Hank thrust out a boot to nudge a chair. "Yeah, well, I did do it, so sit down and eat."

As she took a seat, he noticed that she'd slicked her hair back into a ponytail. He liked it better down. Seemed a shame to hide all those pretty curls. He settled back to study her. All his life, he'd heard the phrase, "flawless ivory complexion," but had never actually seen one. Except for the broken capillaries on her eyelids, Carly's oval countenance was without blemish, her skin as pale and smooth as newly risen cream.

He'd never tire of looking at her. Her nose was small and straight, her cheekbones fragile, her honey-gold brows gently arched over wide, expressive eyes. Not beautiful? Every time he recalled her saying that, his heart hurt. Normally, he'd take such a comment with a grain of salt, figuring the woman was fishing for a compliment. Most women knew if they were beautiful. But Carly was different. When she looked in the mirror, she might not see what everyone else did-an exquisitely lovely young woman with eyes a man could get lost in.

He expected her to devour the food. Instead she laid the paper napkin over her lap, then fussed and fiddled, looking so self-conscious that he almost left the table. But, no, he decided. The sooner she relaxed around him, the better. He'd be doing her no favor if he walked wide circles around her.

"I didn't add butter or salt to the sprouts," he warned.

She pushed at them with a fork. "Good. I don't put anything on them."

When she first began eating, she took dainty bites, frequently touching the napkin to her lips. After a minute, though, the cravings got the best of her, and she began shoving huge mounds of sauerkraut into her mouth, making soft sounds of ecstasy as she chewed.

Hank found himself wishing she'd go after him like that. Then he remembered she had once-and he'd blown it.

She stopped chewing suddenly and fixed him with huge, luminous blue eyes. "What?" she asked.

He nudged his hat back. "Nothing. You just make that look good."

She speared a Brussels sprout with her fork and offered it to him.

"No thanks. Of a mornin', I stick to offerings from Over Easy and Scrambled."

"Pardon?"

"Our hens. We named 'em after egg dishes. Scrambled, Sunny-Side-Up, Meringue." He shrugged. "Dumb, huh? Molly's a bleeding heart. When the hens stop laying, they get put out to pasture like horses. The only time I get fried chicken is if one drops over dead from a coronary."

She eyed him bewilderedly. "You don't wring their necks?"

"Not without getting on her shit list. Every once in a while, I flap my arms and wave my hat, trying to scare one to death. Never works."

She popped the sprout into her mouth. A blissful expression moved over her face as she chewed and swallowed. Gulps of chocolate milk followed. She dabbed the mustache from her upper lip and said, "This is fabulous. Thank you for thinking of it. It's my morning sickness cure."

"Your cure?" Hank rocked back on the chair and propped a boot on one knee. "You sure it's not the cause?"

Her cheek was already puffed out with another Brussels sprout. "Mm."

He chuckled and took another sip of black coffee. Normally he breakfasted at the main house on more conventional foods. Molly had fits about the way the new cook fed the crew, convinced that everyone's cholesterol would shoot off the chart. If that proved true, Hank figured he'd die a happy man.

"You aren't a health-food nut, are you, Carly?" he couldn't resist asking.

She shot him a shy glance. "I like to eat healthful foods, but I'm not fanatical about it."

Regarding her breakfast, Hank had cause to wonder if her definition of "fanatical" was the same as his. Jake's wife Molly was a health nut, and she'd nearly starved everyone to death when Jake had first hired her as the ranch cook. Hank had never craved meat so badly in his life. "You a vegetarian?"

"Heavens, no."

"Now we're talkin'." Hank almost let the subject drop, but then another worry occurred to him. When he'd last visited Portland, he'd dined in restaurants and been appalled by some of the dishes that city people paid good money for. "You like field-green salad?"

"Mm. I love it."

Uh-oh. "You eat dandelions?""Not the flowers, although I've heard they make excellent wine."Hank guessed he'd count himself fortunate that the lady ate meat."So tell me," he said when her feeding frenzy abated. "What is it about that particular combination of foods that settles your stomach? Any idea?"She took another sip of milk. "No, not really. I just crave it.""Were those your favorite foods before you got pregnant?" Please say no.She wrinkled her nose. "I enjoyed frankfurters and sauerkraut occasionally, and sometimes I ate Brussels sprouts. Not very often, though."

Hank was relieved to hear it. And intrigued. "So one morning, you just up and knew

sauerkraut, Brussels sprouts, and chocolate milk were what you needed?"

"Not exactly. I ate a gallon of dill pickles first."

A gallon? Hank suppressed a shudder. "All in one sitting?"

"Oh no. It took me a couple of days."

Even at that, she'd eaten a hell of a lot of pickles at a fast clip.

"If it settles your stomach, it works for me." As she sat back in her chair, looking

replete, he asked, "How you feeling now?""Good." She stifled a dainty belch and blushed. "Excuse me."Hank couldn't help but grin, "Don't hold back on my account, honey. Let her rip."The pink in her cheeks deepened. She began gathering the dishes. "Thank you again.

It was very sweet of you to remember."Sweet. He'd chalk that one up in his favor. Only there was a troubled edge to hervoice that worried him. She paused before going into the kitchen. "Thank you for the crackers and Seven Up last night as well. I didn't expect you to get dressed and drivesomewhere that late at night.""It helped. That's all that matters."

She smiled hesitantly. "Yes, well. It was still very kind of you."

Two points in his favor. Hank watched her for a moment as she washed the dishes. Jake had recently helped him install regular kitchen faucets, but the old hand pump at the edge of the sink was still operational. When Carly touched the handle, he said, "That's an antique. Draws straight from a spring. Water's colder than a witch's tit." She threw him a startled look. Hank realized what he'd said and wanted to bite his tongue. "Colder than a well digger's ass. How's that?"

She gave the handle a few tries and jumped back when water came gushing from the spout. "I've never seen a water pump."

It occurred to him there was a wealth of things she'd never seen. The realization saddened him. She'd probably looked forward to experiencing so many things after her surgery. Now she was about to go blind again. She didn't know how quickly it might happen yet, of course. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing. He'd want to know so he could make the most of every moment.

While she finished tidying the kitchen, he went outside for more boxes. When he came in with the last load, she glanced up from a cardboard container she'd just opened. "Where should I put my things?" Hank lowered his burden to the floor. "Wherever you want. This is your home now." He watched her lift a small pillow and trail her fingers lovingly over the surface with her eyes closed. The smile that touched her mouth made him want to smile, too. "Special?" he asked.

She nodded. "My mother made it when I was small. She embroidered 'I Love You' on the face with scratchy thread so I could trace the letters."

Hank tried to imagine a little girl reading those words with her fingertips. Until now, he'd never thought of how different life was for the blind. He bent to open another box. "How about if I lay stuff out on the sofa and let you put it away?" he suggested. "That way, you'll know where everything is."

She nodded, and they both set to work. In no time at all, Hank had the boxes unloaded. After that, he helped her put things away, always asking where she wanted them first. As they worked, the refrain of an old song continually moved through his mind: "Getting to know you."

He was conscious of her every movement and expression-the way she caressed the embroidered pillow more than once; the way she lingered over a small, stuffed bear with tattered ears that her father had given her years ago. Her treasures, the things that were truly precious to her, were all things a person could touch or hold close.

"You've got no pictures," he observed, "I don't, do I?" She glanced around at the jumble of clothing and possessions. "Maybe I can get Daddy to send me a few. I'd love to see what my mother looked like. And him, too, of course."

She'd never seen her parents? Hank stopped what he was doing to stare at her. Of course she'd never seen them, he realized. She'd been blind until a little over a month ago.

"That strikes you as odd. My not knowing what my folks look like, I mean."

Crouched by the sofa, Hank sat back on his boot heel. "Not odd, exactly. Beyond my comprehension, I guess. Intellectually, I know blind people can't see. I just never thought much about what that means on a day-to-day basis. Never seeing your mom's face. I can't imagine that."

Her eyes went shiny and she glanced quickly away. "I saw her. Just not the way other people do. She used to hold me on her lap and let me touch her face." Her mouth curved up at the corners. "She was beautiful."

By the quaver in her voice, Hank knew how sorely she missed her mother. Uncertain what to say, he went back to sorting through her things. A moment later, he came across a tattered old ribbon that sported three knots and was tied in a circle. "You want this, or should I just toss it?"

Bewildered, she perused the bedraggled strand of silk. Then a radiant smile moved over her face. "Oh, that's my friendship ring. Lay it there by my clothes. I'll find a special place for it later."

"What, exactly, is a friendship ring?" Hank couldn't resist asking.

"The circle is symbolic of forever. The knots represent Cricket, Bess, and me, a reminder that we'll always be friends. Cricket made it for me right before I left for college. That first year, I had to attend a special school. It was the first time I'd been away from my family and friends." She pushed to her feet and came to take the ribbon from him. She closed her eyes and ran her fingertips over the knots. Then she held the frayed satin to her cheek. "When I got homesick those first few months, I always felt better when I touched this.""They've been really good friends to you, haven't they?"She nodded and gently laid the ribbon atop a stack of clothing. "They're like sisters.

We were an indomitable trio. Cricket and Bess were my seeing-eye guides growingup."

He chuckled. "Your seeing-eye guides?""Without them, I never would have survived childhood." Her cheek dimpled. "I wasdynamite on a skateboard with them yelling directions."

Hank's guts knotted just at the thought. "Bess mentioned that you rode a bicycle andstuff. What were your parents thinking?""That I was a normal kid in every way, except I couldn't see.""You actually skateboarded? Weren't you afraid?"

"Of what?""Running into things. Sailing off an embankment. Hell, I don't know. Of everything,I guess."

She laughed. "That's a sighted person's perspective. I was born blind, remember. Ihad never seen an embankment. I couldn't see the things in front of me. I might beafraid now, but I wasn't then." She let her head fall back and closed her eyes. "I lovedthe sensation of speed, to feel the wind in my face. It was wonderful." When shelooked at him again, she added, "The only other thing that ever came close wasskydiving with Cricket right before I left for college."

"Skydiving? You jumped from an airplane?""I had no concept of height. It wasn't frightening at all to me."Hank felt chilled just thinking about it. "It can be windy up there."She sent him a questioning look. "You've jumped?""I have, and you either had a death wish or you were crazier than a loon. What if the wind carried her voice away, and you didn't pull the cord in time?"

"I didn't go alone. I buddy jumped with an instructor."

He was relieved to hear it. Just not so relieved that he could think about it without wanting to give her a shake. "It's a dangerous sport."

"So is bungee cord jumping, but people still do it."

"You didn't."

"No. It was from a bridge. I was afraid the cord might break, and I'd hit the water."

Hank saw the tense expression that stole over her face. "You were afraid of hitting the water but not hitting the ground when you jumped from a plane?"

She bent her head and pretended interest in the socks she was rolling. "Water is terrifying to me. It gets in my ears, making it difficult to hear, and I lose all sense of direction. If I go under, I'm not sure which way is up. And when I surface, I can't tell where the bank is. I swam with Bess and Cricket a few times, but I never really enjoyed myself."

She went into the bedroom to put a pile of socks away. A few moments later, Hank glanced up and saw her gazing out the window toward the corrals. When he went to stand behind her, she rubbed her arms and said, "Horses are so much bigger than I thought they'd be."

"You've never seen a horse?"

"I've seen pictures. On the western channel, they don't look so huge."

He couldn't conceive living one's entire life without ever seeing a horse. Every so often, during the course of their conversation, he'd think he was beginning to understand what it was like to be blind. Then she'd say something to make him realize he hadn't a clue.

To live in constant darkness, to never see the dawn, to never watch the sun go down.

Gazing down at her, he tried his best to grasp what it must be like for her. Only it was impossible. The whole world and everything in it was new to her.

Resting his shoulder against the window frame, Hank turned toward her. "What's it like, seeing for the first time in your life?"

She danced nervous fingertips over the glass. He didn't miss the way she moved slightly to put distance between their bodies. "Confusing." She tapped the glass with a fingernail. "I know the glass is there, but I can't see it. Bess says sunlight and images reflect off the surface if you really look, but I don't notice things like that."

Hank studied the glass. Once, as a kid, he'd walked into a patio door and damned near broken his nose. "Windows can be tricky for anybody."

"I suppose." She sighed and frowned thoughtfully. "Some things seem backward. That's worrisome because it isn't a difficulty my doctor told me about."

"What things seem backward?"

"Silly things." She shrugged. "Things I memorized by touch years ago-they seem all wrong somehow."

"Such as?"

"The dialing pad on a telephone, hot and cold water faucets, letters and numbers. It's like-" She shook her head. "In my mind, I had a picture of things, but I saw them on my side of the darkness. Does that make any sense?"

It didn't, but he nodded anyway, wanting her to go on.

"Now that I can see, things are outside, staring back at me."

Hank still wasn't getting it, but he smiled to encourage her.

Her scowl deepened. "When I dial a phone, for instance. If I close my eyes, I'm fine. But if I open my eyes, I get all confused, hitting the three when I want to hit the one. It's the same with letters." She trailed her fingertips lightly over the glass. "When you read braille, you trace the little bumps. Imagine the letter, traveling up your arm and into your brain, where you store it inside the darkness with you. You don't see it. You have it in you. Then, suddenly, it's outside, and for me, it's as if it got flipped over, wrong side up. I don't know if other people experience the same thing or not. Maybe I'm just weird."

"That sounds like dyslexia. You're having trouble interpreting spatial relationships."

"It does sound like dyslexia, doesn't it? Just what I need, a learning disorder on top of everything else."

Hank chuckled. "I doubt you're dyslexic, honey. Listening to you, you know what comes to mind? The way letters look in a mirror. They're always backward. When you consider how the eye works, it kind of makes sense that you might have trouble for a while. The retina has reflective layers, sort of like a mirror, conducting image impulses to the brain. Maybe your impulses are jumbled right now, and the images are getting flipped in transit."

"You think?" she asked hopefully.

Hank knew he shouldn't touch her, but he couldn't resist. He gently tweaked the end of that cute little nose. "I do," he assured her. "Stop worrying. Even if you are dyslexic, which I seriously doubt, it's no big deal anymore."

She looked none too sure about that.