"My father used to work for the sheriff's department here as a deputy, just like Grandaddy did. That was a long time ago," she added. "He quit when he married my mother because she didn't like him taking risks."

"What did he do afterward?"

"He got a job as a limousine driver in San Antonio," she replied. "He made good money at it, too. Then he met a pretty, rich woman that he'd been hired to drive around, and he went head over heels for her. He left my mother and filed for divorce. She never got over it. The other woman was ten years older than she was, and she owned a boutique."

"Is your father still living?" he asked.

She shook her head. "He and his new wife were driving to Las Vegas when a drunk driver ran into them head-on. They both died."

"You said your mother disliked you?"

She nodded. "I look like my father. She hated me for that."

"What happened to your mother?"

"She...died about twelve years ago," she said. "Just two years after Daddy did."

"What did she do for a living?"

"She was a nurse," Grace said quietly.

"You're going to kill those bushes if you keep snipping," he pointed out. "And the temperature's dropping."

She shivered a little as she stood up. "I suppose so. I just wanted something to do. I can't bear to sit in that house alone."

"You don't need to. Pack a small bag. I'll take you home with me. You and Miss Turner can watch movies on the pay per view channel."

She looked up at him, frowning. "That's not necessary..."

"Yes, it is," he said gently, studying her face. It was wet with tears. "You need a little time to get adjusted to life without your grandmother. No strings. Just company."

She gnawed on her lower lip. She didn't understand his motives, and it showed.

"I'd do it for anybody," he continued. "Think of it as one neighbor helping another out."

She shifted in place. "If I wouldn't be in the way..." she began.

"I work in the study all hours trying to get herd records up-to-date," he said simply. "You won't bother me. I'll give you the guest room next to Miss Turner's. If you get scared in the night, she'll be around."

She still hesitated. It was hard for her, trusting a man. Any man.

"If you stay over here talking to rosebushes, somebody's going to notice," he pointed out. "Think of the scandal."

She smiled despite herself. "All right, then. Thank you," she added a little awkwardly.

"You'd do it for me, I'm sure."

And she would have.

Miss Turner was surprised and delighted at the unexpected company. "He hates having people here," she told Grace as she poured her some tea in the kitchen of the long, single level house.

"It's only because I was talking to the roses," Grace faltered.

Miss Turner stared at her.

Grace flushed. "Well, I'm not exactly overcome with visitors these days."

"You can talk to me," she told her. "At least, I can answer you back."

LATER, MISS TURNER showed her to the guest room and pointed out the quilt at the foot of the bed in case Grace got too cool.

"He says he can't sleep in a warm house, so he keeps it like a deep freeze," Miss Turner muttered. "Likely you'll get frostbite, but at least you won't be lonely. Got your medications?"

Grace nodded.

"Good. There's water in the carafe by the bed. Sleep well."

"You, too."

The door closed and Grace sat down on the bed. It was a pretty room, done in cool blues and beiges. She was amazed at her host for the invitation, and grateful as well. She'd dreaded spending the night alone.

For a man with no social skills to speak of, she thought, he was surprisingly kindhearted.

SHE SETTLED UNDER the comforter and closed her eyes. But the events of the day had damaged her, and not only her grandmother's death. She kept seeing little girls lying in beds of roses, wearing red ribbons around their necks...

When the screams started, she didn't even realize that they were coming from her own lips.

5.

"G.o.d ALMIGHTY!" CAME A deep voice from somewhere nearby. "Grace. Grace!"

She was dying. Blood was seeping out all around her, and it was red, as red as her grandmother's roses. She was lying in a patch of sunflowers, looking up at the sky. There was pain. So much pain! She could almost feel merciless hands on her shoulders, shaking her, shaking her...!

She gasped and her eyes flew open. Garon Grier was sitting on the side of her bed in a bathrobe, his blond-streaked brown hair mussed, his dark eyes narrow and concerned. Behind him stood Miss Turner with her hair down, gray and thin, wrapped in a thick bathrobe, chewing her lower lip nervously.

Grace took a long breath and another one. She was shaking. "S-sorry," she stammered. "I'm sorry!"

The big hands holding her shoulders relented, pulling her into a sitting position. Her long blond hair had come undone from its cloth tie and draped around her shoulders like a fall of silk. She was wearing a thick cotton gown that covered her from throat to heels. Only her face and hands peered out from its whiteness.

"What happened?" Garon asked.

She swallowed hard, looking around her in relief. She wasn't lying in a field. She was in a bed, in a house. Safe. She swallowed again, aware that her eyes and cheeks were wet.

"What was it?" he persisted. "A nightmare?"

She only nodded, still shaken. It had seemed very real.

"How about some warm milk, Grace?" Miss Turner asked. "It might help you sleep."

"Milk, h.e.l.l," Garon said curtly. "Bring her a tot of Crown Royal."

"I hate spirits," Grace began.

"Now," he added, fixing Miss Turner with a level stare that didn't invite defiance.

"Back in a jiffy," Miss Turner said.

Garon let go of Grace's shoulders. His eyes were like lasers, probing, inquiring. "This isn't a new thing, is it?" he asked suddenly.

"The nightmare? No." She leaned forward, drawing her knees up under the cover to rest her forehead on. Her heart was skipping madly. She could barely get her breath at all. "I've had them for a long time."

He wanted to ask questions, demand answers. But she was a guest in his house. He didn't want to invade her privacy. He didn't want to know intimate things about her, either. He only felt sorry for her. This was just a brief interlude in his life, and hers. She needed help that he could give. But he didn't want to let her too close.

She took one last deep breath and grimaced when she saw the look on his face. He was hating this. She didn't even have to ask.

She pushed back her unruly hair. "I'll be all right now," she said without meeting his eyes. "Thanks for checking on me. It's just an old bad dream. I have them once in a while when I'm really stressed. Losing granny has been...difficult."

He couldn't imagine why. The old lady had been constantly critical of Grace. But if the old woman was all she had left, it was understandable that she was grieving for her. He knew grief intimately. It was still too fresh in his mind. He'd never shared it, with anyone. Not even with his father and brothers.

Grace was painfully aware that he was only wearing pajama bottoms under the black robe. It was open in front, and his broad, muscular, hair-roughened chest was too close for comfort. She glanced at it nervously, her body tensing with nervous discomfort. Her hands tightened around her knees.

Garon saw that reaction and was irritated by it. She'd been screaming her head off, so why was she acting as if he were trying to attack her? He got to his feet will ill-concealed impatience, glaring down at her.

She couldn't meet his eyes or explain or apologize. He didn't understand. He was a handsome, sensual man who never lacked female attention. It made him angry that this frumpy little woman looked at him as if he were a rapist.

The silence that grew between them was dark and explosive. Miss Turner broke it finally with her return. She had a whiskey jigger full of amber liquid. "Here you go, boss," she said, handing it to Garon.

He put it in Grace's hand. "Drink it," he said impatiently.

She grimaced as she sniffed it. "I've never had spirits," she tried to explain.

"You're having this, or Miss Turner will hold you down while I pour it in," he said curtly, stung by her att.i.tude when the two of them were alone together.

She looked at him aghast. "You wouldn't dare," she challenged.

"Come here, Miss Turner," he beckoned the housekeeper. "I'll show you a half nelson to use on her."

He meant business. Grace grimaced again, but she held her breath and tossed the liquor down. It burned her throat and almost came up again. She gagged.

"Here," Miss Turner said quickly, pouring her a gla.s.s of water.

"Gasoline would taste better!" Grace raged, glaring at him.

"Bite your tongue, woman," he shot back, offended. "That's Crown Royal!"

"Diesel fuel," she muttered.

He threw up his hands and got to his feet. "You can't share precious things with peasants," he muttered.

"I am not a peasant."

"Or lunatics," he persisted.

"I am not a...!"

"You talk to rosebushes," he pointed out.

While she simmered, Miss Turner grinned. "Actually he does talk to tractors that won't start. I heard him use some Spanish slang that he could be arrested for in Del Rio."

He glared at her, narrowing one eye. "Some profanity is occasionally necessary to teach the stupid machine that you mean business. It's lucky it didn't get shot, at that."

"If you shoot the tractor, the foreman will bury you with it," Miss Turner replied. "He says it's barely usable as it is, and he's trying to get the soil ready to plant."

"It's February," he exclaimed.

"In February we plant potatoes," she said shortly.

"I hate potatoes."

"We also plant forage gra.s.ses for the cattle," she amended.

He sighed. "I suppose he might need the tractor, at that." He glanced at Grace with his hands in his pockets. "If you think you can sleep, we might all try to get back to bed. I've got to drive up to Lytle first thing for a meeting."

"I'll be all right," she a.s.sured him. She recalled that the next day was visitation at the funeral home, and she shuddered.

He remembered that. Reluctant sympathy pushed his wounded ego aside. "I'll be home by five. You aren't having visitation until six, are you?"

She shook her head, surprised at his sudden knowledge of what was wrong with her.

"I'll drive you. Miss Turner can come, too."

"But you don't have to do that," she protested weakly.

"There isn't anybody else to do it," he said without rancor.

She bit her lower lip. "Thank you."

Her appreciation made him uncomfortable. "You're welcome. Let's go, Miss Turner."

"Sleep well, Grace," the housekeeper said gently.