"You don't have one?"

"None of us do. My mother didn't bother to hang on to stuff like that. And what we did have got thrown out."

"How did you and Presley get into school?"

"One of the men my mother was with for a brief period years ago knew how to make fake IDs. She had him make us each a birth certificate. We used it to get into school wherever we went-when we attended, which wasn't often-but he wasn't very good. It's a miracle they accepted it."

"They probably didn't look at it too closely."

"No one did. She'd hand them a bad photocopy, and they'd chalk up the imperfections to that, I guess. Then she'd tell them that getting immunizations was against our religion, and we were in."

"Where were you born?"

"My mother says in Wyoming. That's why she named me Cheyenne. But I wasn't born there. I've checked."

"So...you think she might've stolen you from someone else?"

It sounded crazy to hear her suspicions spoken aloud. Already, she regretted sharing what she had. The alcohol had loosened her tongue. But now that she'd revealed her doubts, she figured she might as well admit the truth. "I've always wondered."

"That would explain why you look nothing like your sister."

"My mother, if she's my mother, says we come from different fathers."

"Obviously. Presley's father was Hispanic, wasn't he? But you're saying you might not be sisters at all?"

Guilt for suggesting such a thing suddenly overwhelmed Cheyenne and she rubbed her face. "Or my mother's right. Maybe it's all some weird attempt on my part to pretend I belong somewhere else, somewhere better. Forget I said anything."

She added a humorless chuckle, but he didn't seem willing to drop the subject quite so easily.

"What do you know about your father?"

"Nothing."

"Not even his name?"

"My mom claims she met him at a bar. They went to a motel together. He was gone less than an hour later. I'm sure she wasn't sober." She drew the blanket higher. "Touching encounter, right? You see why I might've been tempted to create a prettier picture."

"Children are stolen every day," he said. "Some are found, some are not. Those who aren't, if they're alive, have to go somewhere, grow up somehow. Considering your mother, and what you know her to be capable of, it's at least as likely that you didn't dream it up."

It felt great to have some support, someone else suggesting she might not be crazy for suspecting the worst, especially since Presley had discounted those memories as much as Anita had.

"Have you gone to the police?" he asked.

"Once."

"And?"

"If I was kidnapped, my case wasn't as widely publicized as Jaycee Dugard's, that's for sure. They couldn't match me to any missing persons."

"There could be plenty of reasons for that."

"I know. We traveled a lot, were always on the go. That could've been one of the reasons. When I went in, it'd been ten years, which is a long time, so that didn't help, either."

"Not all police departments communicate as well as they should. Or they didn't back then. And there are thousands of missing children."

"Exactly. It feels futile."

"Maybe it's not."

"In any case, what I'd like most in life is to either forget the blonde woman-or answer the question of who she is."

"I doubt you'll be able to forget her."

"You're saying my only choice is to answer the question."

"That's what I'm saying."

"Even though I don't have any way to figure out what my original name was, or if my birthday is really my birthday?"

"You could go back to the police. Keep trying."

"I wouldn't want to do that here, wouldn't want the whole town to know that I think I might've been abducted. They've heard enough about our family as it is. I'm an adult now. Maybe I should just...let it go." Because she had no idea what she might find and whether or not the truth would be worse than not knowing. What if the perfect childhood she thought she remembered wasn't as perfect as she thought? What if her real family had given her away, to Anita, someone who had no business raising a child?

She'd always wondered if that might be why the police hadn't been able to match her with a missing person. It could be that her original family never filed a report.

"You could go to Sacramento. They have a bigger department and might be in a position to do more for you."

Sacramento was the closest metropolitan city. It made sense to go there. "Maybe I will. Someday. Anyway, enough about me. I think you owe it to me to answer one more question."

"You already stumped me with question number two."

"But I'm the one doing all the revealing. I haven't told anyone else what I just told you, so...I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything. The possibility really upsets Presley, for obvious reasons."

"What happens between us stays between us. Regardless of what it is."

He sounded so firm in that commitment she felt a little better about having gotten involved with him. "Thanks. So...for your last question of the evening, what are the tattoos on your chest? I know you have some but it's always been too dark for me to make out what they are."

"I'm going to save the answer to that one."

"For..."

He lowered his voice. "Someday when you'd like to come over and see for yourself."

Was right now too soon? Suddenly, Cheyenne wanted to be with him. She craved the pleasure he could give her, could already feel her body growing warm and ready in response. But tonight she felt more than a physical reaction. She longed for the companionship and support he offered, too. And that frightened her. It said making love with him would be different this time. It would be deeper, richer-and involve some level of commitment to establishing a relationship.

"You scare me," she admitted.

"In what way?"

"In every way."

"And Joe doesn't?"

Joe didn't have the same reputation. Except for the period when he was married and gone, she'd watched him closely for seventeen years. He seemed both familiar and predictable. And his connection with Gail added a layer of security Cheyenne didn't get with Dylan. Gail adored her brother and would certainly know if he wasn't emotionally reliable or capable of maintaining a relationship. "Joe has never been picked up by the police."

"Neither have I-not for a few years."

"That makes you safe?"

"That means I've had my problems but I've grown up."

"I see. But I'd have to take that on faith."

"You're not a safe bet, either, sweet pea. I'd be taking my own risks."

"What do you mean?"

"You're in love with someone else. Am I going to have to worry about you wanting Joe every time we're together? Is he the one you think about when we make love?"

"No!" She hadn't thought of Joe in that way since Dylan had hijacked her life. Which was odd, given how often she'd fantasized about Gail's brother before. "Even now, when I close my eyes and imagine a man touching me, I see only you."

"I'm willing to work with that," he said. "I can prove myself."

He seemed pleased to have the chance, and that made her smile. There was more she could've said-like how hard it had been to take her eyes off him tonight, how every incidental touch had created an amplified response, how she burned for his hands on her body this very minute. But she knew her defenses were already crumbling too fast.

"Does that mean you'll finally go out to dinner with me?" he asked.

He was nothing if not persistent. She laughed. "Fine. When?"

"Tomorrow night."

The night she was supposed to go out with Joe. But he hadn't called to ask her. "You want what you didn't win."

"Win?"

"At darts, remember?"

"I want a lot more than that," he growled.

Her breath caught at the admission. He did something to her, something that made her heart pound and her nerves tingle. She worried that she wouldn't be able to resist him even if she somehow realized, knew without a doubt, that she was making a mistake. "I've never met anyone like you. You're so...frank."

"I don't want to lose out just because I didn't have the balls to make my intentions clear."

She could appreciate that-but it also made her fear that he might be the type to fall out of love just as quickly.

If she took the gamble, how would she explain to her friends that she was dating Dylan Amos? They were the family she'd never had, the people who'd pulled her through the past seventeen years. Was she a fool to completely disregard their advice and concern?

They'd come home from the cruise and freak out when they heard. But Dylan was like a drug she'd tried in their absence. All she wanted to do was take another hit, return to that place of euphoria only he could take her.

She wouldn't be the same when her friends saw her again. Would she be able to meld this new relationship with the ones she already had?

The hope was there, but she was afraid her friends, especially Eve, would never really accept Dylan. Certain they had to save her from heartbreak, they'd unite against him.

Fortunately, she had a few days before she had to deal with their reaction. She'd give herself that much time to see where this was going....

"I'm in for dinner," she said, "but...we won't be sleeping together afterward. If we're going to take this seriously, I want to get to really know you first."

"You've got seventeen more questions," he said. "Better make them count."

19.

"So what did you think?"

Cheyenne rose up on her elbows and squinted to make out the blurry shape on the edge of her bed: Presley. "What time is it?" she mumbled, but her voice cracked and she had to clear her throat to get all the words out.

"Does it matter?"

"Maybe not to you." She twisted around to find her alarm clock. "Five! God, that's early, especially on a Sunday, which is usually my only day to sleep in. What are you doing?"

"I want to hear about Dylan."

With a groan, Cheyenne fell back on the pillows. "Did you just get home?"

"A few minutes ago."

"Where have you been?"

"Hanging out with Aaron."

That didn't provide much information. Cheyenne wanted to relax-at least her sister was home safe-but she couldn't avoid the fact that Presley was high. Now that the sleep was beginning to clear from Cheyenne's head, she could tell by her sister's too-loud voice. "What are you on?"

Presley's gesture was irritable. "Don't worry about it."

"I do worry about it. All the time."

"I'm fine!"

"You need to get off drugs, Pres. Go back into rehab if you can't stop on your own."

She hopped off the bed. "You sound like Dylan."