachelor could resist a unit located over an Italian restaurant? Newly vacated when the proprietor had married and moved into his wife’s home, it was situated next to the town’s central park, and within easy walking distance of City Hall, the library and the Tulip Tree Nursing Home. And, it was only one block from the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic. Which meant Chris could roll out of bed, grab breakfast and stroll across the Green to work. He’d clinched the deal by phone and had signed the month-to-month lease by fax.
Now, reaching the town center, he drove between Rockwell Farm Supply on his left and, on the right, the Rockwell Emporium, which carried dry goods. Both belonged to pharmacist Archie Rockwell, Downhome’s mayor.
Past the emporium, Chris swung into the driveway of Pepe’s Italian Diner. The owner, Pepe Otero, an Argentine of Italian descent, had married Rosie O’Bannon, the proprietor of the beauty salon, shortly before she’d given birth to their daughter. Rosie already owned a fully furnished house; Pepe had moved in, leaving his stuff at his old flat.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, the lot behind the building offered plenty of empty spaces. However, following Pepe’s instructions, Chris took one of two marked Reserved.
After getting out, he skirted the building and went into the diner. Amid the scents of garlic and fresh-baked bread, he surveyed the colorful decor.
The main attraction besides the food was the new murals, which he’d heard about from Mae Anne. Where once the walls had displayed faded images of grapes and wine bottles, they now bristled with fanciful paintings of Pepe and his three grown children from his first marriage, picking grapes and stomping them for wine.
The wail of a baby drew Chris from his art gazing. “Oh, there you are, Doctor!” Pepe, a compact man with dark coloring, made his way between the tables, which were mostly unoccupied at this hour. “Welcome, welcome! Rosie wants to ask you about Maria Wilhelmina’s rash.”
“Sure.” Chris had grown used to being peppered with child-rearing questions wherever he went.
“Pepe! Don’t give him the wrong impression!” chided his bride, a black-haired woman in her late forties with a tiny baby tucked against her shoulder. “Chris, he didn’t rent to you to have a pediatrician on the premises.”
Rosie hadn’t changed much since his youth, Chris mused, although of course in those days he’d considered anyone over twenty to be old. And she was old to have given birth. Fortunately, all had gone well.
“Who says?” Her husband punctuated the question by snapping a dish towel. “I like having a doctor live upstairs.”
“Well, you got one,” said Chris, grinning. He turned to the baby. “What a cutie! May I?” Maria Wilhemina’s mother yielded her without hesitation. In his arms, the little girl stopped crying and regarded him with wide, dark eyes.
She had good color and appeared to be a healthy weight for a two-month-old. Since he wasn’t about to peel off her diaper in a restaurant, he asked a few questions about the rash. It didn’t sound serious.
“Change her more often and clean carefully. You can use a little petroleum jelly to protect against moisture,” he told the parents. “I’d like to see her at the clinic on Monday to make sure everything’s okay. So tell me, how did you choose the name?”
“Maria for my mother and Wilhelmina for William Rankin, our obstetrician,” Rosie responded. “Have you met him yet?”
“Yes. He seems terrific.” As part of his application process, Chris had been introduced to the other two physicians during a visit to the clinic.
“Play your cards right and we’ll name the next kid after you,” Pepe said.
“Another one? At my age?” According to Mae Anne, the baby had been a surprise. From her first marriage, Rosie also had a grown son, Mark O’Bannon, a lieutenant on the police force.
“Okay, maybe the first grandkid,” Pepe conceded.
Chris handed Maria back to her mother. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and your daughter at the clinic. Now I was hoping to collect my key.”
“Of course!” Pepe fished it from his pocket. “I hope the guests don’t make too much noise tonight. The Cornishes are throwing a party in the rear dining room.”
“Jeremiah’s celebrating his company’s expansion,” Rosie added. “They have a beautiful house but Amelia prefers to entertain here when it’s a large group. Lucky for the restaurant!”
Amelia was Norbert Anglin’s widow. About a year and a half after his death, she’d married Jeremiah Cornish, the well-to-do owner of Antiques Anew, one of the town’s largest employers. The factory made antique-style furniture and shipped it to stores around the country, and there was also a shop on the premises.
Chris made a mental note to avoid the restaurant this evening. He had no wish to cause Mrs. Cornish any distress.
“Noise doesn’t usually bother me,” he said. “I learned to sleep through almost anything during my internship.”
“I doubt they’ll get rowdy,” Rosie responded. “But of course we’ll have our usual Saturday-night crowd, as well.”
“Anyone who acts up, I’ll spray ’em with seltzer water,” Pepe joked.
“See you later!” Key in hand, Chris made his way outside and retrieved a couple of bags from his car.
A long staircase led up to the apartment. When Chris opened the door, he was pleased to find the place filled with light and comfortably decorated. Overstuffed sofa. Bookshelves. Posters of Buenos Aires, Venice and Florence. In the kitchen, a table for two, along with a full-size refrigerator and stove. He opened the cupboards to find that Pepe had left a few dishes and basic cookware. Perfect.
From the kitchen window, Chris had a splendid view of the Green. The dogwood trees budding into early-spring glory helped compensate for his one regret about living in an apartment: it didn’t allow for a garden.
The Lowells used to plant a big vegetable patch behind their two-story house on Heritage Avenue. He’d enjoyed digging in the soil, an activity his own parents had apparently never contemplated.
One year, Barry had conned Chris into helping put in a pumpkin patch with the goal of selling their produce. After battling an astounding array of bugs and plant diseases through the season, they’d discovered that the local farmers sold pumpkins much too cheaply for them to compete. Instead, they’d donated the crop to the elementary school for Halloween jack-o’-lanterns.
Chris hadn’t minded the financial disappointment. His main pleasure that summer had been wandering over to help Karen tend the rosebushes. Since then, any whiff of roses reminded him of the way her unruly chestnut hair had haloed her face in the sunlight.
She hadn’t looked so angelic last month when she’d marched into the waiting room. Unless you counted avenging angels, of course. Yet maturity had given her an instinctive sensuality that, he reflected with a pang, probably drew plenty of masculine attention.
Chris made additional trips to the car, lugging in books, bedding and his entertainment system. More boxes contained car seats, along with other baby and child equipment received unsolicited from manufacturers.
He rarely recommended purchases to his patients, as the makers no doubt hoped he would, but he appreciated having items to donate to young mothers. In Nashville, he’d shared stuff with the Teen Mom Cooperative, and he felt certain there’d be a need for it in Downhome.
After he finished unloading, he washed his hands and mulled over what to do next. He had no desire to waste what remained of the sunny day by unpacking. Also, although he’d grabbed a hamburger en route, it had worn off long ago. Good thing he lived over a restaurant.
Softly whistling a tune that reminded him of Italy, he went out. When he was back inside the restaurant, he discovered he was whistling the same song playing over the sound system, although he hadn’t been aware of hearing it upstairs.
At the counter, he ordered spaghetti with clam sauce. Pepe refused to let him pay. “You answered our questions about the baby,” the proprietor told him as he brought the plate. “You didn’t charge me and I won’t charge you!”
“There’s nothing seriously wrong with your daughter.” Chris doused the pasta with Parmesan.
“To a parent, everything is serious,” Pepe retorted.
“All right, I accept, with thanks. But just this once.” Chris preferred to pay his own way. He didn’t want to feel obligated to restrain his appetite to avoid bankrupting his landlord.
He was just finishing when a mild draft from the front door whispered across his neck. A slim, familiar figure in a white sweater and blue slacks hurried past him to the cash register.
Karen’s cheeks were pink from exertion. Specks of white glitter clung to the hair she’d tucked behind her ears.
Perfect timing, Chris mused. He’d landed in town a little over an hour ago and already they were bumping into each other. Either fate intended them to be together or the cosmos enjoyed provoking quarrels.
“I’m here to pick up some pastries,” she told the hostess, a young woman whose name tag read Nola. “One of our residents ordered them for our Winter Theme party.”
“I’ll go check.” Nola disappeared into the back.
Catching Karen’s eye, Chris gave her a friendly nod.
“Just get into town?” Judging by her conversational tone, she’d decided to try to get along with him, at least in public.
“Yup.” To keep the conversation going, he added, “Did I hear you say you’re having a party?”
“We’re in the middle of it!” She gestured in frustration. “I thought I had everything under control. Then Junior Ferguson—he’s our social butterfly—announces that he ordered pastries from Pepe’s and forgot to tell anyone. I decided the simplest thing was to trot over here and pick them up.”
Pleased that she was willing to chat with him, Chris pursued the subject. “What’s a Winter Theme party and why are you having one in March?”
“Some of our residents were sad that it barely snowed this year, so we’re making up for it. Also, it’s an excuse for games, crafts and refreshments,” was the frank response. “Folks get depressed and many lose their appetites as they age. I like to keep them active and tempt them to eat. However, I try to stick to healthier foods than—what on earth is that?”
Chris followed her gaze as Nola emerged from the kitchen, carrying a large rectangular box. Behind her, Pepe brought a second one.
“I’m glad you’re picking these up,” remarked the owner. “We need the space in the refrigerators.”
Karen’s mouth hung open for a few seconds before she found her voice. “What exactly are those?”
“Ice-cream sheet cakes.” Pepe set his burden on the counter. “Mr. Ferguson paid for them by credit card.”
“What’s in them?” Although Chris had felt full a few moments before, he always had room for dessert.
“Pistachio ice cream between layers of vanilla cake, with strawberry icing,” Pepe explained. “It’s my own invention.”
It sounded weird but delicious, Chris decided.
Karen regarded the large boxes in dismay. “I’ll have to go get my car.”
Seeing an opportunity, Chris jumped in. “Why bother? I can carry them.”
She appeared less than thrilled at the prospect of his company, but apparently, convenience won out. “Thanks. You probably planned to stop by and let your grandmother know you’d arrived anyway, right?”
“Exactly.” He’d intended to wait until evening, when Mae Anne was less likely to be busy, but a party sounded like fun.
It felt incredibly natural to walk out beside Karen, the top of her head barely reaching his chest as she held the door for him and the boxes. Chris shortened his stride to match hers as they strolled past the Green.
Tiny flowers showed here and there in the grass. “Planting a garden this year?” he asked.
“I always do.” Karen glanced toward him and immediately away.
“Tell me what you’re going to plant.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to hear about it,” Chris admitted. “Working in your family’s garden is one of my favorite memories.”
Startled, she stopped at the intersection of Tulip Tree Avenue and Home Boulevard. “I thought Barry had to nag you into helping.”
“I let him think so.” Chris decided not to mention how much he’d looked forward to working beside her. “What’ll it be? Tomatoes and zucchini and…?”
“That depends.” When the light turned green, they crossed toward City Hall. “I let the residents choose what to plant. I also invite anyone who’s interested to come help in the garden, although a hired man handles the heavy work. Marquis Lyons, my director of food services, does marvelous things with the produce.”
Chris was impressed. “What a great idea. I’m surprised Mae Anne never mentioned it.”
“She’s got other things on her mind,” Karen said. “Serving on the town council is practically a full-time job.”
Chris supposed so. On his visits with her, he’d heard quite a bit about the controversy regarding the construction of a shopping center, which, after months of hearings, had won approval the past December.
There’d also been some discussion of opening a satellite medical office to serve the new businesses and homes, she’d told him; when he’d inquired about the possibility of building a local hospital, she’d regretfully informed him there was none yet. The doctors would have to continue admitting their patients and delivering babies in Mill Valley, a dozen miles away.
On the far side of Home Boulevard, he and Karen reached the one-story white brick nursing home. After entering through a rear door, they followed a short hallway to the kitchen.
Staff members whisked away the cake, freeing them to repair to the recreation room. He admired the way silver and blue garlands and shimmering tablecloths carried out the wintry theme.
At one side, a group of seniors were holding a snowball competition, tossing foam balls into buckets. In the center, residents at a crafts table applied glitter to white mittens, while several women appeared to be crocheting small squares.
“We make comforters and mittens for any residents who need them. Old people tend to chill easily,” Karen explained. “If there are extras, we give them to the poor.” Catching a signal from one of the aides, she excused herself to go help.
A little apart from the bustle, Chris spotted his grandmother sitting in her wheelchair. While others played, he saw, she was reading what appeared to be some kind of report. Probably council business, he thought.
He sneaked up to plant a kiss on her cheek. Chuckling, she responded with a hug. “I saw you come in,” Mae Anne said. “Getting along better with Karen?”
“We’ve sort of struck a truce,” he admitted. “Besides, I figured if I helped carry the ice-cream cakes, I might get to eat some.”
“I’m delighted you’re here. I mean here to live, not just to visit.” After she questioned him about his apartment, they made plans to attend church together the following day. At last, regretfully, his grandmother rattled the report. “Afraid I’ve got work to do. Go make yourself useful.”
“Glad to,” Chris said.
Karen had vanished. He hoped the staff was going to set up for dessert, because he couldn’t wait to sample it.
In the meantime, Chris used his cell-phone camera to take pictures of the residents. From each, he requested the e-mail address of a friend or relative. “I’m sure they’ll enjoy seeing what you’re up to,” he told them.
Most supplied their own e-mail address, as well, which they could access from the half-dozen computers along one wall. “I’d like a copy of all the photos to put in a collage,” one woman requested.
“I’ll burn them onto a CD for you. And I’ll e-mail the other photos as soon as I get my computer set up at my apartment,” he promised.
In Nashville, Chris had learned from the teen moms that many had never sent out pictures of their children. After he’d assisted them in doing so, the gratifying result had been to help to bridge gaps. Several had reunited with their estranged families, and one girl, abandoned by the baby’s father, had received unexpected support from his parents.
As he tucked the cell phone into his pocket, Chris realized another woman in a wheelchair was watching him. When he started to take out the camera again, she waved it away politely.
With a start, he identified the thin, graying lady as Renée Lowell—Barry and Karen’s mother. He remembered her as a vital, active woman, but obviously the traffic accident had taken a cruel toll. Still, it hadn’t dimmed her alert expression.
As he was debating whether to approach her, a staffer began serving the cake. He decided to leave Mrs. Lowell to enjoy hers in peace. At least she hadn’t reacted angrily to his presence, which he took as a good sign.
As for what was going to happen when, inevitably, he ran across Barry, he tried not to worry about it. He had so many fond memories of their younger years that he held out hope of becoming friends again.
Now, he reflected ruefully, he’d be lucky if they didn’t come to blows.
HAD IT NOT BEEN FOR her mother’s accident, Karen might still be focused on a career handling the dry details of business administration. Even after returning to school to earn a master’s degree in public health and landing the job running the nursing home, she’d believed she was best suited to dealing with budgets and personnel matters.
Gradually, however, she’d discovered the satisfaction of getting close to older folks. Becoming directly involved in their care had enriched her life.
She wished everyone could recognize the beautiful souls beneath the wrinkled faces. Too often, however, visitors marched through the halls as if wearing blinders. Even worse were the people who abandoned their parents or grandparents altogether.
From time to time, Karen called a neglectful loved one to suggest a holiday visit. Often, she received a response such as, “I can’t bear to see her this way,” or “It’s too depressing.” Or sometimes false reassurances, such as, “Sure, just as soon as I find the time.”
This puzzled her, since the intermediate-care facility took only patients in comparatively good condition. Although many had physical handicaps, they were capable of dressing and feeding themselves with minimal help.
She’d expected Chris to be accepting, of course, given his closeness to Mae Anne and his experience as a physician. But Karen hadn’t expected the sight of him cheerily snapping pictures, talking to the residents and leaving them wreathed in smiles.
He was charming all the ladies in the room and most of the men. Even Chita Hernandez, the solemn nurse who anchored the weekend and evening shifts, ruffled his hair as he scooted past her with plates of cake. Karen hadn’t seen Chita so taken with anyone since…well, ever.
Avoiding him would be hard, considering that he lived and worked within a block of here and had hit it off with the residents. Firmly, Karen reminded herself of what lay beneath that pleasing surface.
He’d betrayed her at the deepest level, in a way she’d never discussed with anyone, not her mother and certainly not Barry. This captivating side of Chris was simply evidence of what a skilled manipulator he could be.
She had to make sure to keep that in mind. But given what she’d seen today, it wouldn’t be easy.

Chapter Three
“You mean nobody told you?” Dr. Jenni Forrest asked. “Don’t worry, it won’t be too bad—I hope.”
Chris nearly groaned out loud. His first day on the job had been busier than expected, and now, halfway through the day, he’d been handed a shocker.
The family practitioner, a forthright blonde to whom he’d taken an immediate liking, planned to leave next Saturday for a belated two-week honeymoon in Europe with her husband of six months, the police chief, Ethan Forrest. Estelle Fellows, the nurse practitioner, would cover nonurgent matters, while regular checkups had been postponed. In addition, a doctor in Mill Valley served as backup.
However, it would fall to Chris and, to a lesser extent, obstetrician Will Rankin to pick up the slack. One of the unusual requirements of working in Downhome was that specialists had to handle some general on-call duties. Chris didn’t mind, but neither had he expected to take over so many nonpediatric functions so soon—including consulting at the Tulip Tree Nursing Home.
“I generally drop by at least two afternoons a week to check on medications and make sure there are no unreported problems,” Jenni explained as they sipped coffee in the lunchroom. “Some of the old folks don’t like to complain, but it’s best to nip problems in the bud, as I’m sure you appreciate.”
“I don’t mind consulting. It’s just that, well, you can see what a zoo it’s been this morning. If this continues, I’m not sure how I’ll find time.”
“It’s not usually this busy,” Jenni assured him. “Mondays are always the worst.”
Maria Wilhelmina hadn’t been the only baby to visit the clinic first thing today. To the amazement of the staff, a line of parents and kids had been waiting outside the building when they’d arrived.
Most of the children weren’t sick. They needed well-child exams and vaccinations, which could easily be conducted in the coming days and weeks. However, most preferred to wait rather than return later.
One mother had told Chris while he examined her daughter’s ears, “I wanted her to get to know you before anything serious happens. Besides, I heard you might have to limit the number of patients you take, and we intend to make sure she’s one of them.”
“Who told you that?” Chris had no such policy. If the workload occasionally proved too heavy, he might have to ask Jenni to assist with routine cases, which she’d been handling before his arrival, anyway. But that would only be a temporary measure.
“Word gets around,” the woman responded.
“Please tell your friends it’s not true,” he’d requested. “I don’t plan to turn anyone away.”
He’d done his best to track down the rumor, asking the nurses and receptionist if they’d heard anything. Winifred Waters, the nurse who worked with Dr. Rankin, admitted she’d advised her daughter to bring in her two grandsons first thing, in case Chris became overbooked.
“I guess she told somebody and the story got bent out of shape,” Winifred said. “Sorry about that. But to make up for it, I’ll do double duty until you find a nurse of your own.”
“That would be great.” The offer more than compensated for any inconvenience the rumor had caused.
With her efficient help, he’d thinned out the crammed waiting room by lunchtime. The receptionist, Estelle’s daughter Patsy, had persuaded others to return that afternoon or the following day.
Just as Chris was finally finishing, Jenni had dropped this bombshell. He’d have to serve on call a couple of extra nights per week, treat additional young patients who might otherwise have continued to see the family practitioner, and trespass further onto Karen’s territory.
“I’m happy to help,” Chris told Jenni. “I feel a bit intimidated, though.”
“Trial by fire,” she sympathized. “It seems we all go through it in Downhome, one way or another. When I first arrived, I tangled with Ethan about a patient of mine. In fact, at one point he threatened to arrest me.”
“He can’t have been serious!” Especially since the police chief had fallen in love with her.
“Dead serious,” she assured him. “But we worked it out. As for Will, he turned the whole town upside down when he got Leah Morris pregnant. She’s due next month, by the way.”
“I saw them at church. She looks radiant.” He remembered Leah from high school as a rather shy girl. She’d blossomed, no doubt thanks in part to her recent marriage to Will. “I have to admit that consulting at the nursing home could be a challenge. I don’t have a lot of expertise at geriatrics.”
“You can always consult with my backup in Mill Valley, Dr. Connor Hardison,” Jenni replied. “The most important thing is to catch problems in the early stages. Prevention is important with old folks because of their lowered resistance.”
“As with babies,” he said. “But at least babies don’t tell me I’m too young to be a doctor.” He’d received that teasing comment a couple of times on Saturday. “I enjoyed my geriatrics rotation during my internship, so I won’t be completely at a loss.”
He just hoped his presence wouldn’t exacerbate matters with Karen. Despite their earlier camaraderie, she’d given him the cold shoulder in church yesterday. Chris supposed she didn’t want the whole town discussing how chummy the two of them had become.
He still hadn’t run into Barry. According to his grandmother, the newspaper editor never set foot in church except for weddings and funerals. During the trial, even before a verdict came in, the then-minister had attacked the two young men from the pulpit with such vehemence that both the Lowells and the McRays had walked out.
From the clinic hallway, Chris heard cheery greetings underscored by a masculine voice. Judging by the way Jenni brightened, it was no surprise when Ethan Forrest entered the lunchroom. Although he usually wore a business suit, his dark blue uniform indicated he must have gone out on patrol this morning.
A hearty, gregarious man, he greeted Chris with a handshake and words of welcome. Since they’d met several times before, it felt almost like a reunion.
“Eating?” he asked his wife as he slipped an arm around her. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Not until one o’clock.” She broke off to plant a kiss on his mouth. “Mmm. I don’t mind your being early, though.”
Wordlessly, he pointed to the wall clock, which indicated 12:55. Jenni regarded it in astonishment. “Oh, my gosh!” She checked her watch. “Must be a dead battery. It stopped an hour and a half ago.”
“How did you keep track of your appointments?”
“I don’t have to.” She beamed at her husband. “Yvonne does it for me.” Yvonne was her nurse, an efficient young woman with platinum hair. “I’ve got to finish some notes before we eat.”
“No problem. I’ll wait here.” Ethan’s fond gaze followed his wife out of the room. To Chris he said, “I pegged her as a blond bimbo the first time we met. Good thing Karen and Olivia Rockwell outvoted me.”
“I’m glad to hear I’m not the only doctor who wasn’t a unanimous choice.” From the refrigerator, Chris fetched a sandwich he’d bought at the diner that morning. “Sorry to eat in front of you, but I’m pressed for time.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Ethan took a chair facing him across one of the tables. “Actually, I wanted to alert you in case you have to treat my son, Nick, while we’re gone. He’s diabetic. My mother’s taking care of him and she’s familiar with his needs, but with a six-year-old, you never can tell what might happen.”
“I recall your mentioning him during the interview.” The boy had an insulin pump, which made shots unnecessary. However, it was important to pay attention to his blood-sugar levels. The automatic dose could cause problems if the boy neglected to eat regularly. “Can I see him in the clinic before you go? It might be a wise precaution.”
“You bet,” Ethan responded. “He’ll still visit his medical team in Nashville, but I’m delighted to have a pediatrician nearby. By the way, if there’s anything I can do to help you settle in, please ask.”
“Actually, there might be.” This seemed the perfect opening for a touchy subject. “I’m concerned about a rumor Barry Lowell may be spreading.”
“You mean his crackpot theory that you sneaked back and committed murder?” Ethan dismissed it with a snort. “He filled me in. Don’t worry. He has no evidence, and there’s zero danger of my reopening a fifteen-year-old case based on speculation.”
“Other folks might not be so objective.” Chris downed a bite of sandwich before adding, “I’d hate for it to harm the clinic.”
“I doubt that’ll happen,” Ethan said. “He mentioned this idea to me privately. I don’t think he’s broadcasting it.”
Chris wondered what sort of person Barry had become, other than attempting to sic the police on an old friend simply for testifying to the truth. Prison must have been a painful experience. He hoped it hadn’t warped the man entirely.
“How do you get along with him?” he asked Ethan. “I mean, he does edit the paper, so you must butt heads occasionally.”
The chief grinned. “He tries his best to drum up controversial stories about the police, and I withhold my press releases until five minutes before his deadline. We enjoy driving each other crazy.”
Chris appreciated the man’s sense of humor. “Sounds like you have an interesting relationship.”
“I don’t consider him a danger to the community.” Ethan’s expression sobered. “But if he threatens you, let me know. While I’m gone, Captain Ben Fellows will be in charge.” Ben, who also doubled as part-time pastor, was married to Estelle, the nurse practitioner. In such a small town, everyone seemed to be related to someone.
“I’ll do that.” The mere mention of danger chilled Chris’s mood. “Do you really think Barry will keep pushing this?”
“Frankly, I hope that once he gets over your arrival, he’ll decide to move on with his life,” the chief said.
“Me, too.” But the teenage Barry hadn’t envisioned himself stuck in a small town, editing his parents’ weekly, Chris knew. Perhaps, by trying to clear his own name, moving on with his life was exactly what Barry was trying to do.
A few minutes later, Ethan departed with his wife. As Chris reviewed their discussion, the idea of scouring police reports to confirm his innocence seemed unnecessary.
Maybe he should leave the whole business alone. As Ethan had said, once Barry adjusted to Chris’s presence in the community, he might decide it was time to quit raking over the past.
That would be a blessing for everyone.
BARRY SLAMMED A BOX of advertising flyers onto the front counter of the Gazette. It was Saturday, past the deadline for Tuesday’s paper, but he’d come in to handle some of the other publishing tasks that kept the business profitable. “It’s bad enough he’s wormed his way into the clinic. Does Mom have to take his side, too?”
“She didn’t take his side.” Karen had been fighting this battle with her brother ever since she’d brought Renée home for dinner last night. “She just wants you to be happy.”
“I realize that.” He glanced with embarrassment at the dent he’d put in a corner of the cardboard box. “I hate to see her upset. Chris’s return has made the whole situation worse.”
“I don’t think she’s upset.” Realizing how tense he’d become, Karen dropped the subject and went back to typing the Community Center schedule into the computer. The Gazette had needed a little extra typing, so she’d offered to do it.
Since they shared their family’s two-story house, the siblings frequently came to each other’s aid. Barry, who’d learned carpentry in prison, helped out around the nursing home and Karen assisted the paper not only with typing but also occasional bookkeeping. Plus, as the owner of a one-quarter interest in the business, she had a personal stake.
Their two-person family would feel more complete if their mother would move back in with them, but she preferred the Tulip Tree. Karen could see her point: she enjoyed twenty-four-hour nursing care, as well as a lot of friends, and, of course, her daughter’s proximity.
Usually, Renée avoided the subject of Barry’s quest. But at Friday night’s dinner, she’d spontaneously brought up the subject of Chris McRay.
“I always liked him,” she’d told Barry. “Neither of you boys intended to harm anyone that night, and events must have been confusing. While I agree with you that the whole story has yet to emerge, that doesn’t mean he was lying.”
Barry had had to struggle with himself to avoid an argument, Karen could see. Thank goodness Renée had dropped the subject.
Much as she loved her son, she didn’t fully understand how much he’d suffered. After prison, during his years of wandering, he hadn’t wanted to burden his widowed mother, so Karen had become the person he relied on. During long phone conversations, it was she to whom he’d spilled his despair and who had sometimes spent hours talking him out of the black moods that threatened to overwhelm him.
When Renée’s accident had brought him back to Downhome, Karen had watched him face down the skeptics and struggle to run the Gazette. Several times, when doors had been slammed in his face and subscriptions had been dropped, he’d nearly given up, but she wouldn’t let him. Eventually, the prejudice had eased, and the readers, eager for local news and drawn by his lively reporting, had returned.
But Barry still had his dark moments, his inner demons. Karen could never abandon him, because he needed her.
“I’ve got to deliver these flyers to Archie Rockwell.” He picked up the box. “How much more typing do you have?”
“I’m done.” Karen knew he wanted to lock up, and besides, she had finished. “I’ll go with you.”
“Great. Thanks for the help, by the way.” Barry cast her one of his rare smiles. Noting how it transformed him, she wished other people could see how handsome he looked. It was too bad that her brother’s brooding temperament and the prison-inflicted scar on his forehead frightened off the eligible women in town. Falling in love might be exactly what he needed.
On the other hand, love didn’t always work out, she reflected, and logged off the system.
They set out into the crisp March sunshine. The Gazette’s wood-sided office lay adjacent to the Green and across a cul-de-sac from the Café Montreal. Beneath a striped awning, customers enjoyed the outdoor eating, their voices creating a convivial hum.
“Maybe I’ll grab a bite on the way home,” Barry was saying, when he stopped cold.
With a sinking sensation, Karen saw why. In the playground ahead, Chris McRay whizzed down a slide with a gleeful toddler on his lap.
Hitting the bottom, he scooped up the child. “What a brave boy!”
“Again!” the tot demanded.
“No, me!” interjected another youngster.
“So much for the old saying about kids and dogs being good judges of character,” Barry muttered.
Apparently catching sight of them, Chris set down the little boy and brushed off his slacks, then assumed a watchful air.
Karen could feel her brother trying to decide between ignoring the interloper and confronting him. “Better to shake hands and get it over with,” she advised. “You two are bound to meet sooner or later.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge him,” Barry retorted.
For his own sake, Karen thought, he had to stop making a show of his resentment. “What are you going to do if you have to write a story that involves him?”
“That’s different. I always behave like a professional on the job.” He shifted the box. “You’re right, though. There’s no point in ducking him.”
“Good.” And just in time, for Chris was moving toward them.
“I don’t intend to leave him in any doubt about where we stand.”
“That isn’t what I meant!” Karen hoped they weren’t going to quarrel in public. Still, better here than at the nursing home. She’d hate for Renée and Mae Anne to witness an argument.
Nearing them, Chris opened his mouth to speak. Barry raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t bother.”
“Don’t bother to say hello?” Chris halted, apparently unaware that he had a twig stuck in his hair from playing with the children. Karen felt an irrational urge to pluck it out.
“If you think we can be friends, you’re wasting your time.” Bitterness coarsened Barry’s voice. “We’re not even acquaintances. Or anything.”
Chris regarded him steadily. “How can we not be anything? Strangers, enemies—we have to be something.”
“Why’d you decide to grace Downhome with your presence—so you could gloat?” Barry’s rage crackled across the intervening half-dozen feet. “You covered your crime pretty well, but you weren’t satisfied to get away with it, were you? No, you had to come rub my face in it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t commit a crime and you know it, or you ought to.”
Fists tightened at Barry’s side. “I’m going to nail you if it’s the last thing I do.”
Chris’s eyes narrowed at the ferocity of the response. “This idea about my killing Mr. Anglin is crazy.”
He probably didn’t realize that the implication of mental illness was a sore point with Barry because of his depression. For a moment, Karen feared her brother would lose what remained of his self-restraint. Suppose he physically attacked Chris and got arrested? With his felony record, he’d probably be sent back to prison.
Fortunately, Barry hadn’t entirely lost his judgment. “You always were good at playing to the crowd,” he retorted coldly. “Anybody’d think I’m the one who wronged you. Look at him, Karen. There’s a man who can deceive you so smoothly you won’t know you’ve been taken in until it’s too late.”
Yes, she’d seen that side of Chris. Yet there was nothing cold or calculating about the dismay on his face.
“You think you can prove I killed Norbert Anglin?” the young doctor asked skeptically.
“If I have to do it with my dying breath,” Barry answered, “yes.”
“For Karen’s sake, I hope that won’t be soon.” Chris shook his head. “My family left Downhome out of consideration for your folks, and I’ve stayed away for the same reason. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, because I know you didn’t mean to lash out as hard as you did. But as for the rest, you’re in denial and it’s time you got over it.”
“I’m glad we’ve got this out in the open,” Barry growled. “So we don’t have to pretend to get along. There’s nothing I hate worse than hypocrisy.”
With that, he renewed his grip on the flyers and departed so rapidly he left Karen behind. She stole a glance at Chris’s face.
Among the warring emotions, she saw sadness. If only she could offer some reassurance, but what was there to say?
Aware of the watchers at the café, she hurried after her brother. Everyone had better understand that Barry could count on his sister’s loyalty, one hundred percent.
“THESE DATE BACK TO before we computerized our records.” Lieutenant Mark O’Bannon dropped a stack of dog-eared reports on the interrogation-room table. “Good luck finding what you want.”
“I appreciate your letting me look through these.” With Ethan on his honeymoon, Chris hadn’t been certain what sort of response he might receive when he’d walked into the police station a few minutes ago.
Barry’s declaration of war had completely changed his mind about reviewing the facts of the case. He most definitely would; he needed all the ammunition he could get.
“Amy was happy to pull them.” Mark, a straightforward young man in his late twenties whom Chris remembered vaguely from their younger years, was engaged to Amy Arroyo, who doubled as both the chief’s secretary and as records clerk. He was also Rosie Otero’s son. “We’re glad to help Maria Wilhelmina’s doctor.”
Being the town’s pediatrician brought unexpected perks, Chris reflected. “I don’t mean to take advantage. But as I mentioned, Barry seems determined to smear my name. Frankly, I’ve forgotten most of the details of what happened, if I ever knew them.”
As a key witness, he’d been barred from the courtroom during much of the proceedings. The newspaper, at that time edited by Barry’s parents, had printed only the most basic information, and afterward, Chris had wanted to put the whole matter behind him, not to dwell on it.
“Knock yourself out,” Mark rejoined cheerfully and went about his duties.
Chris began plowing through the stack of paper. Face sheets, diagrams, the coroner’s report—most of it was new to him.
As he studied the pages, memories intervened. That summer before college, Chris had been working at the grocery store when one day, to his astonishment, farmer Norbert Anglin stalked in and accused him of flirting with his wife.
Although he’d exchanged a few pleasantries with Amelia as he’d bagged her groceries, that was the extent of their acquaintance. When Chris protested, Norbert called him a liar. Furious, Chris tried to defend himself, only to be shouted down.
The curmudgeonly storeowner, Beau Johnson, threatened to fire Chris for arguing with a customer. At Norbert’s insistence, the young man was forced to apologize in front of a store full of customers.
The injustice stung. Chris might have left it at that, but when Barry heard about it, he urged that they play a revenge prank on the farmer.
The boys sneaked onto the farm one night a week later to let chickens out of the coop. Suddenly, floodlights activated. As they scrambled to flee the barnyard, Anglin had born down on them with a pitchfork.
In retrospect, it was lucky he hadn’t gone for his shotgun, but he’d meant business with those tines. Barry had grabbed a shovel and fought back, whacking the man hard enough to send him reeling.
They’d bolted over a fence and ran for dear life. In the haste and confusion, they lost sight of each other. Chris waited in his car, parked out of sight, for ten or fifteen minutes before Barry showed up. Scraped and out of breath, he claimed to have run the wrong way in the darkness.
Heading home, they heard sirens. Later, horrified to learn the farmer had died of his injuries, Chris had gone to the police accompanied by his father, who was a lawyer, and told his story.
The county district attorney had charged Barry in the death. Determined to tell the truth, which he believed would exonerate his friend, Chris had testified that he’d seen only one blow connect and that Anglin had attacked first.
However, according to the coroner, three blows had landed. A couple of witnesses, neither of whom had a criminal record, had testified to seeing Barry sneaking back a short time later. The implication was that he’d decided to finish the job.
One witness was a homeless man, Lou Bates, whom a motorcycle accident had left with only one arm and a pronounced limp. He didn’t seem physically capable of launching such a vicious assault, nor did he have a motive. The other was a farmhand, a man named Hank Lincoln. He was returning to the bunkhouse from church when he claimed to have spotted Barry, wearing a blue shirt and moving in a suspicious manner. Hank had hurried to the main house to alert his boss.
Discovering that Norbert was out, he’d accompanied Mrs. Anglin to the coop, where they’d made the grisly discovery of her husband’s battered body. She’d testified that Hank showed no sign of dirt or disarray when he’d first arrived, and fellow choir members had confirmed his alibi, along with the time of his departure.
The case must have seemed open-and-shut. In addition to Chris’s testimony, the fingerprints found on the shovel’s handle had mostly belonged to Barry, with a few of Anglin’s and a couple of smudged partials from Hank, who’d used the implement as part of his duties.
Barry’s notoriously hot temper and history of getting into fistfights at school had fueled the D.A.’s portrait of him as a dangerous young man. The jury took only a few hours to return a manslaughter conviction.
Chris stared down at the reports. Despite the neat way the story fell together, aspects of it troubled him.
Although he hadn’t been able to find Barry immediately after they fled, at the time Chris had believed the two witnesses must have seen him wandering around, lost, not deliberately returning to the chicken coop. As for the three blows, he’d assumed Barry’s flailing had simply connected more times than he’d realized.
However, the coroner’s account made it clear that two powerful blows had struck the farmer as he lay on the ground, presumably dazed from the first impact. It looked as if someone had intentionally caved in the man’s head.
Barry had never been malicious. The possibility that Anglin might identify them wasn’t nearly enough motivation for him to commit such a brutal act.
Furthermore, the police had recovered several blue fibers that they’d never been able to trace. Since the evidence didn’t match Barry’s shirt or anything else found during their searches, they’d assumed the threads had come from a feedbag label or some other innocuous source. But had they?
Maybe Barry really hadn’t killed Norbert Anglin, even unintentionally. If someone else had landed those blows, it would explain why he was casting about for someone to blame.
His chest squeezing, Chris weighed the situation. Had the police made a mistake in clearing the other two men? Or had Hank seen someone else in a blue shirt hurrying through the night, someone who’d taken advantage of the situation?
Chris had returned to Downhome to lay old ghosts to rest, not to dig up skeletons. His better judgment warned him to leave the matter alone. Ethan had already decided the case didn’t merit reopening.
No one but the Lowells took Barry’s claims of innocence seriously. Until this point, neither had Chris. But if he’d unwittingly helped bring about a miscarriage of justice, he couldn’t let it go.

Chapter Four
In her office on Monday afternoon, Karen was reviewing the nursing home’s financial statement when she became aware of raised voices from the nearby dining room. She was prepared to leave the matter to her staff, when a small crash rocketed her into action.
Hurrying into the large room where a few residents lingered after lunch, she saw a knot of people in one corner. Jane Duke, an aide whose no-nonsense manner generally made short work of minor disputes, was kneeling and picking up the remains of a coffee mug. Eighty-four-year-old Davy Marshak, a retired mechanic with the disposition of a rhinoceros with a toothache, sat in his chair, glaring.
The other members of the group were Davy’s roommate, Junior Ferguson, and food-service director Marquis Lyons, the apparent target of the man’s ill humor.
As Karen entered, Marquis threw up his hands in frustration. “Everyone else says the chicken was tender. And the rice pudding—it’s what you asked for!”
“It had lumps in it!” Davy snapped.
“Rice pudding always has lumps,” Junior said mildly. “Give the man a break, Davy.”
“I don’t like the way he cooks.” His roommate folded his arms. “We need a new chef.”
“You need a new outlook!” Marquis declared. “Yours is so sour, no wonder nothing tastes good.” Few people managed to rile Marquis, but Davy had a gift for pushing people past their limits.
“I want a new chef!” the former mechanic demanded when he saw Karen.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “I’m happy with the one I have and so, at last count, is everyone else.” She had no hesitation on that point. The food specialist took pride in tempting his clients’ appetites.
“He’s a lousy cook!” Davy provoked. “I can’t eat this stuff.”
“I must make it clear that Mr. Lyons has my full and complete support. However, if your appetite is flagging, we can have food delivered for you.” Karen wanted to meet the residents’ needs, although she sensed there might be more at issue here than a problem with the food.
Something was troubling the elderly man. It might, sadly, be a simmering rage at the increasing frailty of his body. She’d seen that before, especially in men accustomed to leading independent lives.
Old age tended to intensify people’s personalities. Some gained in wisdom and became more sweet-natured, but Davy Marshak had grown progressively harder to please during his three years at the home. Thank goodness the easygoing Junior agreed to room with him, because no one else would.
Marquis nodded, mollified. “I’ll get back to work, then. If Mr. Marshak is finished throwing a temper tantrum.” He glanced meaningfully at the broken cup in Jane’s hands.
“I’m tired of sitting here,” Davy announced as soon as Marquis left. “Somebody help me up.”
Depositing the cup in a wastebasket, Jane went to assist. She managed not to make a face at his rudeness, which must have taken incredible self-control.
After he departed, still grumbling, Karen lingered in the dining room with Junior. As usual, he wore plaid pants and combed strands of long hair across his shiny pate. The widower, who’d lived alone in his farmhouse, had come here several years earlier after suffering a mild stroke. If he’d had relatives to stay with him, he could have continued living there.
She welcomed Junior’s company. The sociable fellow lifted the others’ spirits and often helped provide insight. “Any idea what’s bugging Mr. Marshak?”
He considered. “He’s turning eighty-five in two weeks and neither of his kids is planning anything special. Maybe he’s starting to realize his bad temper drove them away.”
Davy’s admitting papers listed him as divorced. His grown son and daughter visited occasionally but didn’t stay long.
“I could ask the counselor to talk to him.” She didn’t hold out much hope. The therapist had had no luck with Davy in the past.
Junior shook his head. “He won’t go for it.”
“We’ll have a celebration here, of course, but in the meantime, he isn’t eating properly.” While she’d long ago accepted, reluctantly, that she couldn’t solve all the residents’ problems, she had a responsibility to keep them as healthy as possible. “Maybe his medications are affecting his sense of taste. I’ll ask the doctor.”
Her companion patted her shoulder. “You’re a good mother hen.”
Karen gave him a hug. “I wish I had a magic wand to make everyone’s difficulties go away, but I can’t even fix my own.” Regretting the mention of personal concerns, she added, “I mean my mother’s health, of course.”
“That reminds me. I promised to play chess with her. She always wins, but I’m working on my strategy.” With a wink, Junior headed for the rec room.
Walking into the hall, Karen wondered why she’d blurted that remark. There was nothing wrong with her life.
Except, perhaps, for the fact that she was thirty-one and hadn’t had a real date in over a year. Meanwhile, her best friend Leah had married and expected a baby next month. Her new friend Jenni had struck a love match with Ethan almost as soon as she’d hit town.
Karen supposed she ought to put more energy into finding someone. It wouldn’t hurt to attend singles events in Mill Valley, and she’d heard of people finding spouses on the Internet.
Of course, she’d also heard of people finding ax murderers on the Internet.
Turning a corner, she stopped short to avoid colliding with Chris. He halted, his face warming until he caught her stern look.
She wondered why he’d worn his white coat from the clinic and wished it didn’t look so good against his lightly tanned skin. “Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to find the director of nursing. She doesn’t seem to be around.”
“That’s Bailey O’Connor. She has the flu.” Abruptly, Karen realized he must be making rounds in Jenni’s place. She’d expected a substitute from Mill Valley, not him. “She left a list on her desk of patients to see. Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”
“That’s what Jenni told me.”
“I guess she would know. Just a sec.” She nipped into the adjacent office and retrieved the list along with a stack of charts Bailey had prepared. “There’s nothing serious, or we’d have arranged for immediate treatment. Mostly adjustments to medications. I’m not sure how current you are about treating high blood pressure, high cholesterol and diabetes.”
“Diabetes is something I treat occasionally. High blood pressure and high cholesterol are rare.” Chris scanned the material. His quiet confidence inspired respect, although it still felt strange, viewing the boy she’d grown up with in the role of physician. “After I talk to the patients, I’ll phone Dr. Hardison in Mill Valley to discuss any changes.”
That sounded reasonable. Since Bailey had listed the appropriate room numbers, Karen supposed she could turn Chris loose to pay his calls. However, that was hardly fair to the residents.
“I’ll introduce you around,” she told him. “Even though people realize Jenni’s on her honeymoon, it might upset them to have a new doctor show up.” Less than half of the seventy occupants had met him at the winter party, and some of those suffered from mild memory loss.
“I can understand that.” He didn’t seem intimidated by the prospect of meeting a bunch of oldsters. Judging by the glint in his eye, he enjoyed the prospect. “I’ll do my best to loosen them up.”
“You aren’t going to blow bubbles through your sleeve, I hope,” Karen blurted.
“I thought I’d claim I’m here to give tango lessons,” Chris replied with a straight face.
She couldn’t keep from smiling. The guy had that effect on people, even her. “Who’s first?”
It was Mae Anne’s roommate, Fanny Granville, who’d been having circulation problems.
Since Fanny already knew Chris—as it turned out, she’d met him often enough to recognize him, despite her occasional forgetfulness—the meeting went well. So did the subsequent visits. His positive attitude and genuine liking for the elders encouraged them to talk freely.
They enjoyed his jokes, even the corny ones. “You folks are so young at heart, I can hardly tell you from my regular patients,” he teased one woman.
“That’s all right,” she replied merrily. “I’ve been telling my kids I’m entering my second childhood. Won’t they be amazed to find out I’m seeing a pediatrician!”
After finishing the list, Chris paused in the hallway beside Karen. “I’m having to dredge up a lot of knowledge I haven’t needed since my internship,” he admitted. “It’s fun in a way, but I’m going to recommend that the city contract with an outside physician to make these rounds the next time Jenni’s gone.”
Karen wasn’t sure she agreed. “Dr. Hardison isn’t always available. In the past we’ve had consultants who treated the symptoms but not the individuals. A big part of medicine is psychological, and the folks like you.”
His eyes widened. “That’s quite a compliment, especially from you.”
She hesitated, torn by a sense of disloyalty to Barry. “My residents come first,” she said at last.
“Whereas personally, you wish I’d drop off the face of the Earth,” he murmured.
“Something like that.” She didn’t mean to sound churlish, and was trying to decide whether to apologize, when she remembered that she’d meant to ask him about Davy. “Wait, we’ve got one more patient. He has eating problems and he’s uncooperative, to say the least. I suspect his medications might be affecting his appetite.”
Chris cleared his throat. “Saved the biggest challenge for last, eh?”
“You’re not kidding.”
They found Davy in the library, where Karen had amassed a collection of fiction and nonfiction titles. She also arranged rotating selections from the town library next door, since not all the residents were able to visit the facility in person.
The elderly man sat in an armchair, a large-print volume on his lap. He scowled at the sight of Chris’s white coat.
“Don’t need any dad-blamed doctors,” he announced. “Especially not some kindergartener.”
“Actually, I just finished elementary school.” The pediatrician glanced at the book. “What’re you reading?”
“Pornography.”
Chris nodded approvingly. “Large-print pornography. What a great idea.”
Davy snapped the book shut. “It’s about World War II. Ever heard of it?”
“Was that the war with Napoleon?” Chris asked. “Or the one where Teddy Roosevelt charged up San Juan Hill?”
Karen held her breath. If the grumpy fellow took the remark seriously, he’d never deign to discuss his medical problems.
However, he gave a bark of approval. “At least you’ve heard of San Juan Hill. Most of these youngsters, they don’t know what century we fought the Civil War in.”
Chris took a seat. “You’re a history buff?”
“People don’t expect that from a mechanic. They don’t think we can read anything more complicated than automotive manuals.” Davy regarded him cautiously. “Used to be, when a fellow graduated from high school, he knew plenty. Today, they give diplomas to gosh-darned illiterates.”
“And medical degrees to elementary students,” Chris added.
A guffaw escaped his patient. “What can I do for you, doc?”
“Tell me why you aren’t eating.”
Karen braced for a diatribe against Marquis’s menus. Instead, with unaccustomed mildness, Davy said, “My teeth hurt.”
“You need to see a dentist,” Chris replied promptly.
“Can’t stand dentists!”
“That’s why your teeth hurt,” came the calm admonition.
“We schedule regular checkups.” Karen searched her memory. “I don’t understand….” The truth hit her. “You always manage to get sick that day, don’t you? And put off rescheduling. Darn, I let you do an end run around me, didn’t I, Mr. Marshak?”
He cackled. “Got away with it, too.”
“Not anymore.” Chris regarded the man firmly. “Would you like me to come with you?”
“To the dentist?” Davy frowned. “You mean that?”
“Sure, if it would help.”
“I hate when they lay that chair back. Makes me feel helpless,” the old man admitted. “Nobody listens, either, not that I can talk with tools stuck in my mouth.”
To Karen, Chris said, “Let me know when you make the appointment. I’ll clear the time.” To Davy, he added, “No excuses. If you claim you’re sick, I’m coming to give you shots. And I’ll make sure they hurt more than the dentist’s drill.”
To her amazement, Davy burst into laughter. “You’re a smart-aleck. I like that,” he said. “I’ve got a son must be about your age. No, I guess he’s older. Well, okay, doc, I’ll go.”
Karen waited until they’d taken their leave and she’d escorted Chris out the side door onto the patio—empty on this breezy afternoon—to express her concern.
“I can’t believe you intend to keep that promise you made Davy. He certainly isn’t a regular patient of yours,” she said, warming to her subject. “You may think you’re doing him a favor to trick him into going to the dentist, but my staff will have to deal with his outrage when he finds out you didn’t mean it.”
Chris stood there blinking in the sunlight. “Why are you doing this?”
His baffled tone gave Karen pause. She’d expected him to defend his position. “Doing what?”
“Assuming the worst about me.” A pucker formed between his eyebrows. “I keep my promises.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to her. Because Chris had turned against his best friend, she’d figured he betrayed everyone’s trust.
“Karen,” Chris went on, “when I say something, I mean it.” At this angle, his body sheltered her from the wind. “Listen, there’s something else I need to discuss with you.”
She looked at him unexpectedly and got an uncomfortable feeling.
“It’s about Barry,” he said.
Karen bristled. “Believe me, I’ve heard plenty of criticism about his attitude, if that’s what you mean.”
“I said I wanted to discuss something that concerns him. That doesn’t mean I intend to criticize him.”
Once again, he had her at the disadvantage. Or rather, she’d put herself there by jumping to conclusions. “Sorry, I was wrong,” she conceded as graciously as she could. “Go on.”
A puff of wind pulled at his coat. “After I ran into you two at the park, I decided to go to the police department and read the original reports.”
“You had no business doing that!” His snooping annoyed Karen. “You know what happened.”
“As it turned out, I didn’t.”
Was he going to try to frame Barry all over again? Realizing she’d jumped the gun several times before, she bit back the accusation. “Why not? You were there.”
“I only knew what I personally observed. At the trial, the attorneys wouldn’t let me be in the courtroom except when I was on the stand—they didn’t want my testimony compromised,” Chris explained. “I figured Barry whacked Mr. Anglin a couple of extra times and didn’t realize it. Now I know that’s not the way it happened.”
“What did happen, in your opinion?” Karen stood riveted, unsure where this was leading. It had never occurred to her to study those reports herself.
“I saw Barry lash out once in self-defense. Whoever killed Norbert Anglin deliberately crushed his skull while he was lying on the ground helpless,” Chris said.
“And what do you make of that?” She heard a tremor in her voice. She wanted urgently to believe he was on their side, yet at the same time, she mistrusted him utterly.
“Someone else killed Mr. Anglin.”
He’d actually said it. Barry was innocent. But while her father had believed there was an opportunistic killer, the police had adamantly rejected the possibility. “Who? Any ideas?”
“Not really,” Chris conceded. “One thing’s for sure—I didn’t lie on the stand, Karen, and I don’t believe Barry did, either. I’m sorry he’s wasted so much time holding me to blame. I think it may have blinded him to other possibilities.”
Of course there’d been the two witnesses, but the police had ruled them out. Fifteen years ago, her family had been torn apart—her brother sent to prison, her father dying of a heart attack from the stress. In all this time, no one but the Lowells had ever doubted that justice had been served.
The last person in the world she’d expected to hear it from was Chris.
“Why didn’t you say something at the trial?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you insist another person must have done it?”
“As I said, I didn’t have the whole picture.” The breeze rattled the patio furniture. “Besides, I trusted the system. I figured the prosecutor and the cops knew what they were doing.”
A note of warning sounded in the back of her mind. Was he really in earnest? Or was he seeking to enlist her aid in silencing Barry’s accusations against him?
“What’s your next step?” Karen asked cautiously.
“We should work together,” Chris answered. “You, me and, I hope, Barry.”
She shivered at the idea of approaching her brother with this concept. “Tell the police. They won’t believe Barry, but they might listen to you.”
“I talked to Ben after I read the reports, but he insists on waiting until Ethan returns. He doesn’t see any urgency.”
“Do you?”
Chris ducked his head. “It kills me to think Barry went to prison on my testimony. Now the bitterness is destroying his life.”
“He has a right to be angry,” she declared. “Going to prison killed his dreams. I don’t know if he’ll ever have a shot at being a foreign correspondent.”
“Then let’s not waste any more time.” Chris jammed his hands into his pockets. “Let’s build a case so strong the police will have to accept it.”
“Barry won’t work with you.” The anger and blame ran too deep. “You’ll need to do this on your own.”
“I haven’t got a clue where to start.” He sounded disappointed. “Besides, there’s no use my duplicating research Barry’s already done. We’ll be much more effective together.”
Together, like the old days. A longing for what used to be wrapped around Karen like a blanket. To be friends with Chris again…allies…to wake up in the morning the way she once had, eager for the day to begin because she was almost certain to run into him.
But she could never again be that innocent girl, that teenager who’d given her heart away without a second thought. Not because she cared nothing for Chris but because she cared too much.
Useless to hope. Too much pain and suspicion separated them. Too much harsh experience. Too much loss.
Still, he was the first person outside her family to admit to the possibility of clearing Barry. Even though it might be a trick, she couldn’t dismiss it out of hand.
When the first drops of rain touched her face, Karen retreated into the doorway. “I’ll tell Barry what you suggest. It’s up to him.”
“I appreciate the effort.” He stood studying her as if unaware that he was getting wet.
“You never did have the sense to get out of the rain,” Karen managed to joke. “Go back to work, Chris.”
“Don’t let Barry boss you around,” he advised. “He may be your big brother but you can stand up to him. For his sake, please try.”
She ached to touch Chris’s cheek. To feel the heart beating beneath that coat. To slip her arms around him.
Not now. Not ever.
“I’ll do my best,” Karen promised, and went inside.

Chapter Five
“Usually, having twins means double your fun,” Leah Rankin told Chris as he peered into her stepdaughter’s ear. “Unfortunately, sometimes it means double your problems.”
“She’s definitely infected.” Six-year-old India’s ear showed the same degree of inflammation as her sister Diane’s. “It’s what we call acute otitis media.”
Chris had returned to the clinic from the nursing home, loping through an increasing downpour, to find the two little girls and their stepmother waiting for him. Although he’d scheduled no appointments this afternoon so he could spend as much time as necessary with the senior citizens, he’d dried himself off quickly and set to work. He was always happy to treat any youngster with an infection. That went double—literally and figuratively—for the children of Dr. Will Rankin.
Leah, a striking brunette, had brought the girls after school, where they attended her first-grade class. Although her baby, due in April, had grown so large that standing all day must have been quite uncomfortable, she glowed with health. She’d mentioned earlier that she’d be taking maternity leave from her teaching position beginning the following week.
“They need a course of penicillin, right?” Leah asked.
“Current guidelines discourage prescribing antibiotics in a situation like this.” As he distributed sugar-free suckers to the girls, Chris explained, “I know it used to be standard practice, but eighty percent of children get better without them. Overprescribing antibiotics may cause them to develop resistance.”
This time, it wasn’t the parent who objected but the child. “My ear hurts!” Diane declared. “I want medicine!”
He addressed her with the same respect he would show an adult. “Antibiotics won’t help the discomfort during the first twenty-four hours. I’m going to recommend acetaminophen—Tylenol. That should reduce the pain.”
“Me, too?” asked India.
“Absolutely.” He turned his attention to Leah. “If their symptoms don’t improve in three days, I’ll prescribe an antibiotic called amoxicillin. You’ve probably heard of it.”
“About a million times.” She wrinkled her nose. “Hey, I’m a teacher.”
First graders were among a pediatrician’s most frequent visitors. “You’ve probably picked up a few bugs from those kids yourself over the years,” he added sympathetically.
“I’ve had my share. Fortunately, this year I’ve stayed healthy.” She patted her bulge. “I’ve got to keep him safe.”
“Can we go see Daddy?” Diane queried.
“You can go talk to Nurse Waters and find out if he’s free,” their stepmother replied. “Remember to keep your voices down.”
“Okay!” The little girls pelted out.
Chris was about to help Leah to her feet, when it occurred to him she might as well wait until her stepdaughters finished their visit. “No hurry. Rest for a minute.”

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