"I have a son living in Paradise. Surely I'm allowed to visit him."

"Zach isn't in town. He's at the farm. But you already know that, don't you?"

He inclined his head, acknowledging her point. "I always liked you, Mrs. Stanton. Sharp as a tack, but not quite as nearsighted as your husband. You have the ability to see the big picture."

She didn't like the turn of his conversation or the look of pleasure in his eyes. Jackson had a gleeful expression on his face, like a child about to unwrap a birthday present.

"I have to be on my way."

"Ah, yes, lunch with Mary Jo and Leeanne. The only one missing is Margaret."

She drew her tongue against her suddenly parched lips. "Excuse me."

"I'd like a word with you before you go."

"I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"On the contrary, I think you'll find our conversation most interesting."

She wondered what secret he thought he'd found out about her. It would do him no good to blackmail her. She was almost seventy years old, too old to care about her reputation. She'd learned a long time ago there were far more important things in life than a clean name.

"It's about Margaret," he said.

She felt her pulse quicken in spite of her resolve not to rise to the bait. "Margaret has been dead for twenty years."

"Has she?" Jackson rubbed his jaw with one hand. "I mean, are you really sure she's been dead that long?"

Her heart skipped a beat, but she silently counted to ten. Jackson Tyler was a born liar. She wouldn't let him get to her.

"No comment?" he asked. "Or are you counting the years in your head?"

"Why don't you just say whatever you have to say and stop beating around the bush?"

"Have you met Miss Whitfield?"

A chill came over her body. "Yes."

"You don't think she looks-familiar?"

"In what way?"

"Her walk. It reminds me of Margaret. Did you notice?"

Claire swallowed. She hadn't noticed the walk, but she had noticed a certain tilt of Katherine's head. No, she was being ridiculous. "I don't know what you're implying, and I don't want to know."

As she tried to move around him, Jackson stepped in front of her. "Katherine Whitfield was born in Los Angeles, California, in 1972, six months after Margaret left Paradise-pregnant."

Claire gasped. "You don't know that." He couldn't know that. No one but Margaret and possibly the father of her baby had known that. The father? Jackson Tyler? She felt nauseated at the thought of her daughter and this slimy man. But for a brief moment it crossed her mind that it wasn't totally impossible. Margaret had always been impulsive where men were concerned.

"I know Margaret was pregnant," Jackson said, "and that's not all I know."

He wanted her to ask, to beg for the information. There was a part of Claire that wanted to do just that. But she hadn't lived with Stanton pride for fifty years without picking up a thing or two.

"You're a con artist, Mr. Tyler. Why would I believe anything you have to say?"

"Because I know the truth."

"I sincerely doubt that. What do you really want?"

"A chance to help you. You've taken my son under your wing. I certainly owe you something for that."

"Zach is none of your concern. You left him to forage for himself when he was just a boy. Don't pretend to care about him now."

"We're not talking about me and my son. We're discussing you and your daughter."

"We're not discussing anything. I'm leaving."

"Why don't you ask Miss Whitfield about her mother, what she looked like, the way she sounded when she laughed, the color of her hair, her eyes?" Jackson challenged.

"Miss Whitfield's mother died when she was twelve years old," Claire said, gaining new confidence as she remembered their conversation in the garden. "She's in her twenties now, so that would mean that her mother died fourteen or fifteen years ago, not twenty."

"Now, that's an interesting point. And I probably would have agreed with you if I hadn't stopped by Miss Whitfield's room last night. I thought I'd take a little peek around. You'll never guess what I found."

G.o.d help her. Claire wanted to walk away, but she couldn't. There was something niggling at the back of her mind that urged her to jump to the conclusion he was offering her. Claire had felt an immediate connection with Katherine, but that couldn't have anything to do with Margaret.

"You're not going to ask me, are you?" Jackson said. "Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Stanton. You're very stubborn. You're just dying to know. Admit it."

She lifted her chin in the air. "Miss Whitfield's belongings are private. She could have you arrested for trespa.s.sing."

"I wonder if you'd feel the same way if you saw your daughter's quilt draped over Katherine Whitfield's bed. All those beautiful lilies of the valley. I remember when Margaret showed me the quilt. She said it was the only good thing she'd ever done."

Claire felt the blood drain out of her face. Margaret's quilt? The one they'd worked on together from the first day Claire had taught her daughter how to thread a needle? "Katherine couldn't possibly have Margaret's quilt."

Jackson simply smiled. "Why don't you go see? Room 326." Jackson started to walk away, then paused. "Oh, and by the way, that information was free, but if you want to know who Margaret's lover was all those years ago, I'll expect some compensation." He tipped his head once again. "You have a nice day now, Mrs. Stanton."

Nice day? Claire felt like the bottom had just dropped out of her world. Why on earth would Katherine Whitfield have Margaret's quilt?

Katherine ran a brush through her hair, staring at her face in the mirror, wondering why she didn't look any different on the outside when she felt so different on the inside. Last night she'd given herself wholeheartedly to a man who never wanted to see her again.

Despite Zach's convincing good-bye act, Katherine knew she'd gotten to him, and it wasn't just womanly pride that told her that. She'd felt him surrender to her. For a few minutes last night, he'd been hers, completely, absolutely. And now he was gone.

Katherine shook her head, noting a tiny red strawberry on her neck where his teeth had marked her skin. She closed her eyes and remembered the way his mouth had trailed across her face, his tongue tracing her earlobe, his teeth nipping at her skin. The memory started her heart racing and she quickly opened her eyes, willing it away. She didn't want to remember. There was no point.

As Zach had said, they'd had s.e.x. No big deal.

But it was a big deal. She couldn't deny it. Maybe she was a typical woman, but she hadn't just had s.e.x with Zach, she'd made love with him. And she wanted to be close to him on so many levels that had nothing to do with the physical. Not that he hadn't made her body sing in ways she'd never imagined.

No matter, Katherine told herself firmly.He's not the man for you. He doesn't want to be the man. He's moody and irritable and has a huge chip on his shoulder, and he's out to prove something to the world. In fact, he cares more about that horse of his than he cares about you.

Katherine sighed, wishing she could make herself believe Zach was the wrong man. But she kept thinking about his pep talk a few days ago, the way he'd told her not to quit, when she knew deep down he wanted her gone. In her mind she could see his smile, the way it lit up his face when he forgot to be on guard, the pride in his voice when he talked about Rogue, the desire in his eyes when he looked at her-as if she were the only woman in the world, the only woman for him.

Not that she was in love with him. It was too soon for that. But as she reached a hand to the mark on her neck and traced it with a shaky finger, she knew she was lying to herself.

Zach Tyler had gotten into her heart, and she was going to have a heck of a time getting him out. The thought of never seeing him again, never hearing his voice, never feeling his touch on her skin...

She wouldn't cry, not now, not ever. She'd known what kind of man he was before she slept with him. She wouldn't be sorry it had happened no matter how much it hurt now.

Katherine turned away from the mirror. She didn't want to look at herself. She didn't want to examine her feelings-not while the memory of Zach was so fresh in her mind. She needed to refocus, to concentrate on finding her father.

Now, what to do next? She could go back to Golden's or she could check out the hardware store. The owner of the craft store, Louise Peabody, had let it be known that Joel Davenport owned the hardware store and had lived in Paradise all of his life and never married. Louise had gushed about how nice Joel was and how sad that he didn't have a woman in his life. She'd speculated that he'd had a love affair years ago that had ended tragically.

A love affair with her mother? Katherine wondered.

Before she could move, a knock came at her door. Katherine went over to open it, expecting to see Maggie, but the woman standing in the hall was Claire Stanton.

Wearing a black and white dress and matching jacket, Claire looked like a woman having a day on the town, but her expression did not match her outfit. Her skin was as white as her hair, making her blue eyes stand out in stark contrast. Her lips were pursed tightly together and she held her black purse in front of her chest as if it were a bulletproof jacket.

In fact, Claire Stanton looked sh.e.l.l-shocked, like she'd stumbled over a dead body or seen a ghost.

"Mrs. Stanton. Are you all right?"

Claire looked at her searchingly, as if she were trying to find some answers in the shape of Katherine's face. "You do look familiar," she murmured.

Katherine felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck begin to tingle. "What did you say?"

"May I come in?"

"Of course."

Katherine stepped aside and Claire walked into the room, her gaze immediately darting to the bed, then to the dresser, finally coming to rest on the hope chest in the corner. Claire put a hand to her heart and began to sway. "It's true. Oh, my G.o.d, it's true."

Chapter 16.

"Mrs. Stanton? Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?" Katherine asked in alarm.

Claire didn't move. Her gaze remained fixed on the chest as she struggled to breathe in and out. Katherine was halfway to the phone when Claire's voice stopped her.

"The-the chest," Claire said, squeezing out the words. "Where did you get it?"

Katherine followed her gaze to the chest, suddenly not sure that she wanted to answer the question. Claire was looking at the chest as if she'd seen it before, and that wasn't possible.

"Where did you get it?" Claire asked again.

"Why do you want to know?"

Claire pointed at the chest with a shaky but determined finger. "Because that chest belonged to my daughter, Margaret. It was mine before I gave it to her. And it was my grandmother's before that."

Katherine began shaking her head even before Claire finished her sentence. "That's not possible. The chest belonged to my mother."

"Your mother?" Claire almost choked out the words. "Her name was Margaret?"

"No, it was Evelyn," Katherine said quickly. "Evelyn Jones Whitfield." Katherine tried to infuse her words with confidence and truth, but Zach's earlier comment about her mother's name sounding like an alias came back to her.

"Evelyn Jones?" Claire sounded as dazed as Katherine felt.

"That's right."

Claire sat down on the edge of the bed. She set her purse on the coverlet and wrapped her arms around her waist, rocking back and forth. Her gaze darted between Katherine and the chest, unable to settle in one place.

Katherine found herself making the same jerky movements as she tried to compute the facts, but they didn't add up. Claire's gaze once again fixed on Katherine's face. "You have the same hairline, the same rosy cheeks. Your hair is different, it's lighter. Margaret's was more brown than blond. And her face was longer, narrow at the chin."

"Your daughter is no relation to me."

"That's what I keep telling myself, but..." Claire's voice faded away as she turned her attention back to the chest. She drew in a deep breath, gathering her courage. "Is there a quilt in that chest?"

Katherine's heart skipped another beat. For a split second she wanted to lie, to say no, but the anguish in Claire's blue eyes compelled her to tell the truth. "Yes," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"May I see it?"

After a momentary hesitation, Katherine knelt in front of the chest and lifted the lid. She pulled out the quilt inch by inch, foot by foot, until the floor was covered with lilies of the valley and patchwork squares of memories.

Claire looked at the quilt and began to cry, tears running down her cheeks, sobs breaking past her lips, shoulders shaking with overwhelming grief.

"Oh, my G.o.d," she murmured, falling to her knees beside the quilt. "I never thought to see this again." She picked up an edge of the quilt and held it against her cheek, soaking it with her tears.

Katherine knew in that moment that the quilt belonged to Claire, and the knowledge tore Katherine apart. She'd felt so secure wrapped in the material, the scent of lavender wafting around her as she drifted to sleep. Since she'd discovered the quilt, she'd felt like it belonged to her. But now it was obvious that she was wrong. The quilt didn't belong to her or to her mother. It belonged to Claire's daughter, to Margaret Stanton.

Claire's sobs began to slow down. Katherine reached for the Kleenex box on the table behind her and handed it to Claire.

Finally Claire composed herself enough to speak. "It's Margaret's quilt," she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue. "We started it when she was born. I told you about the tradition here in Paradise. Well, this quilt was Margaret's. We used lilies of the valley for the border because you can find them all over our property. And this square here..." She fingered a tiny piece of white satin. "It came from the underskirt of Margaret's baptismal gown." She pointed to another square, one covered with red gingham. "This came from her first kindergarten dress. She looked so pretty in it, with her hair in pigtails and her face scrubbed clean. I have a picture of her in this dress, holding an enormous lunch box in her hands." Claire's eyes brimmed over with tears once again. "Harry didn't want her to be hungry that first long day away from us." She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, G.o.d, it hurts so much."

Katherine didn't know what to say or do in the face of Claire's raging pain. She knew what it felt like to lose someone. There were no words that could take away the sorrow, and nowhere near enough time to get over the loss.

Claire took a deep breath. "I didn't think I'd ever see this quilt again. Where did you find this chest?"

"In my mother's attic. I thought it belonged to her, but it must not have. Not if it's yours, your daughter's. They're two different women." Katherine paused, feeling panicked in spite of her belief that Evelyn Whitfield and Margaret Stanton were not the same person.

"Are they?" Claire asked, not sounding so confident. "Margaret's middle name was Lynn. Margaret Lynn Stanton. She left Paradise in 1972, on the day of our Derby party. She was about three months pregnant at the time. I expect her baby would have been born in November or December of 1972. When were you born, Katherine?"

Katherine hesitated, then jumped to her feet. She refused to follow Claire's logic. It didn't make sense, and she didn't want it to make sense, because that would mean her mother had lied to her every single day of her life.