“I haven’t thought about that for a long, long time,” he said.

Angel fought tears as she compared her own Christmases and birthdays heaped with gifts and laughter and love. She had lost so much four years ago, but at least she had something to lose.

Years of memories, years of love.

Hawk had nothing but rare moments, the fading taste of mint, and a ribbon worn to shreds in a boy’s pocket.

Chapter 18

Quietly Angel shut the trunk and followed Hawk to the front door of Mrs. Carey’s house. She rang the bell and waited, knowing it might take a while for Mrs. Carey to reach the front door.

Hawk noted Angel’s silence and drawn face, saw the tiny indentations where she had bitten her lower lip. He didn’t know what had upset her. All he knew was that he wanted to soothe the marks away with the tip of his tongue.

Like the memory of mint, the impulse surprised Hawk. He realized that he wanted to comfort rather than seduce Angel. He wanted to see her smile because he had brought pleasure to her. He wanted -

Mrs. Carey opened the door. Her gray head barely came to Hawk’s breastbone. She adjusted her glasses as she looked up at the tall, dark man who stood so unexpectedly on her doorstep.

“Good morning, Mrs. Carey,” Angel said, her voice soft, still shaken by Hawk’s sad memories. “I’d like you to meet Miles Hawkins. Hawk, this is Mrs. Carey.”

“Mr. Hawkins,” said the old woman, nodding her head.

“Call me Hawk. Everyone else in Canada does.”

He slanted a sideways look at Angel. Then he shifted the quilt-wrapped stained glass panel to his other arm as he took the old woman’s cool, dry hand in his.

“A pleasure, Mrs. Carey.”

The old woman’s shrewd black eyes measured the man in front of her. Then she nodded once, abruptly.

“Not many men could carry that nickname. You can. Come in, Hawk.” Then, dryly, “You too, Angie. Tea’s brewing.”

A big orange tomcat wove in and out of Mrs. Carey’s walker with breathtaking disregard for safety as she led the way to the kitchen. Finally Angel could stand the suspense no longer. She bent down and lifted the heavy cat into her arms.

“Tiger, you have no sense,” she scolded softly.

She rubbed the cat with her chin as she followed Mrs. Carey into the kitchen. The tom watched Angel with wise orange eyes, touched his nose to hers, and flowed out of her arms. Angel didn’t try to keep the cat. Mrs. Carey was sitting down now, no longer in danger of becoming tangled in her cat’s furry little feet.

“Pour for me, would you?” Mrs. Carey asked. “I must have slept on my hands wrong last night. They’re kind of slow waking up this morning.”

Angel looked quickly at Mrs. Carey. “Have you called Dr. McKay?”

The old woman laughed dryly.

“I’m seventy-nine, Angie. I’ve earned a few slow mornings, don’t you think?”

“I’m driving Derry over to see Dr. McKay later this morning,” said Angel. “I’ll pick you up and – ”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Carey interrupted firmly. “Pour the tea, Angie. There’s nothing the doctor can do for me that a cup of tea can’t do better. Sit down, Hawk. You can put whatever you’re carrying on the counter.”

Angie poured tea and passed the plate of shortbread biscuits around.

“About the doctor,” she began firmly. “I think – ”

“I remember a time a few years ago,” Mrs. Carey said, interrupting with equal firmness. “Derry came flying over here with his knickers in a twist because he found you asleep on your studio floor. Seems you’d been working too long, or something. Dr. McKay went to the house, thumped and poked and listened, and you never woke up. He told Derry nothing was wrong with you that a lot of sleep wouldn’t cure.”

“Yes, but – ”

Mrs. Carey put her teacup down with a firm motion that cut off Angel’s words.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with me that being young again wouldn’t cure,” Mrs. Carey said. “The day the doctor can turn back time is the day I’ll call him and tell him I feel tired in the morning.”

Angel sighed and gave up.

The phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Angel said, moving quickly toward the living room.

Mrs. Carey followed much more slowly.

Angel answered the phone, exchanged a few words with the person on the line, and then gave the phone to Mrs. Carey. The instant Angel walked back into the kitchen, she felt the intensity of Hawk’s stare.

“Do you do that often?” he asked, watching her.

“Answer the phone?” Angel asked, sitting down.

“Work yourself into exhaustion.”

Angel shrugged, trying to dismiss the subject.

“No,” she said calmly.

“Just when you’re upset?” Hawk asked, his voice too soft for Mrs. Carey to hear.

Angel sipped her tea.

“How long has it been?” said Hawk.

“Since what?”

“Since you worked until you couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, until your body just shut down and dumped you on the floor.”

For a moment Angel thought of refusing to answer. Then she realized that it didn’t matter. Hawk would just ask Derry.

And then there was the fact she wanted to tell Hawk. There would be a certain almost cruel pleasure in revealing to him just how badly he had misjudged her.

“It was more than three years ago,” Angel said, sipping her tea. “It was the night Carlson finally convinced me that the man I loved was dead and I was alive and there wasn’t one damn thing I could do about it except crawl into the grave and die with him.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Carlson wouldn’t let me.”

Angel’s eyes darkened, remembering Carlson’s cruelty. But it had been cruelty with purpose, cruelty that forced her to accept that she was alive and Grant was not.

Carlson had paid, too, more than she knew at the time. Angel hadn’t forgiven him for a year, hadn’t spoken to him, had refused even to look at him or the letters he sent. She hadn’t known then that Carlson loved her as a man loved a woman.

By the time she understood, it was too late. Carlson was inextricably bound up in her mind with Grant’s life and death. She could no more be Carlson’s lover than she could be Derry’s.

“Carlson loved you,” Hawk said flatly.

“Yes. Even before Grant did. But I never loved him, not that way.”

“Because he’s Indian?”

Angel smiled sadly. “Because he wasn’t Grant.”

“But after Grant was dead?” Hawk persisted.

With a weary gesture, Angel pushed tendrils of hair out of her eyes.

“Carlson still wasn’t Grant,” she said simply. “I couldn’t forgive him for that. I couldn’t forgive Derry. I couldn’t forgive any man.”

Angel saw another question form on Hawk’s lips. Abruptly she knew that whatever she had hoped to do to Hawk, she was being hurt worse by her words than he was. Memories punished her, memories she hadn’t allowed herself to review for years.

“No more, Hawk, please,” Angel said, her voice low, ragged. “Or do you enjoy torturing me with the past?”

Hawk closed his eyes, shutting out the confusion and anger in Angel’s face.

“No,” he said very softly.

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because I have to know about you.” His eyes opened clear and calm, as deep as night. “I have to.”

“Why?” Angel asked, desperation fraying the edges of her control.

“I’ve never known a woman who loved anything but herself.”

Hawk’s quiet words destroyed Angel’s protests. If her pain could teach Hawk something, she wouldn’t fight each question, each answer. She had learned so much from Derry’s pain, and from Carlson’s. She couldn’t refuse another person an equal chance to learn.

In the sudden silence, the sound of Mrs. Carey’s walker squeaking down the hall toward them was very loud.

“That was Karen,” Mrs. Carey said. “She told me that the raspberries on the old homestead are coming on thick this year.”

“Yum,” Angel said, licking her lips.

The old woman smiled.

“I can’t pick them,” Mrs. Carey said, “but I can still make jam.”

“We’ll be glad to pick as many berries as you want,” Hawk said before Angel could speak.

“A hawk in a raspberry patch.” Mrs. Carey laughed with a sound like fallen leaves rustling. “Thank you. That was worth getting up for.”

The corner of Hawk’s mouth lifted slightly. He looked at Angel, then at the kitchen counter where the stained glass panel lay, then back at Angel. She nodded. He stood in a lithe motion and went over to the counter.

“This,” Hawk said as he lifted the quilt-wrapped panel, “is worth living a hundred years for.”

He went to the window that overlooked the breakfast table. Sun poured through, bathing the table in warmth. Shielding the panel from Mrs. Carey’s view, Hawk unwrapped the quilt. Then he stepped aside quickly, holding the panel to the light.

Glass blazed, filling the kitchen with colors.

Mrs. Carey leaned against her walker’s support and looked at the glass transforming her kitchen into a fantasy of dancing colors.

“That is the prettiest thing I have ever seen,” she said slowly. “Just look at those colors. Why, I’d swear that you could eat that jelly.”

Angel smiled widely, enjoying Mrs. Carey’s pleasure.

“I’m glad you like it,” Angel said. “It’s yours.”

The old woman turned and looked at Angel.

“It’s too much, Angie. I can’t take it. Why, you must have spent a lot of time – ”

“I’ve eaten your jam all my life, Mrs. Carey,” Angel interrupted gently. “You’ve spent years in the kitchen cooking for other people. Please. I want you to have the panel. I made it just for you.”

Tears sparkled in Mrs. Carey’s eyes. She pulled a lavender-scented handkerchief from the pocket of her house dress and dabbed at her eyes. Then she held her hand out to Angel.

Angel stood and hugged Mrs. Carey gently. When Angel stepped away, she saw Hawk watching, his eyes as intense as the sunlight pouring into the kitchen. It was as though he was memorizing each instant of affection, each nuance of giving and receiving between the two women.