"I don't know how he could have."

She turned from the window, her arms crossed on her chest, a way, Nate thought, for her to keep him from seeing that her hands were still shaking. She was a woman accustomed to staying in control. She wouldn't want him to see just how the events of the past few days had rocked her. "You're going to tell Agent Collins, aren't you?" Her tone was cool now, almost resigned. "About both the letter and the man in the park."

"d.a.m.n straight."

She nodded and let her arms drop to her side. No shaking hands now. "I wasn't holding back on you. I was convinced-I am convinced the man isn't the same man I ran into at the museum. Even if it is, so what? It doesn't mean he had anything to do with the shooting. It could just be one of those weird coincidences. If I hadn't gotten the letter..." She didn't finish.

"We'll get to the bottom of whatever's going on."

"Maybe it's nothing." She tried to smile. "I should show you my letter from the psychic."

Nate got to his feet, feeling the silence of the place, the isolation on this quiet stretch of river. Obviously Rob hadn't expected his sister to come home to a threatening letter.

It was postmarked the day of the shooting. Whoever sent it hadn't wasted any time.

"What goes on prune cake?" Nate asked.

Sarah seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. "What?"

"Frosting." He wanted to pull her out of her spinning thoughts, just as his uncle had done with him with his talk of his orange eggs. "Does it have a frosting, or do you eat it plain like gingerbread?"

"It has a caramel glaze. You put it on when the cake's still warm."

He could hear the southern roots in her words, a soft lilt that seemed to match the breeze off the river. "You can probably finish making it before the FBI gets here. I'll call Joe Collins in New York and find out what he wants to do."

She nodded, her breathing shallow, then started for the kitchen. She paused in the hall doorway and glanced back at him. "I'm glad you're here." Then a quick smile, a welcome flash in her eyes. "I think."

Nate glanced at the note.

I'll know if you talk.

Wait.

She'd waited-she'd waited to tell him.

Everyone a.s.sumed the answers to the sniper attack were in New York, embedded somewhere in what he and Rob did for a living. Nate was no longer so sure. He had a feeling they could be here, in Night's Landing, in the lives of a well-known, progressive southern family who happened to be friends and neighbors to the president of the United States.

He dreaded making the call to Joe Collins in New York.

And Rob-what to tell him about his sister's letter?

Nothing, Nate decided. At least not until he knew more.

He could smell the prune cake baking, filling the house with warmth and the scent of cinnamon. Cozy, homey smells. She'd imposed normalcy onto herself as a way to cope. He pictured Sarah racing around that morning, pulling apart phones, trying to talk herself into believing the note didn't mean anything, that she'd been right about the man in Central Park, after all, and he was no one.

Maybe she had a point. Maybe the wide coverage of the shooting and something about the Dunnemores themselves had brought out the head cases.

But Nate didn't think so.

Sixteen.

I t was late afternoon before all the federal law enforcement types left-except for Nate. He obviously had no immediate plans to go anywhere. Sarah retreated to the kitchen and made the caramel glaze for the prune cake, pouring it between the layers and on the top while it was still hot. She hadn't had time to really cook in months. Now it helped her control her racing thoughts, center her as she considered her options. And the old-fashioned southern recipes helped her feel more rooted and less isolated, as if she could draw on her grandmother's strength.

She'd taken the FBI agents, the deputy marshals and the one guy who was probably Secret Service but never said so through her house, answered all their questions and offered them iced sweet tea punch, which they'd refused. She held her temper and her tears and her nerves.

She thought she'd done all right, but now, in the immediate aftermath of their search, she wished she'd simply thrown the note into the garbage.

The agents had whisked it away.

They'd told her nothing. No theories, no a.s.sessments, no hint of what they thought of the anonymous note.

Nate had kept his distance. After the last car pulled out of the driveway, he drifted out to the front porch. Sarah had a feeling he wasn't going to be on an evening flight back to New York.

She didn't know what to do with him besides feed him prune cake.

She set it to cool on a pink Depression-gla.s.s plate and washed her hands, then dialed the hospital.

Her brother was awake. He could talk to her.

"Joe Collins just left here," he said, sounding tired but agitated. "Christ, Sarah. What the h.e.l.l's going on?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'm just going off the deep end."

"The letter's for real." He took in what sounded like a painful breath. "You didn't make it up. The guy in Amsterdam-I'm no help. I didn't see him. I'm still fogged in from the meds, but I'd remember."

"It was probably just a regular guy in Amsterdam and a regular guy in New York and all the adrenaline-" She sighed, sinking against the counter. "Rob, it's been an awful few days. I haven't been at the top of my game. I didn't get a close enough look at the man in the park to be positive it was the same guy. If I hadn't gotten the letter, I'd never have mentioned him. Part of me still wishes I hadn't."

"I'm sorry, Sarah. If I hadn't got shot-"

"Don't go there."

"Why don't you go back to Scotland for a week or so? Hang out with your friends. Buy me a kilt."

She shook her head as if he could see her. "I can't. Not now. Rob-"

"I don't remember the shooting. I don't even remember calling you. I just remember hoping Nate wouldn't die because of me."

"Maybe you were dreaming on the operating table."

"No, Sarah. I was the shooter's target."

"But why? Because of your work?" She hesitated, focusing on the old kitchen, every corner of it familiar to her, although she hadn't lived here in years. "Or because you're a Dunnemore?"

"There's never been anything dangerous about being a Dunnemore."

"You're right. Crazy, maybe, but not dangerous." She could feel the weight of his depression, his fear that he was responsible for what was happening-and his disgust with his inability to do anything about it. "I've been thinking. What if all this has nothing to do with you? What if I picked up an enemy in Scotland? Maybe the guy in Amsterdam and then in Central Park was following me."

"Come on, Sarah. You don't have enemies. Maybe the ghost of some bones you dug up haunt you, but otherwise-no way."

She'd known her theory would perk him up. "I don't deal much in bones."

"I'm fading," he said. "Nurses had me up today. G.o.d, I'm so weak. I thought you'd be better off in Night's Landing. Out of the fray. Now, I don't know. Nate...make sure he knows you're tougher than you look."

"There's still time for him to fly back to New York tonight."

"Dream on. Hang in there, okay?"

"You, too."

The kitchen seemed quiet and still after she hung up. She cut the prune cake in two chunks and wrapped half, carefully placing it in the freezer in antic.i.p.ation of Rob's return home, then headed out through the back door. She was restless, her head spinning.

She found herself on the narrow trail to the Poe house. It wound along the river, on the edge of the woods of cedar trees, limestone pits and small caves, a route she'd taken hundreds of times since she was a child.

Within five steps, Nate fell in behind her.

Sarah almost smiled. "I knew I wouldn't get far without you."

"Rob's right. You are tougher than you look."

His words registered, and she whipped around at him, furious. "You eavesdropped on my conversation with my brother?"

"Picked up the extension on the porch. Piece of cake."

"d.a.m.n it, don't I have any privacy?"

"Not when the same guy who shot me could be after you."

"No one's after me," she said, picking up her pace, pushing aside low tree branches on the damp path. The river oozed below her on her left. The path would take her higher, onto impressive limestone bluffs.

"I didn't listen to the entire conversation. That help?"

"Not particularly."

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I'm going for a walk."

And without any warning-without even breathing-he caught one arm around her waist and drew her to him.

She gulped in a breath. "What are you doing?"

"I'm thinking about kissing you. I've been thinking about it for a couple of days now."

"You've only known me a couple of days."

"Plenty long enough to think about kissing you."

His mouth found hers, and she didn't resist, didn't even consider it-she shut her eyes and felt the softness of his lips, the coolness of the breeze against her bare arms. She remembered his injured arm and grabbed the other one instead, holding him tightly as his mouth opened to hers, his arm dropping lower, drawing her more firmly against him. He was all hard muscle and bone, not an easy man, not the sort she'd ever imagined herself wanting to kiss. Well, wanting to, maybe. He was s.e.xy, the kind of s.e.xy she'd been taught to resist. Didn't need to be taught to resist.

Only when he set her down did she realize he'd lifted her off her feet.

She cleared her throat and ran her fingers through her hair. "Well. I guess that excuses you for eavesdropping."

"I'll remember that."

"We should head back. You have time to make an evening flight-"

"I checked out the upstairs while you were frosting the prune cake. I think I'll take the blue room." He motioned up the path with one hand. "Lead the way."

"I had a feeling I wasn't getting rid of you tonight. We used to get bats in the blue room."

He grinned at her. "I'm not afraid of bats."

"You've got flour on your jacket." She brushed at the spot with her fingertips. "That would never do for a marshal, would it? Against all your dress codes, I imagine. Did I hurt your arm?"

His eyes went very dark, smoldering dark. "Sarah..."

She caught her breath. "Yes. I should lead the way."

The Poe home was an 1868 brick Greek Revival set on three acres of yard and gardens high on a bluff above the c.u.mberland River. Nate remembered seeing pictures of it when Wes Poe was campaigning for the White House. On the walk over, along the river, Sarah had explained that the house was a state and national historic site, not only because of her pal the president, but because of its own unique history and near pristine condition.

"It represents almost a hundred and fifty years of middle Tennessee history," she said. "Leola and Violet Poe made very few improvements in it over the years. There's still no central heat and only cold running water."

"President Poe's a wealthy man-"

"It wasn't about money. Leola and Violet didn't embrace change."

Nate followed her onto a stone path that led through the overgrown gra.s.s to the porch. "I like my hot water."

"They had hot water. They just had to boil it."

"Wes Poe didn't have a typical baby boomer upbringing, did he?"

"He was born during the war, so technically he's not a boomer, but, no, the Poe sisters weren't exactly Ward and June Cleaver."

Sarah trotted up the steps onto the porch, more at ease than Nate had seen her since he'd arrived in Night's Landing. It wasn't just being on familiar turf-it was having told someone else about the letter, calling the bluff of the a.s.shole who'd written it. He joined her on the porch, feeling as if he'd just stepped back in time.

"When I was growing up," she went on, "I'd sneak up here every chance I got and sit out on the porch and listen to Leola and Violet tell stories. When I was in high school, I started videotaping them."

"Did you include some of the footage in your doc.u.mentary?"

She nodded. "They're incredible, so natural and real. Every story is priceless, whether it's something ordinary like picking blackberries and going to church suppers, or something melodramatic, like hiding in the cellar during a tornado, or finding my grandfather dead. They were elderly by the time I was a teenager, but they had such vivid memories. Their stories helped me get to know them as children and teenagers themselves, as young women." She gazed out at the knee-high gra.s.s and weeds popping up through the rosebush. "I miss them."