Sam sent her a level gaze. "How are you going to get there?"

"I'll drive, of co-" She stopped. "Oh."

"I promise to drive you home just as soon as we can catch us more fireflies than the girls."

"I'm really not dressed for running around outside." Cassie looked down at her short skirt and heels. "How about if I just stayed inside and rooted for your team?"

Madison plopped down at the table next to her aunt. "We're too old for kid games like that. We'll stay here."

"Now, Maddie . . ." Cassie stopped, wondering why it was so important to her that Madison go outside and have fun instead of staying inside with her. "Look, it's not because I'm too old; it's just that it's hard to run in heels."

"I'll help." Sam leaned over and picked up the bug jar with the big yellow "C" on the outside.

"And anybody who stays behind has to scrub the pots." Harriet smiled brightly.

Madison stood, making the chair wobble in her haste. "Come on, Aunt Cassie. Please?"

Amused by her niece and only halfway reluctant, Cassie followed Sam and Madison out into the humid night.

A chorus of hundreds of tree frogs hummed and burbled in the tall pines on the far side of the property. Bright lights from the houses at Farrellsford could be seen clearly through large gaps in the trees. Cassie stepped tentatively off the path, feeling her heel grip solid ground. So far, so good.

"Over there-look! By the trees." Madison ran, her long hair swinging loose behind her. Joey ran after her, shouting, "Don't get all of them, Maddie. Save some for me!"

A cluster of blinking lights pulsed underneath a giant magnolia, and Cassie ran toward them, her feet crunching on the ground cover of faded magnolia leaves. Quickly, she unscrewed the lid and swiped the jar through the air.

"I got two! I got two!" She put the lid back on, then held the jar up proudly to show Sam. As she began walking toward him, her heel held fast to a hole in the ground, twisting Cassie's ankle and sending her sprawling, facedown, into the bed of leaves. Her bug jar rolled a few feet away, coming to rest on its bottom. The fireflies inside winked at her.

"Dangnabit!" she shouted, struggling to a sitting position.

"Don't try to stand." Sam's voice was filled with concern as he lifted her under her arms and slid her gently to rest against the trunk of the tree.

"I'm fine. Really." Mortified by her clumsiness, she put her foot under her to try to stand but was only rewarded with shooting pain from her right ankle.

"Umph," she groaned.

"I told you not to stand." Sam knelt in the grass in front of her and picked up her foot. With studied concentration, his fingers gently probed her ankle, foot, and calf. The blood under her skin warmed to his touch, and she barely suppressed another moan-but this time not from pain. It was a struggle not to force her other leg, or worse, into his hands, and beg for the same attention.

His hand slid up the back of her calf, and she bit her lip hard enough to make it bleed. Anything to distract herself from the torture of his hands. And it had nothing to do with her ankle. He asked her to rotate her foot as he supported her leg, his fingers brushing her thigh, and she forced herself to think of fireflies and prickers in the grass and the shouting children running around in the dark. She picked up her jar and clutched it tightly, thinking she could feel the thrumming of the energy inside, causing the little bodies to light up with an inner heat.

She needed to talk or go crazy. "This tree reminds me of that large magnolia in the yard back at the house. Did you know my mother planted it as a sapling when I was born? I can't believe it's still there. And it's just huge now."

Sam's movements paused for a moment as he regarded her. "Its roots go pretty deep. It's not going anywhere for a long time."

Heat from his touch seemed to burn her skin, and she looked away, not able to meet his eyes. Prickly grass tickled the heel of her foot, and she realized he had set her foot down.

"It's not broken. Most likely you've got a little sprain. I'll bring you inside and wrap it with ice."

Cassie nodded, knowing an ice-cold shower would be even more therapeutic for what ailed her. She found she still couldn't look at him and instead stared intently at the jar.

"Why do they do that?"

"Blink?" Sam shifted in the grass, pulling himself up on his haunches. "It's a mating thing. The lady fireflies do that to catch a suitor. The guy fireflies find those glowing butts real attractive, then light up their own rear ends to show they're interested." He grinned up at her. "It's the bug world's equivalent of short skirts and high heels."

She tossed the jar at him, causing him to lose his balance and fall back as he caught it. "That's not why I wear what I wear. It's called fashion-a word I'm sure you're not familiar with."

Hoisting herself up using the trunk for support, she resisted his offer of help. "It just goes to show how similar males are in every species. They only want one thing, and they rely on superficialities to find a mate."

Sam grabbed her elbow, his tight grip making it clear he wasn't letting go. He stood close enough for her to smell him-a faint whiff of cologne and outdoor air. His breath brushed her cheek as he spoke.

"Not all males are alike, Cassie. Some actually make a point of peeling through all that outside stuff to see the real woman underneath. It's hard-won, but what a prize. A man just has to be patient."

Cassie leaned into him, taking the pressure off her ankle. "And are you a patient man, Dr. Parker?"

His eyes glittered from the porch light, reminding her of the fireflies. "Call me Job."

Suppressing a grin, she allowed herself to be lifted and carried inside.

The ride home with Sam was silent except for the soft twangings of a Dwight Yokum CD on the stereo. Cassie didn't remember to be nauseated by it until they were almost at her father's house.

Sam came to her side of the truck and lifted her out, closing the door with the heel of his boot. Effortlessly, he carried her across the drive and up the front steps to the porch. A full moon crept through the trees, dappling the porch and front door with mottled light and illuminating the bandaging around Cassie's ankle. She tried her best to keep her head away from Sam, but the sturdy wall of his chest and the soft cotton shirt was the natural spot to rest her cheek. With seemingly reluctant hands, Sam set her down but didn't release his hold.

He stared at her neck. "I remember that necklace."

Her hand instinctively went to the four small charms.

A brief flash of white appeared on his face as he smiled. "I remember you always clutched at it when you felt nervous. It's a dead giveaway, but I think it's endearing."

Her defensive hackles had been raised with his remark about her habit, recalling Andrew's negative comments about it, but now she warmed toward him, smiling softly.

"My mother gave it to me."

She moved her hand away, and he touched the charms tentatively, his fingers brushing the tender skin under her chin.

"What do they mean?"

An unseen insect hummed, teasing the air between them. Cassie took a deep breath. "The three hearts are for me, my father, and Harriet." She brushed at the air, listening to the humming fade away. "The key is for me-the keeper of the hearts." Swallowing, she continued. "My mother gave this to me right before she died."

He stared at her openly, not blinking. She looked down, not wanting him to see the shame in her eyes. He lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Keeper of the hearts."

She blinked rapidly. "Yeah. It's kind of silly. And I would laugh if I hadn't been such a failure at the one thing my mother wanted me to do."

He let go of her chin and stroked her cheek softly before dropping his hand. A humid breeze, filled with the summer smells of grass, jasmine, and wisteria, lifted her hair. "I don't think so. You may have taken a detour, but you're not a failure."

This man, with his cowboy boots and bright eyes, was standing too close. Way too close. She dropped her gaze and began fumbling for her keys. "I've got to call Andrew."

Sam didn't say anything, but continued to regard her evenly.

"My fiance."

His expression didn't waver. "Give me your key. I don't want you falling over and hurting yourself opening the door." He took the key and turned, stopping abruptly. A lockbox hung from the door handle.

"My, my. Our Ed Farrell does move fast, doesn't he?" He frowned at the heavy metal combination box hiding a house key inside.

She hopped over to him and leaned against the sidelight. "Where I'm from, that's called not wasting time. I'm glad to see he's taken the initiative."

Sam raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. He stuck the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door and letting it swing open.

"Would you like me to carry you upstairs to your bedroom?"

His expression was so innocent, she couldn't understand why his suggestion made her heart flutter like the fireflies in her jar.

"No, thanks. I can manage."

He handed her the key. "All right. But page me if you need me. Anytime-day or night. You have the number."

She held up his business card. "Right. I got it. Thanks."

"Well, then. I'd better let you call Andy."

"Andrew."

"Yeah. Whatever. Good night."

"Good night. Thanks for the doctoring. You can bill me if you like."

He waved a hand at her before turning away and walking toward the steps. "It's on the house."

He waved again as she called out good night and shut the door. The dead bolt slid home with a solid, final sound. She dropped her purse on the hall table but brought the bug jar upstairs with her.

She took off her clothes and left them on the floor, too tired to hang them up. After sliding on a long T-shirt, she collapsed into bed and turned out the light. Andrew would be angry, but he'd have to wait until the morning to talk to her.

The flickering light from the jar on her nightstand illuminated the room briefly before casting it into darkness again. She thought of her father, straining to hear his footsteps walk up the wooden stairs, just as she'd done all those years ago as a child. But the house remained quiet, her father's tread now forever silenced.

Outside, the sounds of the tree frogs and crickets crept into her room, singing to her like a forgotten lullaby. It was as if this place had frozen in time and she was a little girl again, safe in the cocoon of this house and her family's love. She snuggled deeply into her pillow, the pulsing light from the jar growing dimmer and dimmer, and fell asleep.

Eight.

Something thumped downstairs, bringing Cassie out of bed in one leap. Sun streamed through the open blinds, illuminating the mantel clock in her bedroom. Ten o'clock. She never slept late. Never. Even on weekends she was in the office by eight.

A thump followed by a scrape emerged again from downstairs. Bleary-eyed, she searched for a weapon. Lucinda was gone all week, and Cassie was supposed to be alone in the house. She grabbed a fireplace poker, then cracked the door open and waited. Her blood pounded in her ears as she stood with the poker poised over her shoulder. The stealthy sound of a key turning in the latch and the front door opening echoed upstairs. Cassie moved quietly to the top of the steps and peered down into the foyer. The two-toned hair, viewed clearly from her vantage point, was unmistakable.

"Ed? What are you doing here?"

He glanced up, his eyes wide. A broad smile quickly replaced his look of surprise. "Cassie, darlin'. I'm so sorry. I knocked, and when no one answered, I thought nobody was home." His gaze swept Cassie's T-shirt, then looked away as if he were embarrassed. "I, uh, was here to do the appraisal."

"But you were supposed to call me this afternoon to let me know when you'd be over."

His gaze bounced from the newel post to the light fixture and back, as if he were studiously avoiding looking at her. Sensing it was her state of undress that was bothering him, she ducked into her room and grabbed her bathrobe. It only came to mid-thigh, but it was better than the almost-sheer T-shirt. She dropped the poker on the floor, feeling foolish.

Her bare feet slapped the wooden risers of the stairs as she jogged down to the foyer. Her ankle, still wrapped, felt stiff but no longer painful. "Why didn't you call first?"

His smile never wavered. "I wanted to get down to business as soon as possible. I know how anxious you are to sell."

Mollified, Cassie relaxed. "I guess since you're here, then, we might as well get started." She yawned. "But I've got to have some coffee first. May I make some for you?"

Ed seemed absorbed in studying his surroundings and made no indication that he had heard.

"Ed?"

He jerked and faced her. "I'm sorry, darlin'. Did you say something?"

"Yes. I asked you if you wanted coffee."

He blinked, as if wondering why she was there. "Ah, yes. Coffee. That would be fine. And if you don't mind, while you're doing that, I want to go ahead and get started."

Cassie turned toward the kitchen, wondering where he had learned his get-up-and-go attitude. From what she could recall of his family and childhood, he certainly hadn't been born with it.

When she returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, she couldn't find him. She called his name twice before he responded. She found him in her father's study, sitting at his desk and staring at the photos of her and Harriet.

"What are you doing?" Her voice still held an early-morning scratchiness.

He seemed to be trying to pull himself together and quickly began gathering his notepad and pen off the top of the desk.

"I was just trying to get a feel for the ambience of this house. Buying a house is rarely based on something you can touch. If I can give them the feeling of the house, I'll have a better chance of selling it, even with all of its problems."

She handed him his mug. "Problems? Like what?"

The question seemed to take him by surprise. "Oh, well, ah . . ." His eyes brightened. "There's no central air-conditioning. That's a big no-no in this market. Especially with these tall ceilings-I bet it's hotter'n a fire ant's rear end in the middle of July." He chuckled at his own joke.

Cassie recalled the days before they had even the window units, the days when her daddy would take her and Harriet for a ride in the car with the windows open just to catch a breeze. But she didn't think of it as a problem. It was one of those recollections that brought back a pleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach, a happy, albeit long-forgot-ten, memory. Cassie frowned.

"It's not so bad, Ed. Yesterday it was ninety-eight degrees and nine-ty percent humidity, and I was completely comfortable inside." That wasn't entirely true, but she was quite certain that any stickiness she had felt simply from moving from one room to another was due to the fact that she wasn't acclimated yet. She pushed aside the memory of Aunt Lucinda walking about her household chores with a wet washcloth right out of the freezer around her neck.

"Hmm." Ed walked toward the velvet draperies and touched one reverently. "Are you leaving any of the furnishings?"

She took another sip of her coffee. "I hadn't really thought about it. I don't have room in my apartment, but I'm assuming Harriet and Lucinda would want at least a few pieces. Maybe I could auction off the rest."