“What was Susan going to do, after her baby was born? I’m sure-” a smile flickered weakly, then vanished. “I doubt very much that she intended to die.”

Eric didn’t answer. Instead he stared down at the baby’s face, watched it waver and blur.

“She was living on the streets, you said. So, did she have any kind of a plan?” Her voice was brusque-almost pugnacious. But when he looked at her, all he saw was the same wistfulness that had touched him so often in Susan-a stretched, fragile look around her eyes…a certain childlike softness to her mouth. She looked…lost, he thought. And-yes, there it was again-vulnerable. “Was she going to put the baby up for adoption? Keep her? What?”

He drew a careful breath. “I don’t think she’d made up her mind. Sometimes she’d talk about keeping her baby-going into the shelter, getting a job… But then, I think-I don’t know, maybe the fear of failure would get to her, and she’d be just overwhelmed by it all. You know-‘What if I don’t make it? What kind of life will my baby have then?’ And by that time, she figured she’d be that much more attached, and giving her up would be that much-”

“What was she like-my sister?” The interruption was no more than a whisper.

Eric narrowed his eyes, but it did nothing to help the pain that had come over him. Giving her up. It was a fear that he understood in his gut, in the depths of his soul. Looking at Devon became too hard, and because he didn’t want to look at Emily either, just then, he turned his head away. “Tired,” he said gruffly. “Defeated. Like most street kids, old before her time-like…nineteen-going-on-a-hundred.”

He felt rather than saw Devon nod. After a moment she asked in that same fragile whisper, “Was there a funeral?”

“She was cremated,” he said bluntly. “I took care of it-sorry, it was all I could afford. There’s a marker, though, where her ashes are buried. If you want-”

“Thank you. I-my parents would appreciate that.” She hesitated, staring at nothing, rubbing at her upper arms. Then she walked quickly past him and out of the room.

But not before he saw that she was crying.

A Southern California girl born and raised, Devon had never experienced the profound stillness of snow. Because of it, and because she was still operating on Pacific Coast time, she slept late and awoke to a disorienting brightness that alarmed her before she was at least partly reassured by the numerals on the nightstand clock.

She threw back the covers and, accustomed now to the shock of the cold floor on her bare feet, rushed to the window. And caught back a cry with a quick intake of breath. After that, she could only look and look…and hug herself and shiver with a strange effervescent excitement. She was unaware, then, that what she was experiencing for the first time ever was only the exquisite delight countless children have known, awakening to discover a world made magic by a simple blanket of white.

Surprised somewhat by her eagerness to be out in it, she dressed quickly in borrowed clothes and hurried downstairs. She found the kitchen warm and cozy as she’d come to expect, humid with the smells of coffee and something she feared must be boiled oats, with the friendly sounds of a local radio station playing in the background, turned down low. Her heart did a peculiar little bump when she saw that Eric was there before her. She couldn’t for the life of her think why; slouched in a chair with several days growth of beard on his face and an errant lock of hair giving him a vagabond air, he was hardly heartthrob material.

She couldn’t help but think what a difference a day made. Yesterday morning, bare-chested and holding a baby in his arms, he’d confronted her in this kitchen with all the hospitality of a peasant encountering Frankenstein’s monster. Today, he was sitting at the table placidly reading a book, a coffee mug and an empty cereal bowl on the table in front of him, and he only looked up long enough to mutter a neutral, “’Mornin’-help yourself to coffee and oatmeal.”

And why on earth did she find herself wishing for more?

“Where are your mom and dad?” she asked as she pulled out a chair and sat down, curling her hands around a mug of steaming coffee.

“Feeding cattle,” Eric said without looking up, as he deliberately turned a page. Under the stubble that darkened his jaws she could see a muscle working, and she felt a distinctly childish-and unsettling-desire to kick him under the table.

“How come you’re not out there helping?” She was secretly pleased when he closed the book and pushed it away from him. Pleased, and yet another part of her couldn’t think what had possessed her, to demand attention like a spoiled child.

“Somebody has to stay with the kid,” he reminded her. He laughed without humor when Devon straightened as if she’d been poked, then ducked her head to meet her raised coffee mug and bury her face guiltily in the steam. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of asking you.”

She didn’t reply, but sipped coffee and nursed a little ember of…was it hurt, or annoyance? So, I’m not the mothering type, she thought. So, I don’t know how to hold a baby-what am I supposed to do, apologize for that?

Refusing to give in to the disappointment she felt, she tilted her head to study the cover of the book he’d been reading. “Harry Potter-I’ve heard of him. Isn’t that supposed to be a children’s book?”

“Yeah, so what?” He picked up his coffee mug and lifted an eyebrow at her over the rim. “Does that mean adults can’t read it?” He took a swallow, gesturing toward the book with the mug as he set it back down. “Dad told me I should read it, actually. He’s a writer-I can see why he’d like it.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s full of words,” he said, then smiled when she laughed at that ridiculous statement. “Well, you’d know what I mean if you read it.” Then, while laughter still warmed his eyes, he slyly asked, “What books did you read when you were a kid?”

“The usual ones.” She flung it back at him, defiantly, to let him know that, even with the laughter and the smile, he hadn’t caught her off guard this time.

“What?” he persisted, looking innocent. “Nancy Drew…horse books…Beverly Cleary…The Hobbit-”

The Hobbit. She pounced on that-she’d read Lord of the Rings in college. “Yeah, I read that.” She said it with an air of victory, and before he could ask more questions, rose briskly, taking her coffee cup with her. “What I want to do,” she announced, “is go outside and see the snow.”

“Believe me,” he said dryly, “it looks prettier from here.”

She turned to lean against the sink. Acutely self-conscious under his quiet, appraising gaze, she folded her arms across her breasts. “Hey-I’m from L.A. This is a new experience for me. I intend to make the most of it.”

“I hope you’ve got your long johns on.”

“My what?”

“Long johns-thermal underwear?” His glance swept her from head to toe, a touch as light as snowflakes. Inside the meaningless shell of her clothes, she felt slim and cool and naked. He nodded at the jeans she was wearing. “In those, without thermals you’ll freeze in five minutes.” He made an exasperated grimace. “It’s not a damn Christmas card. Don’t you know it’s cold out there?”

She couldn’t seem to answer him. It’s true, she thought. Your voice can stick in your throat.

Impatient, brusque, he shoved his chair back and stood up. “Come on-I’ll find you some.”

She moved clumsily to one side so he could put his cereal bowl and coffee cup in the sink. He reached past her to run water into them, then gestured for her to go ahead of him. She obeyed, meek but resentful. And he says his mom’s a steamroller, she thought. Maybe it was in the genes.

Oh, how she did not want to walk ahead of him up the stairs. She’d never felt so conscious of her body before. She tried to hold herself rigid, wishing she could somehow stop the sway of her hips, the stretch of fabric over her buttocks. She was breathless by the time she reached the top, and her heart pounded as if she’d climbed a dozen flights of stairs.

In the upstairs hallway, Eric slipped past her and into her room. She followed, and found him opening and closing drawers.

“Ah-here we go.” He held up a pair of light blue knit thermals, top and bottom. “These ought to fit you-I think they’re probably my dad’s, so ignore the, uh…guy stuff.” He tossed them on the unmade bed and pulled open another drawer, this one full of socks. “If you’re going to go outside in this, dress in layers-especially your feet-got it? At least three pairs of socks. The boots you were wearing yesterday morning should be okay… Oh-and eat some breakfast. You’ll need the energy to keep warm. There’s oatmeal-”

“I hate oatmeal,” Devon blurted out. Belatedly recognizing the rudeness of that, she hugged herself contritely, shivering even in the mild coolness of the bedroom.

“Suit yourself,” Eric said with a shrug. He went out of the room, and a moment later she heard the door next to hers quietly close.

Still shivering, still resentful, she jumped belatedly to close her own door after him. Then, muttering words like “Bossy!” and “Where does he get off!” under her breath, she began peeling off her clothes.

It took a while, and by the time she was finished the room was strewn with discarded clothing, but she was satisfied she’d donned enough layers to see her through an Arctic trek. She felt enormous-like a pregnant whale, cocooned in layers of fabric and stuffed into jeans that felt a couple of sizes too small now. And stiff-she could hardly bend her knees. She walked like a B-movie monster. But she was ready. And she could hardly wait to get outside.