"Hard night?" A statuesque brunette regarded Hannah sympathetically over a tube of carmine lipstick.

"My first contested docket. My throat is killing me, I can't keep anything down when I do eat, and I'm so tired I could curl up right here on this ugly, cold tile floor."

None of which this woman wanted or needed to know.

"Come here," the brunette said, twisting the lipstick closed and waggling her fingers. "I'm a registered nurse, or I was a lifetime ago. Say ah."

Something in the woman's brisk a.s.sumption of compliance was rea.s.suring, and Hannah obediently tilted her head and opened her mouth.

"My goodness," the lady said. "Nowadays, we're supposed to do a culture before we p.r.o.nounce sentence, but that is a larruping case of strep if I ever saw one."

"I can't have strep," Hannah said, thinking of Grace.

"It's making the rounds early this year." The lady tossed her lipstick into a Gucci bag, then grasped Hannah's wrist. "Come with me, there's a doctor in the house, and d.a.m.ned if he isn't toting his medical bag with him. What's your name, honey?"

"Hannah Stark. Where is your doctor friend?"

"Lucy Williams, and His Highness will still be in the courtroom, hatching up evil plots with the desiccated limb of Satan he's retained to represent him."

Lucy lead Hannah through the double doors of a courtroom smaller than the one Hannah had spent her morning in. A tall, academic-looking man got to his feet while Elvin Gregory remained seated at the counsel table, a newspaper spread before him. The room was deserted otherwise, the judge and staff having apparently gone to lunch.

"Lucille." The tall man clutched an old-fashioned black medical bag as if it were a protective talisman.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Doc," Lucy said. "I brought you a case of strep. This is Hannah Stark, and she has a four-alarm sore throat. You're a doctor, so do your almighty thing, and I'll leave you in peace."

This doctor, whoever he was, did not appreciate Lucy's presumption. Hannah wasn't too keen on it herself.

"I'm sorry if it's a bother, Doctor," Hannah began, backing away from the couple who were now glaring at each other. "It isn't really urgent, and I didn't realize I'd be imposing."

"Oh, sure, let her suffer," Lucy said, gaze locked on the doctor. "Hypocritical oath, not Hippocratic, as I've long suspected. You have about as much compa.s.sion as a snake wrapped around a mouse."

The doctor glared at Lucy for a long moment, then let out his breath slowly, like a tire going flat.

"Hannah? I am Dr. Williams, and I would be remiss not to offer a.s.sistance if you're truly unwell."

He reached for her hand, and Hannah instinctively pulled back before she realized what he was about: doctors took pulses. She let him take her wrist and measure her pulse against the sweep hand of his Rolex.

He should shoo her off to the urgent care, but Lucille stood, arms crossed, apparently challenging him in a manner that required this display.

"You're a little fast," he said. "Let's sit you down."

Hannah took a seat on one of the courtroom benches, and the next thing she knew, she had a thermometer in her mouth while Dr. Williams asked her about onset of symptoms. He listened to her breathe, and finally looked at her throat.

And winced.

"You are a weapon of biological warfare in your present condition," he said. "I can't be one hundred percent sure you have strep-and a secondary sinus infection on the way-but I'm certain enough that I want you to take these right now." He handed Hannah two oblong pills that looked about the right size for a very sick Clydesdale.

"You need to rest," he went on, pouring a cup of water from the pitcher on the table. "The antibiotics can't do anything to help with viral infections, and as crummy as you're feeling, you need to know that opportunistic viruses love to come gate-crashing on the heels of bacterial infections."

He got out a notepad and started scribbling. "If you don't ease up for the next few days, you are setting yourself up for viral pneumonia and G.o.d knows what else."

Hannah nodded, the room bouncing peculiarly as she did.

"There's a drugstore across the street from the courthouse," Dr. Williams said, tearing off three sheets from his notepad. "I want you to get these prescriptions filled right now, directly. Not after work, not tomorrow morning. They should give you some symptomatic relief by tonight. This time tomorrow, you won't be infectious, and your throat should be in much better shape."

"Thank you, Doctor," Hannah said, opening her purse. "What do I owe you?"

He considered a moment then patted her arm.

"You got my wife to speak to me for the first time in four months. We're even." He stood up, still wearing the same concerned, competent expression he'd worn as he'd examined her; then his gaze fell on Lucille, and his expression filled with...what? Dread? Reluctance?

While Hannah would have called Lucy's expression bittersweet.

"Thank you," Hannah said to Lucy. "Your doctor was a G.o.dsend."

"Yeah, I used to think so too." Lucy's tone was wistful, not the cutting lash she'd used to address him earlier.

"Hey, G.o.dsend," Lucy said, rising and coming toward them. "What say you and I go have a cup of coffee? There are some things my lawyer hasn't told your lawyer, and they are things you'll want to know."

Dr. Williams glanced at Gregory, who shrugged noncommittally.

The couple left the courtroom as Hannah zipped her purse shut and prepared to follow them. She got as far as the door before Trent Knightley came barreling in, nearly knocking her off her feet.

"What in the h.e.l.l happened to you?" He glared down at her, speaking through clenched teeth. "You take off for the ladies' room, and you don't come back. I send Margaret after you, thinking you've fainted from stage fright or hypoglycemia or G.o.d knows what, and no Hannah. You're not in the courtroom, the lunchroom, the bathroom. Nowhere. Then I see my client breezing past me with her embittered spouse in tow, and I find you're the only person in here. What gives, Hannah?"

He took her arm in a grip that Hannah broke with a jerk.

"I'm a weapon of biological warfare. You better hope I don't breathe on you, Trent Knightley, lest you come down with strep, a sinus infection, and viral pneumonia."

"I beg your pardon?" He didn't try to touch her again, but his gaze roved over her, and Hannah had the sense his daughter was never going to get away with anything, not one thing, not even as a distinguished honor roll high school student.

Hannah sat, felled by the realization that Trent was worried for her. The tightening around his mouth and the light in his eyes only looked angry.

"Lucy was good enough to have her husband examine me. I did not know she was your client, and if the two of them talking ruins your fun and games, I do abjectly apologize. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to follow Dr. Williams's kind advice and get all three of these scripts filled."

Trent stood beside her, hands on his hips, brow knit. "Did you tell Lucy to settle?"

Spare me from litigators. "For G.o.d's sake, I didn't even know she was a party to a case, much less your client, until you came flapping in here breathing fire. Ask Mr. Gregory, he was here for the entire exchange."

Trent glanced up sharply, seeming to notice Elvin's presence for the first time.

"Knightley." Gregory nodded at him from across the room, then went right back to his newspaper.

Trent dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "I'm sorry I barked at you. I was concerned."

Hannah said nothing as he lowered himself to the place beside her on the hard bench. He'd been not simply worried, he'd been frantic.

Which was puzzling.

"You want to sit with me at the counsel table this afternoon?" Trent asked.

Elvin Gregory snapped his newspaper closed and rose. He gave Trent a pointed look, then looked just as directly at Hannah.

"I have an errand to run over at the pharmacy while we're waiting for the judge to get back from lunch," he said. "Maybe Ms. Stark would let me take care of her business there too? I believe she has prescriptions to fill?" He gave the plural a lawyerly little emphasis.

"Thank you, Mr. Gregory," Hannah said. "That won't be necessary."

He looked from her to Trent. "Knightley, my little girl gets out of law school this spring, and I would hate to think any attorney who is himself the father of a little girl would ignore his employee's health just so she could watch him hash through one more d.a.m.ned domestic trial, especially when that same employee has come up to snuff overnight with the trash Matthews left on the child support docket."

With that, Gregory left the courtroom, giving Hannah a nod and sweeping past Trent without a glance.

"Likes his closing arguments, Elvin does," Trent said, sitting forward and propping his elbow on his knees. "I owe you an apology. How long have you been feeling bad?" He frowned at her over his shoulder, as if he could see her illness if he only peered at her hard enough.

Hannah often looked at Grace the same way.

"I was fine yesterday, just tired, but today-" Today she'd faced an enormous, writhing bucket of fears and insecurities. Princesses did that too, didn't they?

"Today you soldiered on because you had a docket to do, and I didn't even notice you were ailing. It's strep?"

"Unconfirmed, but both a doctor and a nurse p.r.o.nounced it so."

"Don't say it's n.o.body's fault."

"You're thinking James and Mac will beat you for overworking me," Hannah said, wanting to touch Trent's hair. But she was infectious, and they were in public. Still, the urge to touch him was almost irresistible. To be touched by him.

"I'm probably the one who got you sick," he said. "In addition to running you ragged, I fended off a cold a week ago that's probably found a better home in you."

"You're immune to strep?"

"I'm the father of a school-age child. We're made of Toledo steel. Here." Trent fished his keys from his pocket. "Take the car, hit the drugstore, go directly to the office, and then home, Hannah. Get into your favorite jammies and cuddle up with a book. I've got your files, and I can have somebody take me back when I'm done here."

"You're sure?"

That he'd trust her with his lovely car meant something; that he'd spring her for the afternoon meant a whole lot more.

"I am positive," he said, putting the back of his hand on her forehead. "I do believe you're running a fever, just to make my guilt complete."

"I don't feel fevered."

Trent's hand slipped to the side of Hannah's face, and it was all she could do not to lean into his palm.

"Scat," he said, drawing her to her feet. He kissed her forehead and stepped back. "I think I have a settlement conference to attend, and I have you to thank for that."

"I didn't say anything. Honest."

"He's been sober since they split, and he's done in-patient hospital-based rehab, which had to be hard for a doctor. He's in counseling and anger management, and he's cut his practice way back. I begged that woman to at least let him know she'd entertain an offer," Trent said, looking puzzled. Then he focused on Hannah again. "If you need Monday off, just call me. We'll manage."

"I won't need Monday off, and thank you."

He tossed her the keys, and she left after stashing most of her files in his briefcase.

The car was a pleasure just to sit in, much less drive. Hannah cranked up the seat heater, hit the CD player, and turned the Chopin just as high.

The car was wonderful; Trent's concern for her-once he realized she was ill-had been wonderful; having found free medical treatment right at the courthouse was more wonderful still, if a bit weird.

But Hannah's morning had been awful, and when she finally reached the safety of her office, she took fifteen minutes to stop crying. By then her throat hurt worse than ever.

"Mom?"

Hannah forced her eyes open, because she'd been shamelessly sleeping in for the second morning in a row. She rolled over to find Grace, still in her jammies, standing beside Hannah's bed, a favorite stuffed bear clutched by one worn paw.

"Good morning, sunshine. How long have you been up all by yourself?"

"I'm not all by myself. Wishes got up before me because he had to pee."

Hannah pushed away from her pillows, swung her feet over the side of the bed and into her slippers. Wishes wasn't the only one who had to pee.

"Did you and Wishes have breakfast?"

Grace bounced up onto the bed and scrambled into the place Hannah had vacated.

"Nice warm mommy-bed, huh, Wishes?" Grace dragged the covers over herself and her bear. "We had cereal, Mom, but Wishes ate most of mine."

"You are a rascal, Wishes Stark," Hannah said, shaking a finger at the bear. Two days on antibiotics and copious sleep had done wonders. She was creaky, but otherwise vastly improved from Friday morning. "What do you think of pancakes for breakfast today, though I'm not sure Wishes will have room for any."

"Probably not," Grace said, grinning. "When can I have a big bed like yours? Your bed is warmer than mine, and I could fit all my stuffed animals in a bed this big. I'd switch with you." She made that offer blinking earnestly at her mother.

"You will not charm me out of my bed," Hannah said, tousling her daughter's dark hair.

"Why do you do that to my hair? I don't do it to any of my stuffed animals, not even to Bronco."

"I do it because I think you're getting too grown-up for me to carry around everywhere, and because your pretty, silky hair is very handy-you were kind enough to put it on top of your head, after all-and because touching you is one way to say I love you."

Hannah stood and belted her old maroon velour bathrobe at her waist.

"Mrs. Bentley has hair on her lip," Grace said. "I didn't put my hair on my head, G.o.d did." She scooted down under the covers and sat her bear on the pillows. "G.o.d did something else too."

"He's a busy guy. What's He gotten up to now?"

"Look out the window," Grace said, eyes dancing. "I got a wish-can-true."

Hannah didn't bother correcting Grace's language-the term dated from Grace's early toddlerhood-but pulled the curtain aside.

"Oh, my gracious." Everything was blanketed in white, with more coming down in big, fluffy, this-means-business flakes. The fence posts across the lane sported six-inch caps of snow, and the trees were already heavily weighted too. "Perfect weather for making pancakes."

And thank G.o.d, Hannah had bought a tarp last week to put over the woodpile.