Another brief silence ensued. Then Coulter cleared his throat and said, "Yes, sir, I'm still here."

The "sir" caught Art totally by surprise, making him wonder for a fleeting instant if he had made all the wrong assumptions about this man. Nah. The polite response was undoubtedly just for show. Well, Art wasn't that easily fooled. Coulter's actions spoke for themselves, and they weren't those of a man who loved his wife.

"How dare you call this house after three weeks of silence?" Art cried. "If you think I'll let you talk to my daughter, think again. You got her pregnant, robbed her of her sight, derailed her education, and then broke her heart. I think you've done quite enough damage."

Art expected Coulter to cuss him out and hang up- or demand to speak with Carly. Instead, the younger man said nothing for a long moment. His voice had gone husky with what could only be regret when he finally responded with, "You're absolutely right. Guilty as charged on all counts-except the last one."

"Meaning?" Art asked incredulously. "My daughter's emotionally devastated. If you're not responsible for that, who the hell is?"

"Circumstances."

''Circumstances?''

"Yes, sir, and I've been working to remedy the problems ever since she left me. Now that I've accomplished that, I'd like to talk with you about how I should proceed, hopefully with your blessing."

"Proceed? With my daughter, you mean? Think again."

"I don't blame you for feeling afraid for her, Mr. Adams. I had my head up my ass. I admit it."

Again, Art was surprised. An admission of guilt was not what he expected.

Coulter dragged in a shaky breath, then rushed to add, "In my own defense, I have to remind you that I'd never been around a blind person. I knew Carly's sight was failing, but I had no idea she was in any physical danger. We'd talked about making improvements to the ranch. I figured we could make do until next summer when she had her second surgery. The pond incident drove home to me what danger she was in, and I swear to you, I've barely slept since, trying to get everything fixed."

Art still wasn't following, but before he could demand clarification, Coulter continued. "She'll be absolutely safe with me now. I know you're probably thinking I couldn't possibly transform an entire ranch in only three weeks, but I promise you I have. I brought in professional analysts, they drew up the plans, and I hired two full-time work crews to get everything done."

Art held up a staying hand, then realized Coulter couldn't see him. "What's this about a pond incident?"

"It'll never happen again," Coulter assured him. "I know it terrified her. She almost died. I'd be terrified, too. I've built walkways with guide rails all over the ranch, complete with intercoms at every intersection so she can call for help if she grows disoriented. Staff from our local Blind and Low Vision Services came out to lend a hand as well. In addition to organizing the house, they ordered metal tags, imprinted in braille, for every intercom station so Carly will know where she is at all times. I also got a pager to wear on my belt so she can beep me no matter where I am on the property. The digital readout will tell me exactly where she is whenever she pages me."

All the anger drained out of Art, and he sank onto the bed like a slowly deflating helium balloon. "My daughter fell in a pond?" It wasn't really a question. Suddenly, all the pieces were beginning to fit together for him.

"She didn't tell you about that?" Coulter sounded as bewildered as Art felt. "What reason did she give for leaving me, then?"

For twenty-one miserable days, Art's hatred of this young man had been mounting to mammoth proportions. It took a considerable rearrangement of his thoughts to accept that his daughter had been the one to leave her husband, not the other way around. "She didn't actually give me a reason," Art admitted. "I assumed you took her for a ride and dumped her when you got bored."

"When I got bored?"

For the first time in three long weeks, Art found himself smiling. This young fellow clearly loved his daughter, and Art realized now that he'd been way out of line, saying the things he had at the beginning of the conversation. He almost apologized but then thought better of it, choosing instead to find out, once and for all, what Hank Coulter was made of.

Putting a gruff edge on his voice, Art said, "Talk is cheap. My daughter has been here for three weeks, and you haven't picked up a phone to call her. That tells me all I need to know, namely that she's better off without you."

"I waited to call until all the work was finished," Coulter protested. "That's why she left me, not because of anything I said or did, but because of all the dangers here on the ranch. She had it in her head that I'd be financially devastated if I made all the necessary improvements, that I'd be better off without her in my life. Wrong. To have her with me, I'd kiss this ranch good-bye in a heartbeat."

Carly had always been afraid her blindness was a burden to the people she loved. Art's smile deepened. "That's your story," he said, injecting just enough disbelief into his voice to spur Coulter on.

"It's the truth! I love that girl with all my heart."

Art greeted that with a sarcastic huff. "You have a strange way of showing your love. Thanks to you, my daughter looks like death warmed over. She's dropped so much weight, it frightens me."

"Oh, God," Coulter whispered raggedly.

Art continued relentlessly. "I'm deeply concerned, not only about her health, but also the baby's." That was absolutely true. "Now, out of the blue, you call here, expecting to reestablish communication? I don't think so."

A loud clacking sound came over the line. When Coulter spoke again, his voice throbbed with anger. "Okay. I understand your position. Now try to understand mine. With all due respect, sir, that's my wife you're talking about. I'm coming to get her tomorrow. If you plan to stop me, you'd best be standing on the porch with a loaded shotgun and be prepared to use it."

"Calling the police would be a much simpler solution."

"Do what you have to do. A night in jail won't kill me. Understand something. I love your daughter, and she loves me. No matter how many nights I spend in jail, sooner or later, I will bring her home where she belongs. When that day arrives, won't it be more convenient for you to be on speaking terms with your son-in-law?"

Art admired this young man's grit. Strength emanated from him, even over the phone line, and he obviously wasn't one to be easily buffaloed. He was exactly what Carly needed in a husband, someone who would stand beside her through thick and thin. "Excellent point."

"I hoped to get your blessing before I-" Coulter broke off, his silence filled with question. "Pardon me?"

"I said that's an excellent point. I'll definitely want to be on speaking terms with my daughter's husband and the father of my grandchild. What time should I expect you tomorrow?"

"Shortly before noon," Coulter replied, his tone cautious and hesitant. "I, um-did I miss something?"

Art finally allowed himself to chuckle. "No, son. I think it would be more accurate to say that I've overlooked a few things. When Carly arrived here three weeks ago, her eyes all red from crying, I couldn't think past my anger. Someday soon, you'll understand what I mean. I didn't think; I just reacted. My little girl was hurting, and in my mind, you were responsible."

"And she didn't set you straight?"

Art laughed again. "No. Every time I asked what happened, her stock response was, 'It just didn't work out.' Since it was obvious as hell that she still loved you, I jumped to the wrong conclusions. In short, I owe you an apology for the things I said at the start of our conversation."

"No apology is necessary. It's enough to know that you won't shoot me when I ring your doorbell. I love her, Mr. Adams. All I want is to build a life with her and make her happy."

Art had already deduced that. "Would you resent some well-intended advice from a tired old man?"

"No, sir. I'm always open to good advice."

Art shifted on the bed to brace his back against the headboard. "I hope you're comfortable. I have a long story to tell you about my daughter."

The following morning at precisely eleven forty, Ryan Kendrick pulled the rented SUV to a stop before Art Adams's prefabricated home. Hank gazed out the rear passenger window at the house, taking in the green aluminum siding, sparkling white trim, and twin bay windows that flanked the covered front porch. Typical of retirement homes in Arizona, the yard had been landscaped with cactus, other hardy plants, and decorative rock. A multistriped windsock, attached to a porch post, fluttered in the errant breeze. Colorful pots of flowers decorated the railings.

"Well?" Ryan turned to look at Hank. "You going to sit there all day, thinking about it, or go in and get her?"

Hank took a bracing breath. "I'm so nervous, I couldn't spit if you yelled 'Fire.' Should I try to reason with her first? Or should I just scoop her up and carry her out?"

Bethany twisted on the seat. "Hank, for heaven's sake. She's not going to listen to reason until she sees all the improvements you've made to the ranch. You can talk yourself blue, promise the moon, and she'll still never believe the two of you can have a life together. You have to show her first."

His blue eyes dancing with laughter, Ryan shrugged and lifted his hands. "She's the expert, not me. It's a woman thing."

"It is not a woman thing," Bethany retorted. "Handicapped men feel exactly the same way. Hooking up with an able-bodied person is frightening enough. When that person lives miles from town on a ranch, the prospect is downright terrifying."

"That must be her dad," Ryan said, inclining his head at the house.

Hank turned to see a frail, stoop-shouldered man standing at the screen door. He looked much older than Hank had envisioned. Most people Carly's age had parents in their late forties or early fifties.

"He's motioning you to come in," Bethany said, flashing Hank a bright smile. "A friend in the enemy camp! Go for it, Hank. Carly might be miffed at first, but once she settles down, she'll think it's wonderfully romantic."

Somehow, Hank doubted that. Carly was the stubbornly independent type. She wasn't likely to appreciate being bodily removed from her father's house. Sweat trickled down his spine as he pushed open the rear door.

"Here goes nothing." After gaining his feet, he leaned back into the vehicle to say, "Be ready to roll, Ryan. If this turns nasty, I want to be halfway back to the airport before any neighbors call the cops."

Ryan gave him a mock salute. "All systems ready. I've been cuffed and stuffed once." He slanted Bethany a teasing glare. "I don't want to repeat the experience."

Hank's sister playfully socked her husband's shoulder. "You'll never let me live that down. Will you?"

"Absolutely not. It was entirely your-"

Hank slammed the door and missed the rest of Ryan's response. It helped calm his misgivings to hear Bethany's muffled giggles coming through the window glass. No one could argue that she and Ryan were the perfect couple or that theirs was a match made in heaven. Against all the odds and despite Bethany's paraplegia, they'd built a fabulous life together.

If they could do it, Hank and Carly could, too.

Hank started up the pathway, his boots crunching on the white pebbles that covered the parched desert sand. Art Adams splayed a hand on the screen door to push it open and nodded a greeting as Hank ascended the steps.

"Who is it, Daddy?" a feminine voice called from inside.

Hank inclined his head at Art, crossed the porch, and stepped inside the house, his boots making hollow thumping sounds on a small square of marbled entry tile, bordered on three sides by ivory carpet. Hank took in the living room and adjoining dining area that opened onto a kitchen at the rear. The place was tidy, modestly furnished, and had that acrylic odor common to new homes with carpeting and molded countertops.

Hank no sooner registered the smell than another drifted to him, the unmistakable, never-to-be-forgotten scent that he'd come to associate with only Carly, a light but heady blend of baby powder and roses. As though his eyes were metal shavings and she was a magnet, his gaze jerked to where she sat in a rocker by the living room bay window. Sunlight slanted through the glass, limning the cloud of curly blond hair that lay around her shoulders and delineating the gauntness of her small, pinched face.

Hank felt as if a horse had kicked him in the chest. The air rushed from his lungs. His knees threatened to fold. Dear God. Dark circles of exhaustion underscored her wide, blue eyes. The once delicate hollows beneath her cheekbones were now prominent and sunken, making her look almost skeletal. Art had told him what to expect, but nothing could have prepared Hank for this.

He took three halting steps toward her. She tipped her head to listen, her expression growing bewildered. Her gaze was trained directly on him. He kept waiting for some sign of recognition, but none came, and he finally realized she couldn't see him -not even in blurry silhouette. In the last three weeks, she'd gone almost totally blind.

"Hank?" she whispered incredulously.

Bracing his hands on the arms of the rocker, he leaned down to get nose to nose with her so she could see his face. "Hell, no. It's the UPS man, here to collect a parcel bound for Oregon."

"What are you-?" Her question was cut short by a startled gasp when he scooped her out of the chair, one arm angled to support her back, the other behind her knees.

Hank thought he glimpsed a shimmer of joy in her beautiful eyes. Then, with an outraged little huff, she cried, "Put me down this instant. What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"I'm collecting my wife."

Hank jostled her in his arms to get a better hold, which had the pleasurable effect of making her grab for his neck.

"Oh, God, don't drop me!"

Not a chance. A down quilt had more substance than she did. Hank turned to leave the house and was surprised to see Art standing at the door, one arm angled out from his body to hold open the screen, his hands gripping four white plastic bags, filled to bursting with what looked like clothing.

"If I've missed anything, I'll stick it in the mail," he told Hank. "You carry her. I'llmanage these.""Daddy?" Carly's voice was shrill with disbelief. "Do something!""Like what?" Art asked.

"Stop him!"His blue eyes very like Carly's, Art grinned and winked at Hank. "He's forty yearsyounger than I am, sweetheart. I can't possibly stop him."

Hank turned sideways to maneuver out the doorway, Carly's flailing feet catching

on the doorframe."Unless you want to be tossed over my shoulder like a sack of grain," he warned,"you'll stop that kicking."

She went suddenly still in his arms. Then she stiffened. "You wouldn't dare.""Don't try me."Hank hurried across the porch and down the steps. As he marked off the distance to the SUV with long, sure strides, Ryan jumped out, circled the vehicle, and openedthe rear passenger door.

"Hi, Carly. Ryan Kendrick, here. Good to see you again.""Hi, Carly!" Bethany called gaily from the front seat. "I came along as Ryan's copilot.We flew down in the Kendricks' old rattletrap jet."

"That's a joke," Hank inserted quickly. "It's a very nice, comfortable plane, and

Ryan's an experienced pilot.""Well, of course, it was a joke," Bethany retorted. "Ryan would never take hispregnant wife up in anything less than an airworthy plane." Bethany winced,touched her lips, and said, "Oops. I meant to save that news for later." She beamed asmile. "We're pregnant together, Carly. Isn't that totally cool?"

Carly didn't seem to register anything Bethany said. She twisted in Hank's arms,searching blindly for her father. "I'm not going with you, Hank," she insistedfrantically. "Daddy? You have to do something. You can't just let him take me!"

Art swung open the rear cargo door to stuff in Carly's things. "I can and I will," he said gruffly. "A wife's place is with her husband. Go back to Oregon, sweetheart. Build a wonderful life, have a beautiful baby, and send me lots of pictures. I'm seventy-three and retired, remember. I raised my child. I want to enjoy myself from here on out. You made your bed, as the old saying goes. Don't ask me to sleep in it with you."

Hank felt Carly wince at the words and knew they'd pierced her to the quick. He gently deposited her on the back seat, half expecting her to bolt for the opposite door the instant he turned loose of her. Instead she just sat there, looking lost, forlorn, and wounded. Hank's heart gave a painful twist. The one person she'd always been able to count on had just jerked up the welcome mat and implied that he didn't want her in his life.

Hank almost closed the passenger door to tell Art he had overplayed his hand. But, no. No one knew Carly better than her father, and Hank had to trust that Art knew what he was doing. By cutting the familial ties, he'd cast Carly adrift, leaving Hank as her only anchor. As deeply as that might hurt Carly now, it might be best for her in the end. This way, she would be forced to depend on Hank, and in the doing, she'd learn that she could count on his love.

As Hank turned to shake his father-in-law's hand, he couldn't help but marvel at how far they'd come since the beginning of their phone conversation last night. Then again, maybe it wasn't so strange. They both loved the same woman.

Art's eyes swam with tears and his mouth trembled as he gripped Hank's hand. "Take good care of her," he whispered.

Normally Hank gave another man a firm handshake and quickly loosened his hold. This time, he maintained contact, trying to convey without words how deeply he loved Art's daughter and that the request was totally unnecessary. Somehow, though, with Art struggling against tears, a mere handshake didn't seem enough.

To hell with it, Hank thought, and hooked his left arm around Art's thin shoulders to give him a hug. "I'll make her happy," he whispered. "You've got my solemn oath on it."

His thin body trembling, Art fiercely returned Hank's embrace and whacked him on the back. "I know you will, son. If I didn't, you'd play hell taking her away."

"Phone collect. We get business rates, and I'll happily cover the charges. She'll need to hear from you regularly."

As they drew apart, Art nodded and murmured, "I'll wait a few days, give her some time to settle in." He swallowed and brushed tears from his weathered cheeks. "Make the most of it. I can't leave things like this for long."

Hank nodded and turned to climb into the SUV. Hands lying limply in her lap, shoulders slumped, Carly stared straight ahead as he slid in beside her. Her pale face had gone absolutely expressionless. He considered giving her some space for a while, but then he recalled the story Art had told him last night and decided that was the worst mistake he could possibly make. Instead, he looped an arm around her, drew her snugly against his side, and didn't resist the urge to press his face against her hair.

"I love you, Carly Jane," he whispered gruffly. "I'll always love you. You can't distance yourself from that. You can't run from it. You may as well stop trying."

Her painfully thin shoulders jerked as he curled his hand over her arm.

Bethany turned and reached over the seat to pat Carly's knee. "I'm so excited to see you again, Carly. I know you and Hank have some wrinkles to iron out and need to talk. I just want to say that everyone in our family will be there to support you." She shoved some folded papers into Carly's limp hands. "Those are letters from Jake, Zeke, and the twins. They've each committed to a weekday when they will chauffeur you into town if something happens and Hank isn't available. Isn't that great? You'll never have to worry about being stranded. In addition to that, Mom and Dad have volunteered to babysit. If you go to work and Hank is busy on the ranch, daycare won't be necessary."

Carly smiled wanly but said nothing. Bethany shot Hank a worried look. He lifted his eyebrows, hoping his sister might take the hint and shut up so he could get a word in edgewise. Bethany fell quiet and turned to face forward again. It wasn't much by way of privacy, but for the moment, it was the best Hank could hope for.

He ran his hand lightly over Carly's sleeve. She wore the same white blouse that she'd been wearing that wonderful evening at Lake Lemolo before they'd first made love.

He took a deep breath and began his spiel, which he'd rehearsed a fair hundred times so he wouldn't mess it up.

"Now that I know how poor your eyesight actually was the day you fell in the pond," he began, "I completely understand how frightening a place the Lazy J must have seemed to you. I want you to know up front that I'm not angry with you for leaving me. I never was." He dragged in another quick breath.