"But you said-"

He refused to look at her. This woman was beginning to get under his skin, and he couldn't allow that. "It probably was some juvenile playing a prank. That's the most likely explanation, given that we haven't had any other incidents reported. But in case he decides to come back and try to give you another scare, there'll be someone outside."

She rose with him, following him as he headed for the kitchen to use the phone. "But isn't that a little extreme?" Oh, Lord, she could just imagine the gossip. Miss Emma, starchy spinster, was starting to imagine lurking rapists behind every bush. She would be the laughingstock of Mahoney's. "Mr. Dalton..."

"Call me Gage." He had just reached the phone, but he turned abruptly to face her. "Look, Emma, I have a personal thing about cruds who pick on women and children. I won't stand for it. Not for one d.a.m.n minute."

She looked up at him. A tall woman, she was accustomed to meeting most men at eye level. Gage was five or six inches taller, and the difference made her feel small. Delicate. Feminine. It made her notice that the dark stubble of the day's growth of beard had begun to appear on his uninjured cheek. It made her notice the broad-shouldered, slim-hipped way he filled out his suit. It made her notice his hands, dark, lean and large.

She caught her breath and backed up. For long years she had schooled herself not to notice such things, had taught her body to pretend it had no needs and never felt empty. Her walls and barriers suddenly felt weak and shaky. Abruptly she turned. "Fine," she said, and headed back to the living room to clean up from dinner.

Twenty minutes later a deputy arrived. Sara Yates was Conard County's only female deputy, and probably Emma's closest woman friend in the county. Sara took one look at Gage, and another at Emma, and grinned in a way Emma didn't at all like.

"What's this about a Peeping Tom, Gage?" Sara asked, turning away from Emma before the latter could say anything.

Gage explained the sequence of events rapidly, clearly, concisely, in a way that told Emma he had long experience of making such reports. Rumor in the county had it that Gage Dalton had been a lawman somewhere before he came here to work part-time for Nathan Tate, and it appeared rumor was right. Emma couldn't have explained things so well or clearly if she'd had hours to prepare.

Sara trained her spotlight on the eaves, and she and Gage together began a close examination of the scene. Feeling useless, Emma went back inside to wash the dishes.

She was just wiping the counters down when Gage and Sara came back inside. Gage looked cold, Emma thought. He should at least have put on his jacket.

"Well," he said, "we found out how it was done."

Sara held up a long piece of twine from which hung the shred of a balloon. "Just a prank, Emma," she said. "Gage and I figure that the hoaxster shot it with a BB gun when you screamed. Makes it spookier that way."

Gage and Sara had stayed to have coffee and pie with Emma, and then Sara had driven Gage back to his place. Alone in the big, empty old house, Emma felt uneasy. Just a prank, she told herself, and forced herself through her nightly routine of checking locks and windows. While she showered, she tried to repress images out of Psycho-surely a movie no solitary woman should ever watch-and then she proved she could conquer her nerves by lingering to dust herself with talc.u.m powder.

Finally, edgy beyond belief, she dived into her bed and pulled the covers up to her eyes just like a little kid who was scared of the dark.

And she was afraid of the dark, she admitted. Thirty years old, and petrified of the night, of shadows, of empty streets. Petrified of being wounded again the way Joe Murphy had wounded her all those years ago.

She and Joe had become engaged halfway through her senior year in college. Just two weeks before the a.s.sault that had changed her life forever. When she had come out of her coma and learned what had happened to her, she had naturally turned to Joe for understanding and comfort.

Instead, he had broken their engagement. "The whole point of getting married is having children," he'd told her. "You can't have kids anymore, Emma. What's the point?"

What's the point?

Tucked under her blankets now, with the light beside the bed blazing brightly to hold back all the terrors that had no names, Emma squeezed her eyes shut against an old pain that still felt like a spear in her heart. Over the years, she had come to understand that Joe had been the smallest of the losses she had suffered. Her real loss had been the loss of her womanhood. The thing that Emma believed most made a woman a woman, the thing that gave her meaning and purpose, that made her desirable as a mate, was gone forever, never to be recovered. And never again would she risk even the remote possibility that a man might reject her because she was barren.

Lying alone in her empty bed, she listened to mocking whispers that seemed to come from just beyond the range of her hearing. The feeling of invasion returned. There was something evil out there, something waiting. Something looking. For her.

Gage drooped over his coffeepot the following morning. Wearing nothing but his black jeans, zipped but not b.u.t.toned, he cursed the strangely wild mood that had led him to stop in Mahoney's last night after Sara dropped him off. Seeing him, Mahoney had poured the usual two shots, but Gage had lingered for another two, and then another. He had only a vague memory of eventually climbing the stairs and falling onto his bed.

h.e.l.l, he never did that. The last time he had tied one on had been just after... He squashed the thought before it could be born. Some things didn't bear remembering. Some things had to be buried before they drove you mad.

He swore at the coffeepot and wondered why it was so d.a.m.n sluggish this morning. He swore at himself for getting hung over, though it was only a small hangover. He swore at his back for hurting, then swore at life in general. And when he got done with that, he swore at Emma Conard for being so s.e.xy when she was so d.a.m.n uptight. At this moment he would have bet a year's pay she was a virgin. He swore again. She must surely be the last virgin on earth over the age of eighteen. Why the h.e.l.l did she have to cross his path?

Someone knocked timidly on the door. Gage glared at it over his shoulder. Probably Mahoney coming to find out why he was swearing so viciously. Mahoney lived downstairs, behind the bar.

The knock came again, stronger. What the h.e.l.l? "Door's open," he growled. "Come on in, Mahoney." When he heard the soft gasp behind him, he knew it wasn't Mahoney. h.e.l.l's bells, he didn't even have a shirt on, and he knew what Emma could see. And knew it was Emma. Somehow he just knew, though why the devil she would look him up on a Sunday morning...

He turned slowly, certain he would find shock and horror. Burn scars sure as h.e.l.l weren't pretty. He found the shock and horror, all right. And tears sparkling on the dark fringe of lashes that framed her misty green eyes.

"Oh, Gage," she whispered. "Oh, Gage."

"I'll get a shirt." He headed toward the bedroom, trying to keep his front toward her. His chest wasn't bad at all, hardly marked. He'd been heading away from the car, going back to get the forgotten diaper bag when... He choked that thought off, too.

"It's ... all right," she said. "You don't have to. I know it's early and..." She blinked, and a tear ran down her cheek. "I'm sorry I barged in on you but ... I need your help."

She turned her back to him and folded her arms around herself, and he knew in that instant how much it had cost her to come here and ask for his help. Emma Conard was a proud, independent woman who hated to admit any fear. He hesitated momentarily, torn by an unexpected urge to go to her and comfort her.

Instead, he dashed into his bedroom and grabbed a sweatshirt that was hanging over the foot of the bed. Tugging it swiftly on, he returned to Emma. "What happened?"

She didn't turn to face him, but stared out the uncurtained window at the brick wall on the other side of the alley. "I went out to get my paper from the porch this morning and found ... a decapitated rabbit."

Something inside him froze. "On your porch?"

"On my porch. Anyway, what with that and last night and ... everything, I thought that if you were still interested in renting a room from me, I'd be awfully grateful not to be alone in that house."

He didn't answer immediately. "Did you call the sheriff?"

She nodded. "They came out and took the carca.s.s, and Dave Winters suggested that maybe I could have a friend stay with me while they try to figure out if this is serious or just kids."

Now she turned and looked at him. "I can understand that you might not want the room anymore, but it really wasn't anything personal when I turned you down before."

"No, I understood that. It'll take me a couple of hours to box up my stuff, but I'll come."

"Thank you. I'm on my way to church, but I'll be back home in about an hour and a half. Come whenever you feel like it."

He reached out and touched her arm. "Let me drive you to church."

Her faced blanched. d.a.m.n it, he wondered, what the h.e.l.l was it with this woman? Why should the offer of a lift drain all the color from her face?

"No, really, it's just a short walk," she said, backing up and giving him a fragile, forced smile. "I'll see you later."

He followed her to the door and watched her descend the wooden staircase, thinking that perhaps she shouldn't go anywhere alone until this thing was settled. d.a.m.n, what had happened to the deputy who was supposed to be watching her house? A decapitated rabbit went far beyond a funny face painted on a balloon, but, disgusting as it was, it still didn't exceed the realm of possible teenage pranks. Given that, he could hardly stick to her side like a watchdog.

But he could make certain she was safe when she was at home, he thought, as she disappeared around the corner of the building. He could make certain that if she didn't turn up where she was supposed to be, someone would notice it. Turning his back on the cold, clear day, Gage shut the door. Forgetting his hangover, he poured himself some coffee and then went to dig out the boxes he had saved in the storage closet.

d.a.m.n, he hated this feeling that something terrible was about to happen. It clung to his neck and shoulders like chilly, wet leaves, ominous and foreboding.

Emma hadn't told Gage the half of it, mostly because she was sure she would look and feel like a fool if she did. The rabbit was a tangible thing, proof that she hadn't utterly lost her mind. She could call the sheriff to deal with something like that.

But she couldn't call the sheriff to deal with her nightmares. There wasn't anyone she could tell that she had dreamed of the dagger again last night. She couldn't tell anyone that its image had begun to haunt the edges of her mind, like a memory she couldn't quite grasp. She couldn't tell anyone about the other nightmare she had had last night, when the balloon face had become a real face, a face she seemed to know but not know. A stranger she remembered. A man who terrified her.

The man who had hurt her?

Dawn had taken a terribly long time coming this morning. Lights had blazed at Emma's house for hours, holding the night at bay, but only with the arrival of the sun did she believe she was again safe.

It was crazy, it was creepy, and it was something she couldn't tell anyone else about. She walked into the church that morning looking for a comfort that no one on earth could give her, because there was no one on earth she could tell.

Gage pulled his black Suburban into Emma's driveway shortly after noon. She heard his engine as he pulled up and hurried out to the kitchen to meet him. During the time since she had gotten back from church, her nerves had stretched tighter and tighter, and even the old regulator's ticking had become ominous. Nor did it do a d.a.m.n bit of good to remind herself how many years she had lived quite happily in this house. It just didn't feel safe any longer.

She reached the door as Gage was climbing out of the Suburban. Inexplicably, her breath locked in her throat, and she froze in astonishment as the most unexpected yearning squeezed her heart.

He was dressed, as usual, in head-to-toe black: black jeans, black Stetson, black boots, black leather jacket. On the surface, at least, he was everything she had always avoided. He looked like a brewing storm, like trouble distilled.

That didn't keep her from wishing she could know what it felt like to be held by him. Every cell in her body suddenly ached just to feel his arms around her.

But that was ridiculous. Absurd. Unthinkable. Ignoring the ache, she opened the door just as Gage pulled the first of his boxes from the back end of the truck.

"Hi," she called, and felt her breath catch again as he looked up at her and smiled back. "What can I do to help?"

"Keep the rocker warm," he replied, climbing the steps. "My back's going to kill me after this."

"Let me-"

"No." The word was flat, unequivocal.

Emma stepped back to let him pa.s.s. "I can ask the boys next door-"

"No." He halted and turned to look at her. "I may hurt like h.e.l.l, Emma, but don't ever mistake me for being helpless or an invalid."

She watched his narrow flanks as he walked away and wondered why she had never before noticed just how s.e.xy a man's bottom could be in a pair of jeans. Suddenly she hurried after him.

"Doing a job like this when you know it's going to hurt you is just plain foolhardy, Gage Dalton!"

He was already climbing the stairs. "So I'm a macho idiot. But once you start giving ground, lady, it's h.e.l.l to get it back."

Emma stood watching him climb the rest of the stairs, thinking that he was probably right.

"Which room?" he asked.

"Take your pick. The front bedroom has the hardest mattress, though, if that's important to your back."

"Thanks."

Nice buns, she thought again, and almost giggled at her own foolishness. It was such a relief to have another person in the house that she was a little giddy.

Gage did it all himself, every last d.a.m.n box and book. And he had a lot of books. They const.i.tuted the major part of his possessions.

"Emma?" he called down the stairs. "Would it be a problem if I took a bookcase out of one of the other rooms?"

She appeared at the foot of the stairs, wiping her hands on an ap.r.o.n. Delicious aromas were filling the house again. "Help yourself." The bookcases had been empty since she had donated the books-mostly very old novels-to Sweet.w.a.ter Nursing Home. Her own books, and the handed down ones that she treasured, filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcases in her study. "Do you need any help?"

"No, but thanks."

Well, that was the most gracious refusal he'd yet given her, Emma thought as she headed back into the kitchen to finish peeling potatoes. It had been a while since she had cooked a big Sunday dinner for anyone but herself, and she was enjoying it. She was enjoying, too, the noise from upstairs as Gage moved around and unpacked.

The house had been empty and silent for too long, Emma thought now. Her last roomer had been a middle-aged French teacher who had spent her time quietly and un.o.btrusively upstairs reading or grading papers. Emma had hardly known the woman was in the house. Somehow she didn't think she would be unaware of Gage.

Even the runner in the upstairs hallway didn't entirely silence his booted feet, and floorboards creaked under his every step. The sounds made the house feel alive once again.

He came down the stairs again for another load and sniffed appreciatively as he pa.s.sed through the kitchen. "It sure smells a lot better than Mahoney's," he told her.

"You're invited to join me," she said casually, she hoped, because she suddenly didn't feel at all casual about asking this man to dine with her. "Roast beef, oven-browned potatoes, candied carrots..."

"Say no more. I'll be there with bells on."

He managed to get the last box upstairs without knuckling under to the pain that flayed him, but when he reached the room that final time, he knew he couldn't have made one more trip.

Leaving the last boxes untouched for now, he grabbed a couple of his towels and headed for the bathroom. What he needed was a long, hot soak, and that claw-footed tub looked big enough to hold him, unlike most modern tubs.

A twenty-minute soak eased the worst of the spasms. Back in his room, he stretched out on the bed, facedown, and groaned with sheer relief. G.o.d, he almost didn't hurt at all. Almost. Let it last, just a little while. Just a little while.

Emma hesitated at the foot of the stairs, wondering if she should call Gage down to dinner or go upstairs to get him. Things had been so quiet since he finished his bath that she thought he might have fallen asleep. If that was so, she didn't want to wake him. The poor man probably needed whatever sleep he could manage to get, and while he was asleep he wouldn't feel the pain.

After a few more moments of indecision, she decided to go up and peek in on him. If he was sleeping, she could save his dinner to reheat later.

The door to his room stood wide open, and she saw him lying facedown on the bed. Jeans and a black T-shirt covered him decently, but his feet were bare, and there was something about them that made him seem oddly vulnerable.

Emma hesitated on the threshold. "Gage?" She said his name softly, hoping not to disturb him if he wasn't awake.

"I'm awake, Emma," he said, his voice m.u.f.fled, "but I think I'm paralyzed. Maybe you'd better eat without me."

"Paralyzed?" She stepped into the room, closer to him, and battled an urge to hurry over and touch him somehow. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Naw. Actually, I don't hurt at all. Not at all. And I just discovered I'm a coward."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid to move."