"I said you'd call her back as soon as you got home," Bruce added.

"Should I?" the girl asked Rachel excitedly.

"Definitely. Call her back right now," she suggested. "I was hoping to talk to your dad, anyway."

Jolene gave her a thumbs-up and scampered off to make the call.

"How about if we have a cup of coffee?" she said to Bruce. That would give her something to hold, something to do. He might not need a prop, but she did.

Bruce nodded, brushing the sawdust from his hands, and accompanied Rachel into the kitchen. He pulled out a chair at the table for her.

The room was a mess. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink and a box of crackers had toppled and spilled on the countertop. There was a saucepan on the stove with the remains of some canned stew he'd heated up. The empty can stood nearby, beside a carton of milk.

"I wasn't expecting company," Bruce said. He put the milk in the refrigerator and turned to face her, hands tucked inside the back pockets of his jeans. "I'll make coffee."

"Don't bother if it's any trouble," Rachel said.

"No trouble." He reached for the gla.s.s pot, filled it with water and then emptied out the grounds from that morning.

"I wanted to thank you again for coming to the sheriff's office the other night," she began.

"Rachel, listen, I was just happy you weren't hurt. It wasn't any heroic deed to drive you home, so you can stop thanking me. Why don't you get to the point?"

His abruptness took her aback.

She'd planned her little speech so carefully, but he was making this difficult. He stood as far away from her as his kitchen would allow, his hip pressed against the counter. "Actually," she said, dragging in a deep breath, "there are several things I want to say...."

"Such as?" He continued with the coffee, pouring water into the machine and adding fresh grounds. When he'd finished, he straddled the chair across from her.

This was better. At least they were eye to eye. "Nate and I-" She didn't get a chance to complete her sentence.

"So you've decided to marry him?" There was a distant look on his face, as if he'd already shut her out.

"No!"

"No?" he repeated.

"I won't be marrying Nate." If she was hoping for a reaction, Bruce seemed determined not to give her one. "In fact, I probably won't see him again."

The coffeemaker made a gurgling sound. Bruce leaped up and collected clean mugs from the dishwasher. "How do you take your coffee?"

Rachel was stunned he'd ask. After six years, he knew the answer to that as well as she did.

When she didn't respond, he answered his own question. "Black, right?"

She found his show of indifference more than insulting; she found it hurtful. They'd had coffee together countless times!

All at once she was on her feet. "This was a bad idea." Bruce didn't need to say another word for Rachel to know his feelings. He had what he wanted, all he wanted, and that was a surrogate mother for his daughter.

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Coming here was a mistake." She blamed Teri for this. Teri was the one who'd encouraged her to talk to Bruce. A lot of good that had done.

His eyes challenged her. "I don't understand what's going on."

"Nothing's going on, so don't worry about it." She grabbed her handbag. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Bruce. It won't happen again." Not waiting for a reply, she headed out the door. At least now she knew, Rachel thought bitterly. He didn't want her to marry Nate, but he didn't want her himself. What an idiot she'd been.

"Rachel! Rachel!" It was Jolene who stood in the front door, calling after her.

Not Bruce.

Rachel waved but didn't stop. Back home, she felt restless and irritated and angry and hurt. Nothing held her attention for long. Mostly she was furious, then she was weepy and then furious all over again.

She tried to read, but her thoughts wandered. Getting online, she answered a couple of e-mails but wasn't in the mood for that, either. And she sure didn't feel like calling any of her so-called friends.

Finally, she popped in her favorite DVD, The Princess Bride, and made microwave popcorn. Although she wasn't hungry, she ate it anyway. Afterward she felt bloated and even more annoyed with herself.

At ten, she took a bath, put on her flannel nightgown and her extra-thick housecoat and flopped back down in front of the television to finish watching her movie.

She was startled when the doorbell rang at almost eleven. Checking the peephole, she staggered away from the door.

Bruce.

Heaving in a huge breath, she unfastened the lock and partially opened the door. "Yes?"

Bruce held a cardboard tray with two paper cups. "I brought coffee," he said.

"It's a bit late for caffeine, don't you think?" she asked coldly.

"It's decaf."

"Oh." As if that was a good reason, she moved aside, and he stepped into the house.

"Yours is black, just the way you like it." Pulling it from the cardboard holder, he handed it to her.

Then he barged into the living room unasked, where he sat at one end of the sofa. She sat at the other, sipping her coffee.

She'd turned off the movie, and the silence between them seemed to reverberate. Since he'd been the one to arrive on her doorstep, Rachel figured he should speak first.

Eventually he did. "I apologize for whatever I said or did this evening."

She nodded. Sipped her coffee. He knew exactly what he'd done.

"Do you want to tell me why you got so angry?"

"No." After admitting she'd broken off her relationship with Nate, she'd hoped, she'd believed, he would declare his feelings. He hadn't, and now she understood why. If anything, he'd gone out of his way to show her how little she meant to him.

"If I said something to offend you, please let me know."

Her back ramrod-straight, Rachel stared at the wall across from her. "You didn't."

He looked uneasy, and there was another awkward moment of silence. "I guess I should leave, then." He got to his feet, placing his cup on the coffee table.

Still clutching hers, Rachel walked him to the front entrance.

"I miss being your friend," he told her.

She didn't acknowledge his remark. Friend. Surrogate mother. Occasional dinner companion. All fine things but not enough.

"Goodbye, Bruce," she said quietly and closed the door.

Thirty-Nine.

Martha Evans's heirs had completed their search and made an official report; several pieces of expensive jewelry had gone missing. They'd provided the sheriff's department with descriptions and Troy Davis had spent the morning gathering information. The first person he spoke to was Dave Flemming. The pastor had discovered the body and while he'd had opportunity, he certainly didn't have motive.

Troy liked Dave and had never considered him a suspect. Once again, Dave had answered his questions in a forthright manner and, in fact, had made a real effort to be helpful. Troy appreciated that.

His other big case currently was the one involving Bobby Polgar and the alleged kidnapping. That now seemed to be under control.

He was in a good mood, and the main reason was Faith. At the end of the day, he'd be seeing her again. They got together every week, either here or in Seattle. Tonight they were meeting halfway, at a restaurant in Tacoma.

He hadn't mentioned any of this to Megan yet. Yes, he was a coward. His daughter was having a hard time because of the miscarriage, and he wanted to give her a chance to heal, physically and emotionally, before he said anything about Faith. He wanted them to meet; Christmas would be perfect for that, he thought. Megan might not approve of a relationship so soon after Sandy's death, but once she got to know Faith, she'd come to love her.

Sitting back in his chair, he was reviewing the Evans case when one of the deputies knocked on his door.

"Your daughter's here, Sheriff."

This was a surprise. "By all means, let her in," Troy said.

When Megan stepped into his office he saw immediately that something was wrong. She looked pale and shaken, her cheeks streaked with tears.

Troy came around his desk to guide her toward a chair. "Megan, honey, what is it?"

She didn't seem capable of speaking. Holding a damp, wadded-up tissue to her face, she took deep, shuddering breaths.

"Is it Craig?"

She shook her head.

"The...miscarriage?"

The mere mention of that made her close her eyes and grimace with pain. "I...I went to the doctor this morning."

Fear shot through him. "Is everything all right?"

"No."

Troy needed to sit down himself.

"I should've thought of this. I've been so oblivious. You, too, Daddy."

"Oblivious to what?"

"Dr. Franklin wants me to have a test."

"What kind of test?"

She hiccuped a sob. "Daddy," she whispered, her voice cracking with pain and fear. "He wants me to be tested for MS."

The shock of it slammed through him. Not once had he considered this. Not once. Realizing his daughter might be at risk for the disease that had robbed Sandy of a normal life-it was almost too much to take in.

"Dr. Franklin explained that the cause is still unknown, but there might be a genetic factor. He...he said that women are more likely to get it and that statistically my chances are higher because Mom had it."

Troy could barely function, barely think. He'd seen firsthand what Sandy had endured. Every day had presented new challenges. Every month Sandy had lost more ground. And while she faced it all with a hopeful spirit, in the end the disease had claimed her life. The thought of his only child going through that was more than Troy could tolerate.

"How am I supposed to tell Craig this?" Megan asked, weeping openly now.

Troy couldn't answer her.

"Mom miscarried babies, too, didn't she?"

Still unable to find his voice, Troy nodded.

"I think I'd rather be dead than go through what Mom did," Megan said in a low voice.

"No!" Troy jumped to his feet. "Don't talk like that!" He wasn't easily frightened, but hearing Megan even suggest she'd rather be dead filled him with shock and fear.

His daughter's weeping grew louder, and Troy thought his heart would break.

"When will you be tested?" he asked.

"Next week. The doctor's scheduled an MRI, which he said is the most definitive means of making a diagnosis. He told me there's also a good chance I don't have it." She shredded the tissue in her hands. "But, Daddy, what if..."

Troy couldn't deal with this. He couldn't accept that Megan, his only child, might have the same disease as Sandy.

Megan tried again. "What if I do have MS?" She tensed as she spoke the words. "The minute Dr. Franklin said I should be tested, certain things started to add up in my mind."

"What things?" Megan had always had an active imagination, and she could have built all of this up, exaggerated symptoms. It made sense. She'd recently lost her mother and miscarried her first child. Little wonder she was distraught.

Megan went very quiet, as if formulating the best way to explain. "My eyes have been bothering me," she said.