"I could show you a good time," he offered.

Stepping back, she glanced up at the name of the store: Mel's Quickie Grocery. It hadn't been around when she lived here, but the businesses on this street frequently changed hands. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Just waiting for some girl to come by-like a...a spider hoping to catch a fly?"

He chuckled softly. "Not quite. My friend owns this place. He supplies me with...certain commodities I enjoy. I spotted you as I was coming out and thought you looked like the type who might enjoy them, too."

This caught her interest, as he'd probably expected. "What kind of commodities?"

"Speed? Crank? What's your drug of choice? I can get it."

At this point, she'd take anything. "I'm not picky."

"Then I won't even have to go back inside."

She narrowed her eyes. "What, exactly, do you want in return?"

"Nothing too out of the ordinary. At least not these days. I enjoy a little BDSM. You?"

Pain, especially voluntary pain, wasn't her thing. But he was offering her what she'd come for, and she wasn't sure she'd find a better opportunity. "I'm not into anything too controlling," she said to see how he'd respond.

He adjusted his smile in an all-too-obvious attempt to look more sincere. "Fine. A light bondage session, then."

An image of Aaron came to mind. He never hurt her, not physically. He made love gently, sweetly, which would come as a surprise to those in Whiskey Creek who liked to think the worst of him. Already, she missed him, wanted to be with him.

But a girl didn't always get what she wanted. Presley had learned that lesson at an early age.

"I'll need some cash. I'm new in town, and I have to find a place to stay."

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from in his jacket and passed her one. "I might be able to help you out with that, too. My girls make good money, and I keep them safe."

So that was it. But as long as she got by, did it really matter? "Then our arrangement is more of an audition?"

He lit her cigarette. "I was just looking for a good time, but...who knows where the relationship might go from there?"

She covered her stomach with one hand. "I need an abortion."

"Hazard of the trade," he said without batting an eye. "I can arrange it."

Except this wasn't the type of unwanted pregnancy he assumed it was. She loved the baby's father. It wouldn't be easy to go through with the procedure. Her stomach tightened protectively at the mere thought of it.

If only she had another choice. If only Aaron cared about her. Just a little. She was thirty-three. If she wasn't going to have a child now, when would she start?

Probably never. No one knew better than she did how unlovable she was. It was too much to hope for, too much to expect that Aaron would want to be a father to their child.

The stranger motioned to a Lexus sedan that looked as respectable as he did. "Let's go."

"If you suspect you might not have been born to Anita, what about Presley? Do you think Anita could've stolen Presley, too?" Dylan had to admit that Christmas Eve wasn't the best time to talk about this, but he'd been burning with curiosity ever since Cheyenne had first shared her doubts. And they had plenty of time and privacy tonight. Since all the restaurants were closed, he'd made a salad and grilled a couple of steaks for dinner. Now they were enjoying a glass of wine, curled up together on her couch. He'd wanted to take Cheyenne to his house for the evening; he thought the presence of his brothers and all the activity might take her mind off her troubles. But she couldn't stop hoping that Presley would walk through the door, relieve her worries and possibly refute what she believed about Anita's death. That hope kept her anchored to her own house.

"She's most likely Anita's biological child," she said after a few seconds of deliberation.

"Why do you think so? She doesn't look anything like her. No more than you."

She slid her hand under his shirt but the movement was more about comfort and contact than desire. "There was always a certain affinity between them. One that came naturally. One we just didn't have."

He smoothed the hair out her face. "In other words, Presley was Anita's favorite."

"By a long shot. And I couldn't blame her. Presley was far more flexible and forgiving. I don't know why I couldn't be the same. I've often felt guilty about the resentment inside me, but...I haven't been able to overcome it. I think it's because she never felt a moment's guilt over how she behaved. If she'd remained healthy, nothing would've changed."

"Do you know anything about Presley's father?"

She leaned forward for a sip of her wine before putting it back on the coffee table. "No more than I know about my own."

"Where did Anita typically meet men?"

"Besides bars? Begging in the streets. At Laundromats. Homeless shelters. Hanging out around sex shops or those peep-show places. Rest stops. Drunk tanks." She twisted her head to smile ruefully at him. "All the places one usually hopes to find love."

He laughed. "God, what a life. How many cities did you live in growing up?"

She settled against his chest. "Too many to count. We never stayed in one place for long."

"Because your mother couldn't find work?"

"She did odd jobs here and there, but they never lasted. She couldn't get along with her bosses for more than a few weeks or months. Or she abused the system-called in sick too often, stole from the till, handled her personal business on company time. More often she wasn't even looking for gainful employment. She was just hoping for a handout or a quick...transaction so she could get by and keep moving."

How had Cheyenne and Presley coped with such a mother? He'd heard rumors about Anita, of course, ever since they'd come to town. But he hadn't really clued in to what might be going on in their lives, not until recent years when he'd started noticing the pretty blonde next door who wouldn't give him the time of day. Soon after, he learned quite a bit about Cheyenne, thanks to Presley and the things she said during her many visits to his house. "What was she looking for?"

"I wish I could tell you." There was a shrug in her voice. "The grass was always greener somewhere else. She felt the next place would be easier. I quit trying to figure it out once I realized that even she didn't know what she was looking for."

"Was the grass ever any greener?"

"Not until we moved here. We were in New Mexico before. It was terrible for us there. Then Phoenix for a brief time, and that was even worse. Whiskey Creek felt like home to me from the very beginning. But she probably wouldn't have settled down, if not for being diagnosed with cancer."

"She could've moved after she went into remission."

"Presley and I were out of high school by then, and she knew we wouldn't go with her. We were both too happy to have finally put down roots."

"She didn't want to go without you?"

"I think that having us made her feel grounded, needed, connected. And she was older by then, had lost some of the compulsion to keep moving."

"She's never had anyone besides the two of you?"

"No. She didn't come from the best family." She stared up at him. "Can I ask you a question?"

He gave her a half smile. "Does this count toward the seventeen?"

"It should. It's a hard one."

She'd been answering some pretty hard questions herself. And after all, turnabout was fair play. "Shoot."

"How do you feel about your father?"

He'd known this would be coming sooner or later. Of course she'd be curious. Anyone would. "That's complicated."

"I think I might understand why."

For a brief moment, Dylan felt the urge to light up but pushed the desire away and finished his wine. "He still writes us regularly."

"I wondered. What does he say?"

"That he screwed up. That he's sorry. That he loves us."

"Do you believe him?"

"I guess. People make mistakes. But...he gets out in less than two years. I don't want to reestablish a relationship because then my house would be the first one he comes to, and I'm not sure I can trust him not to climb right back into a bottle."

"Doesn't he own the house and the business?"

"Not anymore. He sold them to me a few years ago. In return I put some money on his books, which makes prison life a lot easier."

"So you've corresponded."

"Not very often. And not anymore."

"Do you think you'll ever write him again?"

"Sometimes I consider it." Her hair slipped through his fingers. "There's something between us, whether I want it or not. And he owes it to my brothers to try to be some kind of father. They're his responsibility, not mine." Even though he'd done his best to carry them in his father's absence.

Sympathy softened her expression. "I'm so sorry for what happened. It wasn't fair to you or your brothers."

It wasn't the unfairness of life that bothered Dylan. He'd come to terms with that. He just wished certain things could be relegated to the past and left there. But no. He'd have to deal with his father again in two years. "I guess you have to learn to roll over the bumps."

She smiled. "That's a good way to put it. I certainly never thought my life with Anita and Presley would end like this. Anita seemed too tough to ever die. And Presley...I always hoped she'd realize her strengths and make the most of them."

"Do you blame Aaron that she didn't?" She'd indicated as much when he'd approached her in the park. It was partly why she'd resented him. At least she'd given him that impression.

"Not really. I wished she'd find someone who had his life figured out, so he could help her. But...now that I've seen her with Aaron, I know your brother isn't the cause of her problems any more than she's the cause of his. They identify with each other. That's what draws them together."

"You told me you think Presley's in love with Aaron."

"She might be, but they're both so broken...." She grew pensive again. Another sip of her wine and a shift in attitude signaled a change of subject. "I don't believe Chief Stacy will really do much to look for Presley, do you?"

"He said he'd put out an APB." Dylan wanted to comfort her where he could, but he was hardly convinced that the chief of police felt any need to gather the troops. Stacy said someone who was grieving could do just about anything, even miss Christmas. But at least they'd done their best to get him involved.

"Will that be enough?"

"We have to hope it will." After visiting Stacy's house, they'd gone out looking again, hoping to spot Presley's car, but found nothing.

Several seconds passed. Then she said, "What if I have another mother out there...somewhere? What if all this-" she waved a hand around the room "-was never meant to be?"

Then they wouldn't have met. But he didn't say that. "Another mother could be a good thing."

"Or it could be a bitter disappointment," she said. "What if Anita didn't steal me? What if my real mother gave me away? Maybe she was no better than Anita. Worse, because she wanted to be rid of me."

"That's not very likely," he said. "It isn't consistent with your memories."

"I'm not even sure those memories are real."

Her cell phone rang before he could respond. He watched as she grabbed it, so hopeful, then sagged. Obviously, it wasn't her sister. After hitting the decline button, she tossed it away.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Eve."

"You don't want to talk to her?"

She curled into him again. "Not right now."

"She's your best friend. And it's Christmas Eve."

"I'll see her when she gets home."

"She's probably worried about you."

No response.

Eve had been out of town for over a week. Why wouldn't Cheyenne be excited to hear from her? "Chey?"

"I'm dealing with enough," she said when she spoke, but he got the feeling it was more than that. She and Eve had been inseparable since high school.

"Commiserating with her might help."

"I'm fine. I've got you."

Did she have to choose one or the other? "You don't want her to know about me," he guessed.

She tucked her hair behind her ears as she sat up. "She already knows."

"And she doesn't approve."

"She needs to see what you're really like."

Would that change her opinion? What if he couldn't win her over? Cheyenne's friends were a large part of her identity. They'd been her surrogate family. He couldn't imagine ripping her away from that support; he was sure she'd begin to resent him at some point if he did.

But he also couldn't imagine the crowd that had always looked down their noses at him suddenly welcoming him into the group, either.