Their terrified war cries echoed each other. Bayonets clashed.

The enemy's eyes were blue, like the sky. That thought intruded as he felt the first agony of blade in flesh. The enemy's eyes were young and full of fear.

They fought each other like wild dogs. Even in the short time he had left, he would remember little of it. He remembered the smell of his own blood, the feel of it as it poured out of his wounds. He remembered waking alone, alone in those beautiful autumn woods.

And then stumbling down the path. Crawling, crying.

He would remember, for all of the hours he had left, he would remember the sight of the farmhouse just beyond the clearing. The color and glint of the stone, the slope of the roofline, the smell of animals and growing things.

And he wept again, for home.

Someone was with him. The face was older, weathered, set in a frown under a soft-brimmed hat. He thought of his father, tried to speak, but the pain as he was lifted was worse than death.

There were women around him, shouts, then whispers. Soft hands and firelight. Cool cloths, and the pain slipped into numbness.

Every word he spoke was a searing flame in his throat. But he had so much to say. And someone listened. Someone who smelled like lilacs and held his hand.

He needed to tell her he'd been proud to be a soldier, proud to serve and to fight. He was trying to be proud to die, even though the longing for home was fiercer than any of his wounds.

When he died, Jared woke, his heart stuttering. Savannah stirred beside him. And this time, this time, turned to him. In sleep, her arms came around him.

For tonight, it was enough.

Chapter Ten

With a stack of three paintings balanced in her arms, Savannah muscled open the door to Jared's offices. Rain dripped from the bill of one of Bryan's baseball caps, which she'd slapped on before making the drive to Hagerstown. Sissy glanced over, then hopped up from her keyboard.

"Let me give you a hand with those."

"Thanks." Grateful, Savannah passed the three wrapped bundles over. "I've got more in the car."

"I'll just put these down and help you bring them in."

"No. No use both of us getting wet." She took a quick scan of the freshly painted teal-colored walls, the deep mauve settee and the leather library chairs. "Coming along."

"You're telling me." Sissy set the paintings down on the coffee table. "I feel like I've been working in a box and someone just opened the lid and let in air. Let me get you an umbrella, at least."

"I wouldn't be able to hold it. Besides, I'm already wet. Be right back."

Savannah dashed out and sprinted the half block to her car. It was a hard, driving rain, but at least it was warm. No one seemed to be worried about a spring drought anymore—as Mrs. Metz had been happy to inform her when they ran into each other at the post office this morning.

The weather, however inconvenient at the moment, was causing Savannah's flowers to thrive.

By the time she got back in with the last of the paintings, she was soaked to the skin and squishing in her shoes.

"Is the boss in?" She set the paintings down, then took off the cap to run her fingers through her damp hair. "He might want to take a look before I hang these."

"He's with a client." Sissy flashed a smile. "But I'm dying to take a look.'' She snatched scissors off her desk. "Okay?"

"Sure. You've got to live with them, too."

"I can't believe how fast all this has moved." Quickly she cut the twine on the top bundle. "Once the boss makes up his mind, he moves. No fiddle, no faddle, no— I love this!" She ended on a high tone of enthusiasm as she pulled back the heavy paper.

It was a street scene, and the people in it were splashes of vivid color and movement. The buildings were jumbled, giving it a carelessly cheerful theme, and they were awash with lacy balconies, alive with trailing and spreading flowers. On closer inspection, Sissy picked out a toe-tapping fiddler, an enormous black woman in a flowing red caftan, three small boys racing after a yellow dog. She could almost hear the shouts and the music.

"It's wonderful. Tell me this one's going out here."

"That was the idea." Surprised and flattered by the reaction, Savannah dragged a hand through her hair again. "It's New Orleans. The French Quarter. I thought it would liven things up a bit in the waiting area.''

"I can't tell you how tired I was of looking at pale pink flowers in a gray vase. I kept hoping I'd come in one morning and they'd have died during the night." Sissy chuckled to herself. "Now this I could look at forever. Did you take art in college?"

The innocent question had Savannah's smile freezing. "No. No, I didn't go to college."

"I had one semester of art," Sissy went on cheerfully, holding up the painting. "And was told I had absolutely no sense of perspective. Squeaked by with a C."

When the phone rang, she huffed a bit, then tilted the painting against the table and went back to her desk to answer it.

Foolish, foolish, Savannah told herself, to feel inadequate. No, she hadn't gone to college, but she knew how to paint. Hadn't Sissy's reaction just proven it?

Odd, Savannah thought, that she should still be nervous after her work had been viewed and appreciated. For most of her life she'd had to convince herself that painting was—could be—nothing more than a hobby. A personal indulgence, those times when she'd had to choose between buying paints and having lunch.

Paints had usually won.

Those days were over. Long over. She'd been incredibly lucky with her illustrations, and enjoyed doing them, intended to continue. But the paintings were her.

Selling bayou scenes and charcoal sketches to tourists was a far cry from selling something that had meant something to her when she saw it, when she painted it.

Smiling and damp-palmed, she dug through the tote she'd brought along for her hammer and measuring tape. She'd already measured the wall on an earlier trip, and now she found the center, marked her spot lightly with a pencil. And waited for Sissy to hang up the phone.

"Should I wait, or can I pound this in there now?" She held up a hanger.

"Now. I'm dying to see it up."

With brisk efficiency, Savannah hammered in the support. The frame was a simple natural cherry—Regan's choice. Savannah had to admit, as she adjusted the painting on the wall, that it had been a good one.

"Bring the left corner up just a tad... Yeah, good." Hands on hips, Sissy nodded. "Good. Perfect. It's about time this place started looking more like the boss and less like..."

"His ex-wife?" Savannah finished, with a glance over her shoulder.

Sissy wrinkled her nose. "Let's just say she was very low-key. The kind of woman who never has a hair out of place, never raises her voice, never chips a nail."

"She must have had something to have attracted Jared."

Cautious, Sissy cast a look up the steps. "She was beautiful, in that don't-touch-me-I've-just-been-polished sort of way. Very classic, sort of Grace Kelly without the warmth and humor. And she was brilliant. Really. Not only in her profession, but she spoke perfect French, and played the piano beautifully. She read Kafka."

"Oh." Savannah struggled not to frown. She wasn't entirely sure she knew who or what Kafka was, but she was sure she'd never read it.

"In her way, she was admirable. But about as entertaining as a dead frog in a millpond." Sissy beamed at Savannah. "No one can accuse you of that," she said, and, with a quick laugh, picked up the ringing phone.

No, Savannah mused. No one could accuse her of that. Not of being polished or brilliant, or of reading Kafka. She could speak a little French—if you counted the Cajun variety.

Refusing to be intimidated by the image of the woman Jared had once chosen for his wife, she unwrapped the next painting.

She hung a trio of small still lifes in the entranceway while Sissy went back to work. While the rain pounded outside and Sissy's keyboard clattered, Savannah began to enjoy the simple pleasure of decorating, of choosing a space and bringing it to life. By the time she'd gotten to the second floor, she was humming under her breath.

Unwilling to hammer there while Jared was with a client, she leaned paintings against the walls she'd chosen for them, moving down the hallway and eventually into the office across from Jared's.

The former office, she thought, of the former Mrs. MacKade. No, she remembered. Not Mrs. MacKade. Jared had said she hadn't taken his name.

The walls here were a deep rose, the trim almost a jade, reversing the theme from the lower office. Regan had turned it into a comfortable and efficient sitting room. There was a desk, of course, but there were cozy chairs, tables, books. And, when she poked into a cabinet, a coffee maker, cups.

Here, Savannah supposed, Jared could entertain or interview clients in a less formal atmosphere. Or perhaps he could use it to relax, unwind. Or maybe he was considering taking on an associate.

It occurred to her then that she knew very little about his work, or his plans, or what his workday was like.

She'd never asked, Savannah reminded herself— and why should he discuss cases with her? She knew nothing about the law except the problems she'd had with it, fighting to stay one step ahead of the system and keep her child.

He would have discussed them with his wife, she thought, then cursed herself for falling into that typical and pathetic mind-set.

Setting her thoughts on the job at hand again, she stepped out into the hall just as Jared's door opened.

"I'll have a draft of the contract sent out to you in a couple of days," Jared was saying. Then stopped, looked, and smiled. "Hello, Savannah."