"I can't think on an empty stomach," he said, and held out his hand.

Tara took it. It felt good in hers even though in her memory it wasn't like this. Not hard and dry, the hand of a purposeful man. How well he'd grown despite his accident. How very wonderful.

How very attractive. She slipped her hand out of his. He stopped, looked back and up at her.

"Will you see him, Ben? If I can get him here.

Will you?"

"Sure."

Tara smiled and closed her eyes. She stood back and let him go through the door, peaceful for the first time in days. Ben was here to help and she appreciated it more than he would ever know.

They would be partners. Professional to the last.

Why, then, when she followed him, did she feel almost disappointed?

Home. Full of pizza. At peace. What more could a girl ask for other than finding a solution to a miserable problem. Smiling, Tara swung out of the car, slammed the door, and was about to head in when she saw Joseph slogging across the yard.

"Joseph!" she called.

"Wait. Please."

Tara hurried to him. Nothing much had changed. The teenager still looked sulky. He stopped, glared at her, and waited for her to come to him.

"Joseph, I'm sorry to keep you, but do you know what happened the other day? My arm?" She held up her arm, still bandaged, and he peered through the dark.

"I put that pitchfork away where it was supposed to be. I put it on its hook, and I didn't have nothing to do with moving it. I swear I didn't."

The surly youth trans.m.u.ted into a frightened boy before her eyes. Not at all the reaction she had wanted. Fear closed mouths as often as it opened them.

"I didn't say you did, Joseph," Tara a.s.sured him.

"I was only asking if you knew how it came to be balanced behind the bridle. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't made a mistake, and if you had, I'd show you where the pitchfork is supposed to be kept."

"Well, I didn't. I've never hurt anybody, and I do what I'm told."

"I believe that. Carlos never would have left you in charge if he hadn't thought so too."

That threw him. If there was no attack, there couldn't be a defense.

"Well, then. Okay."

"Okay," Tara said, and he dismissed himself. She called after him.

"Payday tomorrow. Don't forget."

He waved his hand over his head. She was beginning to think of that as a rather endearing gesture.

With a lighter step for having confirmed her fears, Tara stopped by Shinin's stall. Joseph had indeed done his job properly and therefore someone*Bill Hamilton*had to have specifically moved the pitchfork. He had wanted her to be scared, if not hurt. That had to count for something on the nutty scale. She was closer to her goal now. It wouldn't be long with Ben on her side.

Not long at all. With a final pat for Shinin', she headed in.

"Just wait, Mr. Hamilton," she whispered to herself.

"We're almost home now."

"Tara! Tara!"

Tara stood in the half-open doorway, thinking how like a mother she'd become. Her ears were always p.r.i.c.ked for the sound of Donna's voice, the sound of distress. But distressed was hardly what Donna seemed.

She whirled up to Tara, her long black wool skirt flapping around her riding boots, the sleeves of her turtleneck sweater pushed up her arms. She looked charming. She looked mad.

"Hi." Tara smiled but Donna was determined to set the tone of their talk.

"Tara." She nodded curtly.

"I think we need to talk."

"I'd love to," Tara said.

"Come on in. Let me make some tea. I'll tell you about Ben. I saw him and*" "I don't want to talk about Ben. Not until we've straightened things out about Bill. I've been thinking about this all day and I've got to get it off my chest. I came all this way to celebrate your birthday and you have done nothing but ignore me, attack Bill, and imply that I am stupid for having feelings for him. Tara, I have to tell you. Last night was the last straw and I want an explanation."

"Donna," Tara said flatly, "I gave you an explanation.

I'm seeing Bill professionally. He asked for help on issues that I think are serious. I'm not going to get into a cat fight over that man. I'm his attorney, and as such, I can't be your friend on this matter. Either you trust me or you don't.

You can honor the years we've known each other or the weeks you've known Bill. Your choice. But I can't pretend that things haven't changed since he retained me. They have. I'd prefer you didn't see him until we settled this matter and that's about all I can say."

"What a high-and-mighty mouthful," Donna taunted.

"Any other orders, Sargeant?"

Tara shook her head, and took a step closer to her friend.

"Donna, I just want you to understand that I'm in a difficult position. I wish you trusted me enough to act on my instincts. Since you don't, things will have to change."

"Meaning you and I can talk, but Bill can't come to the party."

"Yes."

Donna sucked in her breath through pursed lips. Then she pushed past Tara and went into the house, shutting the door after Tara followed.

"I think we'll leave in the morning, Tara. Bill and I. I think we'll just head on back to my place.

But before we go, I have a few things to say. First, we're either friends or we aren't. If we're friends, then you owe me an explanation. You can't hide behind your oaths and potions and pledges. You talk to me straight, or you hug me goodbye until you're ready to pick up and be friends again. But I can't take this anymore. You're just like Jorge."

Tara tried to steer clear of the conversation, fussing with her coat, running a finger over the hall table, trying to place Donna's second husband.

"Why on earth would I remind you of Jorge?"

"Because you're gutless." Silence. Deep, show stopping silence enveloped them. Donna dug in.

"You are, Tara. You don't have the guts to tell me to my face, so you're pulling this long-suffering, you'd-never-understand-in-a-million-years act. One of us has got to do something. Since you don't have the guts, I will." Donna sighed and plopped herself down on a kitchen chair.

"You know, Jorge did the same thing to me. He wasn't happy if the house was too clean because it meant I didn't have enough time for him. He was unhappy if I spent time with him, and the house went to pot. I was too loud in front of people, or too shy. I couldn't win."

"This isn't really about you. Donna. Not in the way you think."

"Of course it is. It's about the man I adore.

Everything that touches him, touches me." She slapped her knees with her hands and pushed herself off the chair.

"I learned my lesson with Jorge, Tara. When someone acts that weird, when you can't get a smile from them anymore, when they run away or stick their nose behind a book and send out those cold, colder, coldest vibes, it's time to move on. And you're hitting the freezing point, Tara. So either talk, or it's hasta la vista and we pretend this was a lovely visit. Your call."

Tara paced, finding it hard to be stationary while she listened to Donna's accusations. Finally she leaned against the thick wall, then slid herself into the deep windowsill and rested there.

"I have nothing more to say."

"You made him feel so welcome that first night," Donna said, pleading for Tara not to throw her away.

"He's calculating. He makes things up."

"He's anxious to please. He likes to entertain."

"He's taking advantage of you."

"I'm using him!" Donna threw up her hands.

"Tara, he's young, he's handsome, what on earth is he doing with me? I'm not paying him. Thank goodness I haven't fallen to those depths yet. He hasn't asked me for a thing. Not money, not clothes, not a car. Nothing. It's not like that at all."

"You're being used and so am I."

Donna took a few steps and waved a hand as she shook her head. Now she had the picture.

"There it is again. You're being used. You know you diminish my relationship with him by insinuating yourself^ into it. You've been doing it since the minute we got here. Flirting and blushing. When that didn't work, and he came to you for help, you used that to make yourself more important in his life. Now you're suggesting that he and I separate.

It sounds very strange to me, Tara. It sounds like you're using everything you can to get next to him."

"That man is a fraud," Tara said quietly.

"He's not a cowboy and he's hiding a lot of ugly things, Donna."

"So what?" Donna wailed.

"Who doesn't have secrets or faults to hide? Are you so perfect that you don't hide? Please. You're the worst. First you hid from Ben behind your father, then you hid from the world behind your profession. Admit it, Bill reminded you that you're a woman and you don't like it.

It's as simple as that."

"That's disgusting," Tara rejoined, her eyes narrowing.

"That may be the way you see my world, Donna, but it's not my way. I don't slip between the sheets and share my home just because someone pays attention to me. I'd have to know more about him than he's good in bed."

"Jesus," Donna breathed, her dark eyes wide and hurt.

"Do you think I'm a wh.o.r.e or something?"

Tara held up her hands and crossed them in the universal sign of time-out.

"No. You act on instinct.

You need to step back. I know how you need to be needed."

She got up and reached out, but Donna's arms were crossed. She backed off and Tara did too.

"I'm just saying that you're a giver, Donna. You always have been. I've been overly cautious and even miserly with my feelings. I think our ways have made both of us needy and lonely at times.

Neither way is right. But this time, I know, in the bottom of my heart, that Bill is dangerous."

"You are sick."

"I am right," she whispered.

Donna pa.s.sed Tara, their shoulders brushing as she went. Tara stood alone in the silence of her home. She looked at the floor, her chin on her chest. It took three minutes for her to a.n.a.lyze what had happened and conclude it was wrong. Donna was at a disadvantage, without a frame of reference, and that made Tara's responsibility greater.

She'd grovel if she had to. If she couldn't get Donna to send Bill away, then there was a greater percentage in keeping them together and near, just to make sure that Donna remained alive and kicking.

She knocked on the door of the guest house twice. When no one came, she touched the k.n.o.b, turned it, and walked in. The place was quiet. Bill wasn't about. Tara would have felt him if he'd been within fifty feet. Something rolled off that man, an emanation of energy, that couldn't be identified as evil, nor could it be counted on for good. It was simply there, pulsating, incessant, and overwhelming as he pushed himself through her life.

"Donna?" Tara stood just inside the door and called.

Nothing.

Then she heard a drawer slam in the bedroom. Come find me. Here's a little noise to guide you. You make the first move. Tara walked toward the bedroom, following the audio crumbs Donna was tossing out. But Tara froze in the doorway.

Every drawer in the dresser was open and most were empty. Donna's small lips were set in anger, her blond hair flying back and forth as she turned to grab a piece of lingerie, a forgotten ball of socks, a last sweater. On the bed her suitcase was almost filled, and it was on the suitcase that Donna focused, knowing full well that Tara was watching.

Tara slipped into the room and hugged the wall.

"I'm sorry." The apology hung in the air long enough to be frozen by a glance from Donna.

Without missing a beat she leaned over the bed, and pushed and shoved the clothes into a different configuration. Tara's eyes flickered to the floor.

Bill's duffel was ready to go. Tara pushed off the wall and hung on the bedpost.

"Don't, Donna.

This is just plain silly. A man isn't worth our friendship, is he?"