"You're too good to let fear stand in the way."

"Thank you for that." The melody from her guitar floated in the space between them. A love song. "But I'm okay with letting it go. My career was over before it started."

"I don't believe you." He placed his hard fingers across hers, stopping the music. "God doesn't take back His gifts, and your gift is music. Look at you. The guitar is as much as a part of you as your beautiful hair."

He thought her hair was pretty? "I gave up singing, not music."

"Do you want to perform again?" He pulled his hand away, but hers remained on the strings, the feel of him vibrating through her skin.

"I-" She opened her mouth to deny the desire, but the words wouldn't come. She didn't want to sing the way she'd done before but oh, if she could sing unfettered by fear. If the songbird in her soul could fly free of its captivity. "Maybe," she ended.

He pulled her right hand from the guitar and into his, turning it palm up where he traced the line from thumb to pinky. Then he found the fingertip calluses, made deep by the frequent rub against the strings, and stroked them over and over. A tiny, raspy sound whispered from his skin to hers. A shiver, pure and lovely, ran along her arm.

"Do you believe in prayer?" he murmured.

"Absolutely." Prayer had literally saved her life. "Why?"

"The Bible says God has not given us the spirit of fear. He can take away that stage fright."

"You pray for me, then," she said.

"Count on it."

The thought of Davis calling out her name to God was a balm to her bruised spirit. God would listen to a good man like Davis.

They sat in silence for a bit, the fire warming their backs and Davis's skin warming hers. She thought she should pull away but she couldn't. She'd always been weak.

After a few tender moments, he squeezed her fingers and turned her loose. "What about Tess? Did she stop singing too?"

"She still works the clubs." Some. When she's not too strung out to show up.

"You still write?"

He remembered that? "I tried selling some of my songs. No takers."

"Play one for me. You don't have to sing it. Just play."

"I don't mind singing at home." And even if she did, she'd play for him.

Her fingers coaxed a melody from the guitar, and this time she sang along, softly at first and then louder until the room filled with music.

"On wings of the wind, through the clouds and the rain, your love carries me, carries me."

She closed her eyes and let the music take her as it always could, letting the emotion flow. The words and the melody rose from somewhere deep inside, an underground cavern of diamonds and gold, hidden from the world but always there, rich and beautiful. Only when the music took her did she feel this way, as if she was elevated to another plane where nothing could hurt her.

She looked toward Davis. Was he feeling it too? Yes, she thought he was, and she was mesmerized by his expression. Rapt. Impressed. Entertained.

The pleasure of sharing her music thickened in her chest. She hadn't felt that buzz of connection in a long time and it was good. Really good.

As the song ended and her voice faded away, the lilting melody hummed in the cozy quiet for several seconds.

Davis shook his head back and forth in a slow pendulum. "Wow."

Self-consciousness rushed in. "Does that mean, wow, it was good or wow, you're glad it's over?"

"That means, wow, I'd like to have a copy."

"Really?" Complimented, she pulled a sheet from a folder on the hearth. "Take it. I have more."

With a near reverence she found both touching and amusing, he accepted the simple sheet music. "You know this is amazing, don't you? You're amazing. Talented, gifted, whatever word you want to use. Not that I know a thing about writing music, but that was beautiful. And your voice is stunning. I don't understand why you'd be afraid to share it."

"You haven't been to Music City. I'm not too impressive there."

"Must be a really tough business or else you didn't meet the right people."

"You have no idea. Definitely not for the weak." Which she had been. She set her guitar against the wall and stood.

Davis followed her up where he stretched his hands out toward the fireplace. He couldn't be cold but the heat was nice. She joined him, stretching out her hands as he had done.

He rolled his head her direction. "There's nothing weak about you, Lana."

"Oh, but I am. I was." She tossed her hair back, eyeing the ceiling with its fresh coat of paint. "That's why I'm here, in the house I swore I would never again lay eyes on. After I found Jesus, I had to make some changes for Sydney's sake as well as my own."

"Why did you hate this place so much?" He backed away from the fire, his cheeks rosy. "Why didn't you ever visit?"

She heard the accusation and knew he asked why she'd never visited her mother, why she'd missed the funeral attended only by an uncle and a few townspeople. She drew a deep breath and let it seep out, contemplating. What difference did it make if she told him?

"My family was about as dysfunctional as you can find. Or it seemed that way to me as a kid."

"I never knew that."

Why would he? They'd never hung out. "My dad kept up a good front but my mother was a nightmare. Looking back, I think she might have suffered from mental illness, but to a child, she was just plain mean. Tess and I stayed as far away from her as we could."

"Was she that bad?"

"Oh, yeah. That bad and worse. She did some things to us...." Her voice trailed off. "Mostly words but not always. She locked us in the cellar a couple of times overnight."

She tried to say it as if the abuse didn't matter, as if she wasn't bothered by her mother's cruelty but she knew she failed.

Davis, always Mr. Nice Guy, rubbed her back. She didn't read anything into it. He was a friend, offering comfort. "I'm sorry, Lana. Stuff like that shouldn't happen."

"We survived. It was just spooky and cold." She tossed her head and tried for bravado. "Gosh, I was mad at her."

So mad she hadn't gone home for three days. But mostly, she'd been heartsick that her own mother could hate her that much. And that her father could care so little that he'd leave and never even call. She'd found him once on the internet but hadn't made contact. What was the point?

"No wonder you didn't want to come back to this house."

"No, I didn't. That's for sure. But Sydney deserved more than I could give her on the road. At least here she has stability. This house may not be much, but it's ours." And Mama was gone. Lana felt guilty for being glad about that, but no matter how much she prayed, she was still glad.

"By next fall you won't recognize this place."

Which was exactly what she wanted. Wipe out all the ugly memories and replace them with Sydney's laughter and her music. Even now, the living room felt cozy and friendly in a way that it had never been when she was young.

"If the money holds out."

"What about Sydney's father? Doesn't he help with expenses?"

The words were cold water in the face. She'd known he would ask, sooner or later. She also knew he wouldn't like the answer, but for Sydney's safety, the partial truth was all she was willing to give. Even if it meant he would walk away and never look back. For his sake, that's exactly what he should do. He and his children needed a woman like blonde Tara or one of Jenny's church friends, not a has-been, former drunk singer with the reputation of an alley cat.

"That isn't possible."

"Why not?"

A beat passed. A log fell and shot sparks. Neither of them moved.

Lana cleared her throat. Confident she was doing the right thing, she said, "I have no idea who Sydney's father is."

Davis lay awake a long time after he left Lana's house. Thoughts shot through his head like fiery arrows, sharp and burning. Tonight Lana had opened up to him as never before and he wasn't sure what to do with the information.

Her childhood had been horrible. He couldn't imagine a parent locking her child in the cellar, and he didn't doubt Patricia Ross had been abusive in other ways.

Despite her confession about Sydney's parentage, he was still attracted to her. He'd wanted to be with her, to kiss her, as badly afterward as before. Maybe more. Her strange mix of invincible warrior and vulnerability had touched him. She seemed so bravely alone, as if she expected him to pass judgment and kick her out.

Was the woman intentionally trying to push him away? Was that it?

He tossed onto his side, pummeled his pillow. She liked him. At least, he thought she did. Or was she using him, as Jenny had suggested, as a means to get her house remodeled?

No, that wasn't Lana. She'd never asked him for anything. Not once. He'd offered. She was the workaholic, stripping wood and scrubbing floors at all hours of the day and night.

No one had asked her to be kind to his kids either. She'd fluffed Paige's too-short hair for church, obviously feeling sorry for his little girl and her inept dad. Paige had been so proud of the curls and bows she'd pranced around like a princess.

A couple of nights ago, Lana sat on her couch next to Nathan and read the same story four times in a row. And time after time, she'd tolerated three children tearing wildly through her house or perching at her table for PB and J sandwiches. No, she wasn't trying to take advantage of his neighborly kindness.

The more he knew about Lana Ross, the less he understood. She was a contradiction, a mystery. A beautiful, gifted, complicated mystery. He was both muddled and mesmerized.

He recalled the power and beauty of her voice, and he wanted to hear it again. Just a hum from that smoky throat captivated him. So what had happened in Nashville to bring on stage fright so bad that she couldn't get on stage? She'd sung for him. Why not on a stage? She was twice the singer Tess was and yet, Tess was still in Nashville while she was here, writing articles for the Gazette.

The song she'd shared lingered in his mind even now. She should do something with it. Not that he knew anything about the music world. The lyrics and melody were a hauntingly beautiful combination, better than anything he'd heard on the radio in a while. Why hadn't it been published? Had she tried? Or was this one something new?

He flopped onto his back and stared up at the faint shadows on his ceiling. The house felt lonely. He was lonely. For more than his children.

Tossing the covers back, he padded to the window and pushed the curtains to one side. Curtains Cheryl had ordered from J.C. Penney years ago. Not unusual for him to think about those days when he and Lana had talked about Cheryl tonight. Another thing he liked about Lana Ross.

Fumbling in the dark, he found the lamp and snapped it on. Cheryl's photo sat on the bedside table where he'd placed it the day after she died.

"Hi," he said, as he'd done dozens of times over the years. Her brown eyes twinkled in response. At least in his imagination. "What am I doing up at this hour? Good question. You see, there's this neighbor. Yeah, a woman. Lana. What do you think about her? Should I run for the hills?" He chuckled quietly. "Oh, right, we live in the hills."

He studied the simple face of his first love, the crooked smile that they'd never had the money to get straightened, the sweeping length of brown hair he'd loved to touch.

That, of course, brought him back to Lana. Lana, of the brown hair.

Carrying the silver frame, he returned his gaze to the window and beyond. From this spot, he could see the old house down the street and across the way. Lana's light remained on. Probably working on her article for the Gazette. Or was she, like him, too restless to sleep? Too bothered by feelings neither of them seemed to want?

His breath fogged the cold pane. He placed his late wife's photo back on the table.

"I like her, Cheryl," he said, admitting the truth to the emptiness, but mostly to himself. "I'm not sure that's smart. She's carrying a lot of baggage, but there's something special about her, too. A lot special. She's a good person, a Christian, but she wasn't always. I know, I know." He puffed out a gusty breath. "It's the kids. I have to be sure. I have to do what's best for our kids."

Davis rubbed a hand down his T-shirt, kissed his fingertips and touched them to the photo.

Then he snapped off the light and climbed back into bed, no closer to answers than he'd been before.

Chapter Ten.

Thanksgiving Day arrived cold and rainy, the skies weeping down the windowpanes of the Ross house. A blustery wind whipped the barren crepe myrtle trees against the needed-to-be-replaced siding.

Inside the house all was snug while the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade boomed from a nineteen-inch TV Lana had found at a garage sale. A vigorous marching band pounded out a cheerful, familiar rhythm. Surrounded by autumn color, a pair of talking heads blabbed over the music. Bundled against the cold, their breaths puffed white fog.

Lana stood over the gas range where warm moisture from boiling potatoes dampened her face. Sydney chopped lettuce for a salad. The ancient oven hadn't worked since Lana was fourteen, so she'd bought a precooked rotisserie chicken from the IGA for their main course. A turkey was too much for the two of them anyway.

Cooking wasn't Lana's game but as with her newspaper job, she could read and she could learn. Sydney learned along with her, probably more natural in the kitchen than Lana would ever be. Store-bought chicken, canned gravy, packaged stuffing was as close as she could come to a traditional meal. At least she and Sydney were together.

Times like these she wished for a big, noisy family, especially for her niece. A mother who baked for days and a sister with the perfect recipe for sweet potato casserole and pecan pie. A dad to carve the turkey and maybe a few brothers to horse around and yell at televised football games. Sydney deserved better than one single aunt and an AWOL mother she barely knew.

"Can I smash the potatoes?" Sydney asked. She'd pulled her fuzzy hair into a ponytail and tied it with a purple ribbon, a match for her purple monkey sweatshirt. Loose beige curls corkscrewed along her hairline.

"Smash 'em, mash 'em, stomp 'em. Whatever works."

Sydney's aqua eyes laughed before her mouth did. Lana smacked a kiss on her forehead, then handed her Mama's metal potato masher, tossed some butter in the bowl and let Sydney pound away while she put the food on the table.

Today was the day they started their own holiday customs, something Sydney hadn't had heretofore. Lana had shared family traditions once, and the memories were some of her happiest. Daddy had made a fuss over the fine brown bird, which had made Mama smile. Usually by day's end, Mama found something to be angry about but the meal was usually peaceful, thanks to her father.

She wanted that for Sydney. Good memories, good times to block out the bad.

"Here you go, Miss Ross," she said, pulling the chair out for Sydney. "Please be seated for this luscious, marvelous Thanksgiving feast."

"Just like the Pilgrims," Sydney said as she minced into the seat like a pampered princess. "But who's going to hold your chair?"

Lana winked. "Good ol' me." She wiggled all ten fingers. "I'm so handy."

The silliness made Sydney giggle again. "This smells yummy."