"Yes. The season of miracles. It's fitting."

Gabe bent and kissed her cheek, then walked into the bedroom, where Nic had one baby at her breast. Sage sat in the rocking chair with the other. The babies appeared to have been washed, and Nic's hair was freshly brushed. "You are so beautiful," he said to her.

Sage rose from the rocker. "It's about time you came back, Daddy," she said, handing the baby over to Gabe. "I have it on certain authority that there's a plate of barbecue waiting for me downstairs in the kitchen. Holler if you need me, but I don't expect you will."

As Sage quietly left the room, Gabe kicked off his shoes, then sat beside Nic in the queen-sized bed. "I love you, Nicole Callahan."

"I love you, too, Gabe Callahan."

He smiled from one baby to the other. "I want to say that to these little bits, but I don't know what to call them. Do you?"

"I thought ..." Nic glanced up at him. "Maybe after our mothers?"

Gabe thought back to when his mother was still alive, and his father's pet name for her. "Meg, for Margaret? Or Mary."

"Meg, I think. And Carolyn for mine? Meg and Cari Callahan?"

"Works for me. What about middle names?"

"Hmm ..."

"I have an idea," Gabe said, gazing at his girls. "It's probably hokey."

"Tell me."

"I don't know-I guess it's the Eternity Springs influence-but somehow it just feels right."

"What feels right?"

"I think-if you don't mind-I'd like their middle names to be Faith and Joy."

"Oh, Gabe. That's sweet. A little hokey, but that's what makes it perfect. I think Margaret Joy Callahan and Carolyn Faith Callahan are our names. You choose which baby gets which name."

Gabe frowned as he studied his daughters' identical little faces. "We're gonna have to mark them somehow so we don't get them mixed up."

Nic shook her head. "Their cries are different. Our firstborn is louder."

"Which one is she?"

"The one you're holding." She waited a beat, then added, "Sarah put a dot of fingernail polish on her toe just in case."

"Starting on makeup already." He sighed. Then he pressed a kiss to his firstborn daughter's forehead. "Okay, then let's name her Cari. It comes first in the alphabet. That'll help me remember."

"Don't be silly. You won't forget."

She was right. He had been blessed with another chance at happiness, and he intended to treasure it, revel in it, from this moment forward. He wouldn't forget a minute of it. John Gabriel Callahan's heart overflowed. Here, in this one little corner of the big wide world, he'd found his faith, his joy, and his love.

Sage's stomach was about to erupt. She'd held off her nervousness, nausea, and panic during the heat of the moment, but once the emergency was behind her, she began to lose it. Seeking fresh air, she exited the house by the back door and fled from the crowd toward the mountain behind the estate and the cover of the forest.

She made it as far as the carriage house apartment. Ducking around behind it, she bent over double and vomited. When she was finished, she leaned against the house, closed her eyes, and shuddered.

A male voice she didn't recognize said, "Please tell me it wasn't the barbecue. I had two helpings."

The wood-carver. Of course. That was just her luck. Her cheeks stinging with embarra.s.sment, Sage warily opened her eyes. He extended his hand, offering her a dampened washcloth. She accepted it, wiped her brow, then said a bit crankily, "Where did you come from?"

"I'm staying here in the carriage house." He waited a beat, then asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I just ..." She exhaled heavily as the memories gnawed at the edge of her consciousness, so she welcomed a distraction. "You shouldn't have entered the arts festival contest as a local."

He frowned. "What arts festival?"

Her fingers were beginning to tremble. She narrowed her gaze and focused on Rafferty. "The one last month where you won the blue ribbon."

"I didn't enter any contest."

"It was your work." She recalled the image of the artwork and concentrated on it. "It was beautiful. A segmented vase made of madrone, tulipwood, wenge, and maple."

"Shaped like a hot air balloon?" he asked.

"Yes." In her mind's eye she saw a balloon floating over a b.l.o.o.d.y killing field. Sage fisted her hands so tight that her nails drew blood from her palms. Stop it!

He shrugged. "I gave that to Celeste as a gift. I certainly never intended to show it." He rubbed the back of his neck, then asked, "Did she sell it?"

"No. It's in the Aspenglow suite at the main house. With its blue ribbon." Her chest grew tight, and it was difficult to breathe. "Could I have a gla.s.s of water?"

"Sure. Come with me."

He led her inside the carriage house apartment and to the kitchen, where he filled a gla.s.s with water and offered it to her, saying, "You're acting kinda cranky about that blue ribbon."

"I like to win." She took a sip, then waited a moment to make certain it would stay down. Her mouth tasted sour and she grimaced.

"There's a toothbrush in a guest basket in the bathroom if you want it."

"Thank you," she said quietly.

In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, rinsed her face, then stared into the mirror. Instead of her own reflection, she saw ... carnage.

It hit her then, the full-blown panic attack. Hyperventilation. Racing heart. Dizziness. Tight throat. Sweats.

She must have made some sound, because as if from a great distance, she heard him knock on the door and call her name. How long that went on, she didn't know, but at some point he was there, staring at her, frowning at her.

"You okay?" When she didn't answer, simply stood there shaking, he said, "Stupid question. I'll call 911."

He started to leave. She made a jerky grab at his arm and croaked out, "No."

He studied her. "You're not having a heart attack, are you?"

When she shook her head, he took hold of her arm. "Okay, then. Since you're a physician, I'll take your word for it and chalk this up to a panic attack, with which, unfortunately, I am all too familiar. But if you keel over dead, you're not allowed to sue me. C'mere, you need to sit down before you fall down."

"You know about me?" she managed to ask as he guided her into the living room. "Being a doctor?"

"Word got out during the excitement."

"Oh no," she said, whimpering. "I don't want that. They'll ask me. I can't talk about it."

"It's okay. You don't have to talk about anything. That's one of the great things about having freedom of speech-you have the freedom to shut up, too." He sat in a rocking chair, then tugged her down onto his lap.

The tiny little part of Sage that could still think decided the man was being way too familiar, but the rest of her didn't care. She clung to him like a lifeline. He smelled of wood smoke and emanated safety. His arms offered sanctuary that she couldn't resist.

"I delivered those babies," she murmured, fighting back the memories washing over her, dark and ugly and full of despair. "Two healthy little babies."

"That you did." He held her and rocked her and murmured soothing sounds against her ear.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the past retreated and the panic dissipated. Sage could breathe again. At that point, a river of despair washed through her and with it, finally, came tears. A flood of tears.

She sobbed against a stranger's broad chest as if her world had come to an end. In many ways, that's exactly what had happened. A little more than five years ago, the world as she had known it ended on an African savannah.

"Let it go, sweetheart," Colt Rafferty murmured. "It's poison when you keep it inside. Get it all out."

So she did. She cried for the children. Cried for her lost career. Cried because sometimes evil won. She lost all track of time, but for these stolen minutes, for the first time in a very long time, she felt safe and protected and not so alone. Throughout it all, Colt continued to rock her.

Finally, when the storm of tears had expended all their fury, she rested, completely spent. Colt allowed her a few minutes, then said, "A big part of my job is solving puzzles, so I'm inclined to explore what happened here. I know that you are Sage Anderson, owner of the gallery in town. I know you are a painter and have a compet.i.tive artistic streak. Today you served as Nic Callahan's obstetrician and delivered her twin daughters, but after keeping your cool throughout, you fell apart. That makes you interesting, Sage. Fascinating."

"I don't talk about it," Sage said, knowing she should move but not quite ready to do so.

"That's okay. Puzzle solving is more fun when you discover clues all on your own." With that, he put his fingers beneath her chin, tilted up her face, and kissed her.

She tasted minty fresh and surprised. Okay, make that shocked, he revised after she broke speed records scrambling off his lap.

"I'm not a puzzle," she snapped. "I'm a ... a ..."

"Doctor?" he suggested.

Her mouth moved, but no words came out.

"Artist who craves blue ribbons?"

Her chin came up. "I'm a woman."

He grinned. "Yes, you are definitely a woman. A beautiful, intriguing puzzle of a woman-who I suspect hasn't been kissed in far too long."

Satisfaction washed through Colt as her pale complexion flooded with color and her limp, weary posture grew straight and strong. "Bite me, Rafferty."

His laughter followed her out of the door.

Colt didn't see Sage Anderson again before he departed Eternity Springs the next day. But in the days and weeks that followed, he thought of her often.

He truly did love puzzles.

FOUR.

December Fat, white snowflakes floated down from the night sky and iced the gingerbread on the Victorian-era storefronts and houses in downtown Eternity Springs. At just after three in the morning, the temperature hovered around zero and the streets of the small mountain town lay silent and empty but for the three inches of new snow that had fallen since midnight. Out at her cottage on Hummingbird Lake, Sage dreamed she was back in Africa.

The flatbed truck roared into the small village and stopped outside the plain mud-brick structure that today served as a medical clinic. Sage glanced up from the child whose leg wound she'd just cleaned and st.i.tched as a half dozen Zaraguinas jumped down from the truck and marched inside brandishing guns. One of the rebel gang members shifted his gaze between Sage and her fiance, Dr. Peter Gates, and barked out a demand in Sangho. "Which is Dr. Sage?"

Peter shot her a warning glance as he stepped forward. "I'm Dr. Sage."

The Zaraguina frowned, then put his gun barrel against a toddler's head and asked her mother, "Is he Sage?"

The mother trembled, her eyes wide with fear. "No. She is."

As the rebel shifted his gun toward Peter, Sage stepped forward. "No! Hurt him and you might as well kill me, too. I won't help you if you harm him. What do you need?"

Tension shimmered in the air like heat waves. "You are a surgeon?"

"Yes."

"So am I," Peter lied, drawing the rebel's attention back to him and making Sage want to kill him herself. "I can do anything she can do. I'll go with you willingly if you need a.s.sistance. Guns aren't necessary. We are with the Doctors Without Borders organization. It's part of our mission to provide independent and impartial medical aid. Politics don't matter."

The rebel's gaze went flat and cold. Sage's knees turned to Jell-O. He rolled his tongue around his mouth, then spat on the floor. "The woman comes with us."

"That would be a mistake." Peter lifted a hand and took a step forward. "I'm a better doctor-"

As happened more and more often, the echo of the gunshot jerked Sage out of her nightmare. She lay in her bed breathing hard, her pulse pounding, actually smelling the stink of gunpowder, until terror dissipated, reality returned, and exhaustion and despair overwhelmed her.

She hadn't managed five hours of uninterrupted sleep at a time in months. And to think that prior to the Callahan girls' births, she'd believed that she'd almost defeated her monsters. She'd believed that her spirit was healing.

How wrong she had been. All it had taken was the delivery of two beautiful little girls who would grow up happy and healthy and loved and the demons came roaring back. Ever since that day, she'd spent most of her nights painting.

Purging.

Tonight would be no different. After tossing and turning, then considering and rejecting the temptation of sleeping pills-she'd been down that road before after her father died, and it wasn't a healthy route for her to take-she finally admitted that additional sleep was beyond her reach. Climbing from her bed, Sage pulled on her warmest robe and slippers, then padded to her studio, where she switched on the lights and placed a blank canvas on her easel. In keeping with her mood, she painted only in shades of red and black-the colors of violence.

Over the next five hours she poured out her inner rage, her fury, and her pain onto the canvas and exorcised the memories-at least for a little while. She rid herself of monkey chatter and lion roars. Rid herself of rain-soaked jungle and hot savannah. Rid herself of screams and the haunting melody of little voices singing childhood Christian hymns. When she finally stepped away from the easel, her right arm ached and her eyes felt gritty, but the door to the past was firmly shut. Exhaustion hit her like a fist. She thought longingly of her bed, but she didn't have time for a nap today. She had to be in Gunnison by noon to catch her flight, and she still had to pack.

She looked forward to the trip to Fort Worth and the reception for her show at Art on the Bricks gallery. Not only was Steve Montgomery one of her early supporters, he was an all-around nice guy. He reminded her of her father, which was totally weird because except for the similarity in age, broad-shouldered build, and graying hair, the Colonel couldn't have been more different. Steve was kind and indulgent, and he laughed easily and often. Her father had been the typical army leader-tough, tenacious, and hard-charging. He didn't tolerate mistakes, lazy afternoons, flights of fancy, or cowardice.

No wonder he'd so often looked at Sage as if she were a changeling.

Which made her wonder why she thought of her dad every time she spoke with Steve. "Your mind is a scary place, Anderson," she muttered as she cleaned her brushes.

She spent the next hour packing and tidying her home, then departed for the airport. After a relatively smooth travel day, she arrived at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport and caught a cab to the boutique hotel in downtown Fort Worth where Steve had booked a room for her. She did manage a thirty-minute nap before Steve picked her up and took her to the gallery, where they spent a few hours finishing up last-minute show arrangements.