You'll Find Out

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Thrillers

Synopsis

Dear Reader,

Just when you think you’re safe from the past, it finds you. It’s as true in life as it is in fiction, and it’s been a favorite theme of mine from my earliest novels, including these two classic novels, The Shadow of Time and Gypsy Wind, now gathered in one volume with a gorgeous new cover and title. Mara Wilcox and Becca Peters both tried to leave danger behind them. And both thought they’d succeeded . . . until now.

After four long years, Mara has come to accept losing Shane in a tragic bombing overseas. Inexplicably, he’s back, mad as hell that she didn’t wait for him, and determined to claim his daughter. But Mara isn’t the only one shocked by his return, and someone will do whatever it takes to make sure there are no new beginnings.
 
Ever since the scandal that almost destroyed her family horse farm, Becca has tried to keep her feelings for Brig Chambers reined in. His accusations already cost her so much. Yet there’s as much desire between them as there is distrust—enough to blind them both to an enemy that’s never gone away.

I loved revisiting these stories, and hope you’ll join me in rediscovering them.

Release date: February 25, 2025

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 512

Sample

Shane Kennedy had been wrong. Dead wrong. He didn’t make mistakes often. In fact, he very rarely made mistakes, and the realization that this morning was not only an error in judgment but also an exercise in frustration made him clench his teeth and jut his jaw against the early November morning air. He prided himself in his ability to think clearly, solve problems, handle any situation, and avoid costly or time-consuming errors. Yet here he was, doing exactly the opposite of what all of his instincts instructed him to do, caught up in the enticing but bitter nostalgia of the past, acting the part of a fool!

As he leaned against the moss-laden trunk of a barren oak tree, he wondered what had possessed him to come here—it wasn’t as if he was welcome. He muttered a silent oath under his breath and watched the scene before him with fascination . . . and contempt. He must have been out of his mind, driving most of the night just to . . . what? he asked himself. To see her again? Talk to her . . . touch her? He snapped his mind closed at the thought with another oath. Damn! He closed his eyes as the cold, familiar sense of betrayal crept silently up his spine, and he hiked the collar of his coat up more closely to his throat as if to ward off the chill of the early winter morning.

Perhaps it was because four lonely years had passed, and time has a way of twisting memories to make them appear more captivating than they actually were. Or perhaps he had just forgotten how mysteriously beautiful she could be. Or, more likely, even in Shane’s own estimation, he had secretly hoped that the years would have begun to take their toll on Mara’s winsome features and that the signs of age would have started to weather the regal loveliness of her face, making him immune to her beauty. But he had been mistaken—and a fool to even believe that the passion she had once inspired would have died within him. It was a false hope on his part, nothing more. Even now, in the cold, misty morning, cloaked in an unflattering black coat, Mara appeared more serenely beautiful than he had remembered. And if age had caught up with her, it was only to add a determination and a maturity that increased the seductive quality of her elegant beauty. The memories that her presence evoked shattered Shane’s resolve.

He had come to the lonely cemetery on impulse, and now he realized the gravity of his mistake. One look at Mara was not enough to satisfy him. His fists balled at his sides as he discovered, to his disgust, that despite the pain of the last four years, he still wanted Mara as desperately as he ever had. The thought made his black eyes spark with contempt. The feeble excuses that had propelled him to the well-manicured cemetery on the hillside were already fading. It was an inexcusable mistake; he should never have come, never have broken into her privacy. But, still, he lingered, unable to take his eyes off of the attractive new widow.

The cold, gray morning was clouded in mist, giving the ceremony an eerie, uneasy quality, and the light dusting of dry snow that covered the ground added to the ethereal feeling that captured Mara. A light breeze tossed the few remaining dry leaves into the air in frozen, swirling circles that spiraled heavenward.

Behind the flimsy protection of the black veil, Mara’s cobalt-blue eyes stared down at the gravesite, unseeing. The usual sparkle that lighted her face was gone, replaced by a serious cloud that made her delicate features more tightly pinched than normal. Her skin was still flawless, and her high cheekbones were as regally sculpted as they ever had been, but there was a determined set to her jaw that stole the usual softness from her face. Unconsciously, she licked her arid lips and stared down at the brass casket with dry eyes. In one hand she clutched a single white rose to her black-draped breast, in the other, she clung firmly to the tiny fist of her dark-eyed daughter.

At the final words from the preacher, Mara dropped the snowy blossom onto the coffin and coaxed her reluctant child to do the same. The mourners began to disperse slowly, with only an occasional hoarse whisper of condolence cast in her direction. She smiled grimly behind the thin, black veil and nodded briefly at each of the sympathizers before making her way back to the black limousine that was idling quietly nearby.

Once inside the luxurious car, Angie looked at her mother in a childish imitation of concern. “Is Daddy gone forever, Mommy?”

“Yes, honey—I’m afraid so,” Mara responded, and placed a comforting kiss on the child’s forehead.

“Good!” Angie snorted.

Mara felt a dry tightness in her throat at the stinging words of her daughter, although the outburst wasn’t totally unexpected. She closed her eyes and in a soft, consoling voice replied, “No, Angie, it’s not good . . . why would you say such a thing?”

“Because it’s true! Daddy don’t like me!” The little girl crossed her chubby arms over her chest in an attitude that dared her mother to argue with her.

“No . . . oh, no . . . that’s not the way it was, honey. Not at all. Daddy loved you very much.”

The child puckered her lips before shooting Mara a knowing look. Mara swallowed with difficulty and bit nervously at her thumbnail. She wondered how she was going to stave off the inevitable argument that was brewing. How could she lie to her own daughter? Although only three years old, Angie had a keen sense of perception—so like her father’s. Once again, Mara tried to reason with the child. “I know that Daddy . . . was a little . . . gruff with you at times, Angie. And, maybe, he was overly grouchy. But honey, you have to remember that Daddy was very, very sick. Sometimes. . . the things that he said, well, he just didn’t mean them. You have to believe that Daddy loved you very much.”

“Why?” Angie demanded, imperiously.

Mara hazarded a quick glance at the chauffeur, whose bland expression told nothing about his thoughts on the difficult conversation between mother and daughter. “Because . . . oh, honey, Daddy’s gone. Can’t you just forget the times that you and he quarreled?”

“No!”

“Look, Angie—” Mara’s voice became a hushed whisper “—there are going to be a lot of people at the house this afternoon. Please promise Mommy that you’ll be good.”

“Who?”

“Who?” Mara echoed, confused for an instant. “Oh, you want to know who will be at the house today?” The impish child nodded, tossing her blond curls. “Let’s see,” Mara began, placing a comforting arm around her wayward daughter’s small shoulders. “I know that Grammie and Aunt Dena will be there. Maybe cousin Sarah and . . .” Mara’s voice trailed on tonelessly while she listed all of the relatives who would attend the intimate gathering of those closest to Peter. She was relieved that she had managed to change the course of the conversation with Angie, and fervently hoped that the little girl wouldn’t bring up the touchy subject of her father for the remainder of the day.

As Mara thought about the afternoon ahead of her, she mentally groaned. It would be trying, at best. The thought of all of Peter’s friends and relatives trying to console her made Mara’s weary mind whirl. Couldn’t they just leave her alone and let her deal with her grief quietly and in solitude? No matter what kind of a marriage she and Peter had shared, being a widow was a new and frightening experience. She needed time alone.

When she thought about widowhood, Mara felt her throat become dry. Although she was relieved that Peter’s suffering was over, she felt guilty at the thought. It all seemed so senseless—the malignancy that had forced him into an early grave. Now, after all of the tears had been shed and the suffering had ended, she wondered uneasily if it had been her fault that the marriage had been foundering. Why was it that the only thing that had held Peter to her in the end was the devastating news of his terminal illness? Peter had been kind to her, at least in the beginning, and she couldn’t forget that kindness, even if in other ways he had failed. She sighed despondently to herself. What was the use of dredging up old, unwanted memories? Poor Peter was gone, and if it hadn’t been for him, what would have happened to her and Angie? Mara looked anxiously at her bright-eyed daughter sitting on the velvet gray upholstery of the long, black car. Angie’s eyelids drooped, and the tangled mass of golden ringlets sprang out discordantly from beneath her tiny black hat. It was a shame to dress such a lively child in black, Mara thought, but after all, this was Peter’s funeral, a time for mourning, and if Peter hadn’t married Mara four years ago, what would she have done? Mara closed her eyes and pushed the nagging question aside. It wouldn’t do to dwell on the past. Not today, not ever. How many times had she given herself that very same advice—always for the same reasons.

The driver eased the sleek ebony car through the twisted road of the graveyard, and the motorcade followed his lead. A long, flexible line of cars wound its way past the cemetery gates and down the hill toward Asheville and the Wilcox Estate that bordered the western North Carolinian city.

If Mara hadn’t been so distracted with her daughter, perhaps she would have noticed the one mourner who stood slightly apart from the crowd. She had been too busy with Angie to realize that the tall man with the brooding black eyes followed her every move. Even now, as the large limousine made its way toward the city, the man waited and watched. His eyes, dark as obsidian, held a quiet flame in them, and although he tried desperately to deny the urges within him, he knew that he would find a way to get close to Mara again. He would see her again—if only for a short while, he vowed to himself. It had been four long, agonizing years, but Peter Wilcox’s untimely death had ended Shane’s tormented vigil. Unfortunate for Wilcox, but quite the opposite for Kennedy, Shane thought grimly. His speculations were ruthless, and he felt a slight twinge of conscience but ignored it. He reminded himself that Mara had it coming; nothing could alter that fact and the quiet anger of betrayal smoldering in his mind.

The burning picture of the suffering widow stayed with him and played dangerous games with his mind. The heavy black coat and gracious veil that Mara had worn couldn’t hide her serene beauty from him. He could still visualize the slender curve of her calf, the bend of her knee, the swell of her breasts, and the perfection of her face. It was an image that had tormented his nights for over four years. He had been patient—a gentleman in all respects—but now the waiting was over. A slight gleam of satisfaction stole across his angled features.

Shane stood watching the procession of cars, mesmerized. The wind, promising still more snow for the Blue Ridge Mountains, ruffled his thick raven hair, but still he stared into the breeze, mindless of the chill, until the last vehicle passed over the crest in the road and was no longer in view. Damning himself for his own impetuous desires, he strode to his car. It would be better to wait, and he knew it, but there was an urgency to his movements. Once inside the silver Audi he turned the ignition key, and the sporty car roared to life. He paused for a moment, his hands poised over the steering wheel, and uttered a curse at his hesitation, which seemed, somehow, to be a sign of weakness. It was a mistake, but to hell with it, he had to see Mara again, face to face, and find out why she had deceived him four years ago. But it was the day of her husband’s funeral, his conscience argued with him—anyone would need a little time to adjust. He ignored the thought, and muttering a low, self-derisive oath, he cranked the wheel of the car to follow the funeral procession.

The limousine carrying Mara and Angie headed up the slight incline toward the gracious Wilcox Manor. Small by genteel southern standards, it was nonetheless impressive and stately. The circular drive was long and guarded by ancient white oak trees. Though the onset of winter had left the giant oaks stripped of their once lush leaves, the tall trees added a royal dignity to the estate.

The house was a white clapboard structure that seemed larger than its two stories due to the knoll on which it stood. With a backdrop of pine trees and gently rolling hills, the clean white exterior of the manor seemed to reflect the pristine brightness of the new fallen snow. Teal-blue shuttered windows and a broad front porch of polished red brick enhanced the gracious, colonial house. The grounds, now blanketed with the new snow, were only a portion of the original, vast country estate. Most of the acreage that had been used for farming and timber had been parceled off to neighboring farms as the cost of machinery and taxes had escalated over the past few years.

Even in the severity of winter, rhododendrons and azaleas peeked through the mantel of dry white snow, exposing their still green leaves. Tufted grass pierced through the icy drifts to remind Mara of warmer days, and Mara’s words vaporized in the air as she whispered to her child. It was a bitterly cold day, and yet, even in the dead of winter, the Wilcox estate held the easy Southern country charm of North Carolina and welcomed the grieving family and friends of Peter Wilcox.

Fortunately for Mara, Angie had fallen asleep in the car. Lovingly, Mara carried the child into the house and headed directly up the sweeping staircase that flanked the elegant, marble-tiled foyer. Polished oak and rosewood gleamed as she cuddled Angie more closely to her. On this day, as she had often in the past, Mara felt a deep melancholy that made her cherish Angie as if she were the only child in the universe.

Although Peter’s mother protested, Mara stood her ground and insisted that the tired child rest. Mara didn’t want to chance another outburst from Angie about her late father, especially in front of the mourning guests. There was no need to add any further tension to the already gloomy and uneasy afternoon.

“Please explain to the others that I’ll be upstairs with Angie for a few minutes,” Mara pleaded with her mother-in-law.

June, usually agreeable, touched a nervous finger to the collar of her tidy, black silk dress. “But don’t you think that Angie should stay down here and . . .”

“No, I really don’t,” Mara interrupted, as kindly as possible, as she began to mount the ancient, curved staircase. “I’ll be down later, as soon as I’m sure that Angie is comfortable.” With her final statement, Mara continued up the stairs, carrying her limp child to the bedroom.

As Mara laid the girl on the bed, Angie’s eyes blinked open for just a moment, and once again Mara was reminded of how much her eyes were like her father’s. A hot pain seared her heart at the memory. Angie sighed deeply, her eyelids dropped reluctantly, and she snuggled contentedly into the blankets. Mara gently lifted the hat from Angie’s head. Golden curls splayed in unruly ringlets around her face, and Mara thoughtfully brushed the blond hair away from Angie’s cherublike cheeks. Despite her tension, Mara couldn’t help but smile down on the sleeping child—her only physical link to the girl’s father.

It took her nearly half an hour to descend the stairs and face the rest of the family, but Mara had taken time in preparing herself for the onslaught of condolences from bereaved family and friends. The funeral had been a draining ordeal, and Mara was beginning to feel the exhaustion of the day and the worry of the last six months wearing upon her. Her normally wholesome appearance paled, her color was washed away, and the skin over her high cheekbones was stretched tightly. Even the sparkle in her clear blue eyes had faded, and the smile, once quick and elegant, had seemed to disappear. The torment of Peter’s illness had affected his wife deeply. No matter how difficult the marriage had been, Peter’s painful death seemed brutal and senseless to Mara. So unfair! Now she wanted to be alone. She didn’t have the strength to smile or speak to any of the guests, especially Peter’s sister, Dena, whom she had been avoiding for the past few days. Dena had made it clear that she wanted to talk to Mara and discuss Peter’s will, and Mara could feel the inevitable confrontation in the air. She only hoped that Dena would have the sense and common courtesy to bring up the subject another day, in more private surroundings.

As Mara descended the stairs she realized that some of the guests were already leaving. June was escorting a young man, whom Mara recognized as a business associate of Peter’s, out of the broad front door when Mara joined her to smile politely at him and accept his condolences. Mara couldn’t help but notice that June’s nerves were tightly drawn and that the older woman’s eyes, though dry, were slightly swollen and red rimmed. There was a dead look of weariness in her face and her normally full lips had pulled into a tight, thin line that was neither a smile nor a frown. June Wilcox was a very private person, but Mara knew how devastated the older lady was over her only son’s death. Nervously, June fidgeted with the single strand of pearls at her throat.

The door closed as one of the last guests departed, and Mara and June were alone together for the first time that day. Mara gently touched her mother-in-law’s frail shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest,” she suggested. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’m fine,” June insisted staunchly, dismissing Mara’s advice with a wave of her finely boned hand.

Mara wasn’t convinced. “No one will miss you. Most of the guests have already gone.”

“I know, but . . .” June wavered for a moment and managed a stiff smile for Dr. Bernard, the family physician and old friend.

“You should take Mara’s advice,” the kindly old man stated authoritatively. “It’s been difficult for you.” His brown, knowing eyes traveled over the strained features on June’s face. “And don’t be afraid to take any of those pills I prescribed if you feel that you need them.”

“I won’t,” June agreed hastily, but the doctor raised a suspicious gray eyebrow as he shrugged into his raincoat.

“Good day,” Dr. Bernard said with a wave of his broad hand, and once again Mara was alone with her mother-in-law.

“Pills?” Mara inquired.

“Oh, you know,” June responded with a shake of her perfectly coifed gray hair. “Tranquilizers, or some such nonsense.”

Mara pulled her eyebrows into a single line of concentration. “I didn’t know you were on any medication.”

“Don’t be silly,” June interrupted a little crossly. “It’s not medication—not like you mean. They’re just nerve pills. Doctor Bernard passes them out to half of the women in the county.”

Mara was about to disagree but was forced to let the subject drop as several of the remaining guests filtered into the hall and extended their final condolences to the family. She acknowledged the sympathy before making her way as gracefully as was possible through the open doors and into the drawing room, where only a handful of guests remained. She spoke quietly to some of Peter’s friends before they, too, excused themselves.

Fortunately, Angie, exhausted from the long ceremony earlier in the day, slept through most of the afternoon. By the time she did awaken, only the most immediate members of the Wilcox family were left in the house: Peter’s mother, June, and his sister, Dena.

The argument was just beginning to boil when Angie, dragging her favorite tattered blanket behind her, crept unnoticed down the stairs.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Dena,” Mara was saying in a tight but controlled voice. “What man was here?”

“It was really nothing,” June began, but was silenced by Dena’s icy stare.

“Oh, so now you’re pretending that you don’t know him?” Peter’s auburn-haired sister asked insolently.

“Don’t know whom?” Mara repeated. Her slim hands were turned palms upward in a gesture of complete bewilderment.

“Look, Mara, if you think you can pull the wool over my eyes the way you have with the rest of the family, you’re wrong. Wrong as hell!” Dena snapped, her green eyes glittering with an unspoken challenge.

“Dena!” June gasped. “Why must you be so crude?” she asked, before spotting a groggy Angie on the stairs. “Uh-oh . . . look who just woke up! Did you have a nice nap, precious?” June asked, turning all of her attention to her grandchild.

The blond girl rubbed her eyes with her small fists and then held out her arms expressively to her grandmother. June bent down and groaned slightly as she lifted the child into her arms. Mara wondered fleetingly to herself if her mother-in-law should overextend herself—Dr. Bernard had mentioned something about pills. But Mara’s thoughts were interrupted as June smiled at Angie and continued talking to the girl as she carried the small, sleepy child out of the room. “Why don’t you and I go outside for a while,” she suggested, reaching for Angie’s coat. “Mommy and Aunt Dee Dee have some . . . er, business to discuss.”

Dena visibly cringed at the cutesy-pie name that Angie had bestowed upon her. After grandmother and child were safely out of earshot, on the opposite side of the French doors, Dena whirled back on Mara.

“I mean it, Mara!” Dena hissed. “I want to know all about that man!”

“Dena!” Mara’s thin patience snapped and the tone of her voice chilled. “For the last time, what man?”

The redhead paused and let her clear green eyes reappraise Mara. Her full lips pursed and the finely plucked brows drew together thoughtfully. As if finally understanding that Mara knew nothing of the stranger, she began to explain in a decidedly calmer voice. “There was a man here today—a tall fellow. Good-looking, but unconventional, if you know what I mean. He asked to see you, practically insisted!” Green eyes watched Mara closely, as if gauging her reaction. “Mother refused to let him in because she didn’t know him, and he declined to introduce himself—said his business was with only you! You were with Angie at the time. I thought that perhaps he might have been your attorney,” she suggested.

“You know that I use the family attorney! Are you sure that he wasn’t a business associate of Peter’s? I certainly don’t know anyone—”

Dena cut in. “Well, he acted as if he knew you! He became demanding, insisting to see you. When mother refused he stormed off in a huff. Now, are you sure you don’t know him?” Dena inquired, arching her eyebrows suspiciously as she studied Mara’s pensive face.

“I really couldn’t hazard a guess,” Mara said evenly, but a puzzled expression crowded her features. “Must have been a friend of Peter’s,” she mused, half to herself.

“I doubt that,” Dena disputed and walked lazily over to a table laden with uneaten appetizers. She regarded Mara with feigned innocence as she popped a shrimp canapé into her mouth. “This man, he wouldn’t fit in with Pete’s usual crowd, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s just the point,” Mara sighed. “I don’t know what you mean. As a matter of fact, I really haven’t understood anything that you’ve been saying, or implying,” she admitted, and touched her suddenly throbbing temple. Any discussion with Dena seemed to always end in a headache.

“Well,” Dena said, fingering several different hors d’oeuvres and stalling for theatrical effect. “This man, he was different.” She thought for a moment and a smile curved her full lips. “A little rough around the edges . . .”

“Coarse?”

“Hmmm . . . no,” Dena shook her deep-red curls, absorbed in thought. “Just, how can I explain it? Tougher, I suppose. He looked as if he knew what he wanted in life and wouldn’t let anything or anyone get in his way!”

“Nice guy,” Mara murmured sarcastically.

“I wouldn’t know,” Dena rejoined, and shrugged her slim shoulders, “but he was definitely more interesting than the usual crowd that Peter hung out with.” She let a polished fingernail linger on her lips as if savoring a very pleasant thought.

Mara was tired of the game playing, and Dena’s interest in the stranger didn’t concern her. “It doesn’t matter, Dena. I’ve no idea who that man was or is. If he wants to see me so badly, then he’ll certainly be back. If not—who cares? Honestly, I don’t see why he should upset you so much.”

“He’s not the reason I’m upset, and you know it!” Dena shot back at Mara, her pensive smile dropping from her face.

“The will?” Mara surmised, and Dena’s spine seemed to stiffen slightly.

“I mean it, Mara,” Dena threatened. “Peter may have inherited the bulk of the company shares from Daddy, but I still have some say in what goes on!”

“And I’ll bet that you’ll say plenty,” Mara returned ruefully.

“You can count on it! Imagination Toys is as much a part of my life as it was Peter’s. And if you think I’m going to sit idly by while you turn a profitable toy empire into a . . . a . . .”

“A tax loss?” Mara prompted. “As Peter was doing?”

“Peter was sick!”

“Yes . . . that he was,” Mara agreed in a controlled and unwavering voice. “But not in the beginning, when profits first began to fall off.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what exactly is the point, Dena? I’m tired, and I want to spend some time with Angie. So why don’t you get right to the crux of the problem?”

“Angie! Angie! It’s always that kid with you, isn’t it? I really wonder why you married Peter in the first place. Oh, yes, now I recall. You were pregnant, weren’t you? But why in the world did you have to marry Peter, for God’s sake? It’s not as if Angie was his child!”

“That’s enough!” Mara felt her cheeks begin to stain with unwanted color at Dena’s cruel supposition. “Let’s leave Angie, and for that matter, Peter, out of this argument. I’m going to take a few days off—maybe even a week or two. I’m not really sure. But I’m going to spend that time alone with my daughter!” Mara’s voice was stretched as tightly as a piano wire, but she tried to keep her rising temper under control. “It’s been a long, hard day, and we’ve both said some things that we shouldn’t have. When I get back to the office, you and I will talk about the company. We’ll settle our differences then.”

“And who will run the company while you’re off vacationing with the kid?” was the insolent inquiry.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s all been decided. John Hammel is perfectly capable . . .”

“The accountant?” Dena was incredulous, but Mara firmly stood her ground.

“That’s right.”

Dena’s eyes flashed emerald fire, but she let the words that were forming in the back of her throat die. She could see that it was of no use to try and talk to Mara now. Dena knew her sister-in-law well enough to realize that the determined line of Mara’s jaw meant business, and she had to content herself with the fact that her barb concerning Angie’s questionable paternity had wounded Mara. Dena smiled slightly at the thought. “All right, Mara, I’ll wait until you get back. But if you step on my toes, you had better believe that I’ll call my lawyer in an instant and contest Pete’s will!” She snapped her long fingers to add emphasis to her warning.

“Oh, Dena,” Mara sighed, suddenly weary. “Does it always have to be this way between us? Are you really threatening me?” Mara’s large blue eyes looked beseechingly up at Dena’s triumphant smile.

“Don’t think of it as a threat, dear,” Dena suggested with a voice that dripped venom and a self-satisfied smile lighting the green depths of her eyes. “Consider it a promise!” With her final words, Dena didn’t wait for Mara’s response. The redhead whirled on her high leather heels and clicked out of the room, following the path whereby the grandmother had escaped earlier with her grandchild.

As the porch doors banged shut, rattling the glass panes, Mara felt herself slump into the nearest chair. How was she going to cope with the Wilcox family? What could she possibly do about June’s failing health and Dena’s imperious demands? It was difficult enough making the adjustment into widowhood and single parenting, but to make matters worse, she had to fight Dena tooth and nail on every topic concerning the toy company. It crossed her mind that perhaps Mara should give in to Peter’s older sister’s demands. Then if Imagination continued to lose money, Dena would have no one to blame but herself. Maybe the best thing for all concerned would be for Mara to pack up Angie and leave her in-laws to squabble among themselves. But she wouldn’t do it—couldn’t. Too many other people depended upon her strength for her to just give up. Peter’s mother, June, had been especially kind to her. And Mara was a fighter. It went against everything she believed in to give up without exhausting all possible alternatives. There had to be a reasonable solution to the problem with Dena.

The fatigue that had begun to creep up her spine finally overcame her and she shuddered. The last six months of watching Peter slowly wither away had been excruciating, and for the first time since his death Mara gave in to the bitter tears of exhaustion that burned at the back of her eyes.