Lost

by Becky Bain

"I think that's everything." Catherine looked at the boxes andbags piled in the back of the minivan.

"I've checked the cabin," Vincent answered. "We've leftnothing behind."

She sighed and leaned against him. "It's been a magical threedays. I'm not ready for them to end."

"All things end, Catherine," he reminded her softly. "Butthere's always next time."

"Next time." She smiled. "I can live with that."

"So can I." He squeezed her shoulders, then climbed in theback of the van to settle himself among their odd assortment ofluggage.

She frowned. "I wish there was a way for you to wear aseatbelt. You seem so vulnerable back there."

"You're a careful driver, Catherine," he reassured her. "I'llbe fine."

"I suppose." She closed the sliding side door and went aroundto the driver's seat. Settling in, she fastened her own seatbelt. The rear of the van was designed for cargo, so not only was itwithout seats, it was without windows, rendering the rearview mirroruseless as a driving aid. She adjusted the mirror until she couldsee Vincent's face. "Ready?"

He looked comfortable enough, reclining against plastic bagsfull of bedding and towels to be laundered. He nodded and she pulledaway.

The long Labor Day weekend had been idyllic. It had beenVincent's idea to come to the lake. She'd been reluctant,remembering his own arguments of the year before. She couldunderstand, now, about not risking what one had for the sake ofhaving more. But he'd been quietly insistent and at last she'dacceded.

Father, she'd been given to understand, hadn't been soacquiescent. In fact, she rather thought Father had had a fit. ButVincent had been quietly insistent there, too - or perhaps he'd beenloudly insistent. She wasn't sure. But he'd prevailed, and theweekend had been worth every moment of discord.

She pulled out on to the rural two-lane highway and glanced inthe mirror again. "Want some music?"

He smiled, showing the tips of his teeth. "If you like."

She reached between the seats and nudged the case of cassettetapes, glad she'd kept them even after switching her home system overto CDs. The rented van only had a tape player. "You choose," shesaid. "I'm driving."

Vincent obligingly crawled up to the front of the van to lookthrough the case. After a moment he held out a tape. "Thisone."

She glanced down to see what he'd chosen. He'd passed over theclassical tapes in favor of Broadway. Man of La Mancha. They'dlistened to it twice on the way up, just so Vincent could hear "TheImpossible Dream."

She took the tape from its case by feel and slid it into theplayer. In a moment, the sound of trumpets swelled around them fromthe stereo speakers, grand and majestic. Vincent crawled back to hispadded corner and closed his eyes to listen.

Humming, Catherine returned her attention to the road. Duskwas gathering, so she turned on her headlights. It wasn't darkenough yet for them to help her see, but they'd make her more visibleto other drivers.

She wished the car behind her would follow suit; it was hard tosee it in the gloom. Besides that, it was all over the road, veeringfrom side to side in a way that made her wonder if the driver wasintoxicated. She kept a careful eye on it in the side mirror.

When they topped the next hill, the car pulled out to pass; sheslowed and pulled to the right, giving it plenty of room. It roaredpast; in the glow of her headlights, she could see the driver givingher the finger.

"Jerk," she muttered to herself, following the careening carinto a curve.

A pair of headlights flashed in her peripheral vision. Movingheadlights, her mind registered. Instinctively she hit the brakesand yanked on the wheel.

Squealing tires, the scream of tearing metal and the sharpshattering of glass filled the night. Impact threw Catherine hardagainst the seatbelt and shoulder harness; something heavy slammedagainst the back of her seat.

Dazed, she sat in the sudden silence, gripping the wheel,staring through the crazed windshield. Then she remembered, andgroped frantically for the seatbelt release. "Vincent?"

There was no answer, and that panicked her even more. She gotthe belt undone and pushed it off her shoulder, turning in the samemotion. "Vincent!"

This time she was answered by a low growl that told her he wasalive, but also meant something was terribly wrong. Frantic, shestarted to crawl between the front seats when someone wrenched openthe driver's door.

"Lady! Are you okay? I didn't see you. I swear I didn't seeyou!"

The other driver couldn't have been much more than sixteen. Blood smeared the side of his face; he looked more panicked than shewas. Beyond him, on the roadway, other motorists had seen theaccident and stopped to help.

Catherine fought her instincts, forcing herself to turn andclimb out of the van. "I'm okay," she said, and pushed the doorshut. "Just shaken up."

"I'm sorry, lady," the boy insisted. "I was watching thatother car and I just didn't see you. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she repeated, even though it wasn't, and couldn'tbe until she knew Vincent was all right.

"I called the police," a bystander said, waving a cellularphone. "They'll be here in a few minutes."

Catherine forced herself to nod and moved away from the van,drawing the onlookers with her. "Are you hurt?" she asked the otherdriver. "Anywhere besides your head?"

He touched his forehead gingerly. Already the blood on theside of his face was clotting and drying. "I don't think so."

She heard sirens, and saw the distant flash of emergencylights. A state police car pulled up, followed by an ambulance and atow truck.

"You one of the drivers, ma'am?" the police officer asked.

"Yes," she agreed, and pointed out the boy who'd been drivingthe car. The officer asked them both about injuries, then took themto his patrol car to fill out a report. It was then that Catherinelearned that the other driver had been waiting to pull out of a sideroad. Distracted by the car that had passed her, he hadn't noticedher van at all until after he'd pulled into its path. There wasnothing she could have done to avoid the accident.

None of it made her feel better. Vincent was hurt - maybeunconscious, maybe bleeding - and she was sitting in the back of apolice car, making out a report.

The police officer took names of witnesses and dismissed theambulance. The tow truck had already moved the boy's car. As sheclimbed out of the police car, Catherine saw a second truck backinginto position in front of the van.

"Wait!" she called. "Wait!" She hurried to it. "I need... mypurse is in there."

The tow truck driver nodded laconically, still hooking hischains to the mangled front of the van. Catherine wrenched the dooropen and climbed inside. "Vincent?" she whispered cautiously.

There was no reply. She leaned between the front seats,straining to see in the darkness.

The back of the van was a tangle of bed linens and the contentsof an overturned cooler. Vincent wasn't there.

The van's side door stood open a few inches; whether it hadcome open upon impact or Vincent had opened it later, Catherinewasn't sure. She looked across at the forested verge. He must be inthere somewhere. Hiding. Waiting for her.

Someone thumped on the door. "Hey, lady! You okay inthere?"

She snatched up her purse and climbed out. "I'm fine," shetold the tow truck driver. "Fine."

She watched silently as he hoisted the van's front end into theair, then leaned out his window. "Can I give you a ride intotown?"

There was nothing she wanted less. But without a car, she hadno way to move Vincent once she'd found him. And asking to be leftalone on this deserted stretch of rural highway would only arousesuspicion. She forced a smile. "Thank you."

She wasn't sure exactly where "town" was, and when the drivertold her the name, it evoked no memory. "Is there a place where Ican rent a car?"

He glanced sideways at her. "Have to go all the way into thecity for that," he answered. "Bus comes through in the morning."

That was much too little, and far too late. "I have anappointment," she lied. "Do you know of any way I can get a carbefore morning?"

"Bud Hill over at the garage has a couple of clunkers he usesas loaners," he offered, after a moment's thought. "Might be he'dlet you use one."

"I'd be happy to pay for it," she said. "Do you know how I canget hold of him?"

He nodded. "I'll call him for you when we get into town."

An hour later, the keys to a battered Ford sedan ofindeterminate year and color were dropped into her hand. "Thankyou," Catherine said. "I'll have it back to you tomorrow,probably."

"No problem," the garage owner said, pushing back his greasycap and pocketing the hundred dollars she'd paid him. "Glad tohelp."

Dark. Trees. Tangled underbrush.

Pain.

The sharp scent of blood.

He growled softly, instinctively.

Fear.

He must go. He rolled over and groaned. His head hurt. Hisribs. And mostly his leg. He growled again, the sound low andsavage, and pushed to his feet.

Fear. Calling him. He must go.

He staggered forward, his injured leg in agony as he forced itto support him. He pushed through the trees, taking the most directroute. Letting the heavy underbrush hold him up.

Follow the fear.

Something wet and sticky was in his eyes, and he brushed itaway.

His head hurt. He was dizzy, and had to keep clutching attrees to keep from falling over. His leg hurt. Breathing hurt.

But there was the fear. Steady, constant fear. He must go. Faster, because the fear was going faster. Going away from him.

When he broke into a jagged, stumbling run, his leg collapsedunder him in a burst of searing pain.

There was no time. Unable to stand, he hitched forward onhands and one knee, dragging the useless leg behind him.

More of the sticky stuff was in his eyes, blinding him. Herubbed at it and his hand came away wet, and smelling sharply ofblood.

Catherine worried she wouldn't recognize the stretch of highwaywhere the accident occurred, but knew it at once when she reached it. Bits of glass still glittered on the shoulder, and black skid marksshowed where she had tried to stop. She pulled the Ford well off thehighway and got out.

There was no traffic and no houses within sight, so she feltsafe in shouting. "Vincent!"

Nothing moved in the tangle of woods, and she heard noanswering cry. Heart pounding, Catherine switched on the flashlightshe'd bought at a convenience store and pushed forward, entering thewood where Vincent probably had. She called his name again andlistened.

Nothing.

He wouldn't have left this area. She was sure of it. He wouldhave known she would come back for him. He would have waited.

Unless he was too badly hurt to think clearly. Unless...

She pushed away the image of him lying somewhere bleeding, orunconscious. Or worse...

He was here. She'd find him.

Hours later he was still missing. Trembling with exhaustion,sick with dread, Catherine pushed her hair back from her face, thencovered her eyes. She'd tramped back and forth, crisscrossing theforest, peering under trees and reaching into thickets. Nothing. Not a trace.

She choked back a sob. He had to be here. And she had to findhim. But stumbling around in the dark wasn't the way to do it. Reluctantly, hating every step that took her away from him, shereeled back to the car and turned it toward town.

His face was pressed into the crushed stems of something softand fragrant. He blinked, trying to orient himself.

Dizzy. And his head hurt. And his side. And his leg.

His sense of her was receding. She was going away.

She.

Catherine.

The name came to him suddenly, along with an awareness of whohe was. Where he was. He lifted his head, ignoring the poundingbehind his eyes, and looked around.

He was lying on a grassy slope, halfway between a stand oftrees at the top of the hill and a group of buildings at itsfoot.

It was still dark, but his instincts warned it wouldn't be forlong. Lying on the slope, in the open, made him horribly vulnerable,and the constant agony in his leg meant he wouldn't be able to travelfar. He squinted at the trees at the top of the hill. They lookedimpossibly far, and he couldn't tell from here how far back theywent.

The buildings looked a safer bet. There was a large buildingof dark brick and white-painted trim. Probably a house. Severalsmaller buildings of the same dark brick stood nearby. All weredarkened, but only the big house seemed deserted. A smaller oneseemed occupied, though Vincent couldn't define how he knew this. Another of the smaller buildings held livestock. Horses, maybe, orcattle. He wasn't sure. The smallest building of all wasn't brickat all, but wood. It smelled of fresh paint, and Vincent could see,as he crawled toward it, the white trim around its eaves.

The eastern horizon was streaked with pink and purple by thetime he reached the building. He dragged himself right up againstthe foundation and lay there, exhausted and trembling. In a moment,he'd crawl around and see if he could find a way in.

Fatigue was his enemy now and he wanted nothing so much as toput his head down and close his eyes. He wondered if that, coupledwith the dizziness and intermittent nausea, meant concussion. Or ifhe was simply worn out from the excitement of the weekend, the stressof the accident, and the sheer effort of getting to this place.

His sense of Catherine was fuzzy and hard to hold on to, but hecould tell she was no longer nearby. She must be calling for help. Soon there would be people here, looking for him. All he needed todo was stay safe until they found him.

The little town was just beginning to stir when Catherinereached it. She drove slowly, looking for a pay phone. A lightedsign caught her eye and she pulled up in front of Ann's Restaurant. It seemed to be a popular place; even at this hour the parking lotwas nearly full.

A pay phone was inside, near the cash register. Catherinedialled quickly and waited for the tones that meant her calling cardhad been approved. The phone on the other end began to ring.

A man's voice, gruff with sleep, answered.

"Peter?"

"Yeah. Which one is it?"

"It's Cathy."

"Huh? Oh, Cathy! I thought you were the answering service. I'm expecting babies to be born tonight. How was your weekend?" There was a moment's silence; she could almost hear his smile vanishas he took in the early hour. "Wait. What is it? What'swrong?"

The sudden concern in his voice made her want to cry. Shefought the tears. "We had an accident."

"An accident?" He sounded fully awake and alert now. "Where? Were you hurt?"

"We're still in Connecticut," she answered. She told him thename of the town. "I'm okay. But Vincent..."

"How is he?"

The question brought a rush of tears; she choked on a sob. "Idon't know. I can't find him."

Peter promised to come at once. Catherine found an empty boothand sank down into it. "Coffee?" a middle-aged waitress asked.

"Yes." Catherine turned the heavy china mug over so the womancould pour.

"Menu?"

She wasn't hungry. But she hadn't eaten since yesterday'slunch, and she'd need her strength. "Could you just bring me sometoast?"

The waitress's brisk expression softened. "Sure thing, honey. Be right back."

Three hours later, Catherine was still hunched in the booth. She'd gone through at least a pot of coffee, but the food on herplate was barely touched.

The outside door squealed and she looked up, just as she'd doneevery other time it opened. This time, she lurched to her feet. "Peter. You came."

But he wasn't alone. Behind him, eyes blazing accusation, wasFather.

Catherine wanted to look away, but her own sense of guilt heldher fast. "I'm sorry, Father," she said when he reached her. "Iknow it's my fault..."

"Your fault, indeed! I told Vincent this was a foolhardy idea,but he was so determined to please you. And at what cost? He'smissing, maybe hurt. Maybe worse." Father was just getting warmedup when Peter cut him off.

"Cathy knows all that, Jacob, and your fixing blame isn't goingto help us find him. There'll be time for that when Vincent's backhome safe and sound." He laid a bill on her table and tookCatherine's arm. "Let's go outside."

Father and Peter hadn't come alone. Waiting in the parking lotwas a veritable army: Jamie, Zach, Michael; Brooke and Simon andRebecca; a handful of helpers she knew by sight but not by name.

Enough to search the woods and be sure Vincent wasn't missed. Catherine nearly sagged with relief.

"We'll need you to show us where to look," Peter was saying. "Come ride with us."

She nodded and climbed into the front of Peter's minivan, solike the one she'd been driving just a few hours earlier. Carsdriven by helpers pulled out behind them. She guided them to theaccident site.

"Right here," she said. "The van came to rest over here. Ithink he must have gone out the side door when no one was looking andgone into the woods here."

"Then this is where we'll begin," Peter said, and gave swiftinstructions to the rest. They fanned out and began combing thewoods; occasionally a voice could be heard calling Vincent'sname.

Vincent opened his eyes to blurred shadows. He blinked, tryingto clear his vision, and turned his head. One of the shadows moved,reaching toward him. He growled, low in his throat, and raked theair with his claws.

The shadow leaped back, knocking something over in itshaste.

"Damn it." The voice was young and female, whispering in thedarkness.

The pale flicker of a flashlight, half-covered by a mufflinghand, shot out, faintly illuminating his surroundings. He blinkedagain, willing his vision to clear. Gradually it did.

He was in a small, windowless room. Two walls were closelyhung with tools and other implements. Bulky burlap sacks werestacked against a third wall. The fourth wall was mostly taken up bya wide, sliding door. A tool shed.

His companion was a teenage girl of perhaps fourteen. She setthe flashlight down and rubbed her elbow through a tear in herflannel shirt, scowling. She was careful to keep her distance.

There was no harm in her; he knew it instinctively. Shamedthat he had frightened her, he relaxed, letting his head drop to thefloor. Something padded the cold concrete; he lifted a hand andfound a folded blanket stuffed under his head as a pillow.

"Sorry," he rasped. It was difficult to find words to fit histhoughts, and that scared him. Reassuring the girl came first,though. "Didn't mean to frighten you."

She shook her head and edged closer. "It's not the first time. Here." She held out a plastic cup. "Drink some of this."

His lips and tongue were dry; he raised himself as well as hecould and sipped water as she held the cup to his lips. "Thank you,"he said when he settled back. "Better."

"Good." She sank back on her heels. "Do I get to know yourname?"

Instinct urged him not to tell; inbred good manners argued theother way. He thought it through carefully, a slow, lumberingprocess that made his head ache. Good manners won out. "I amVincent," he said slowly.

"I'm Melissa," she answered.

"Melissa," he repeated. "A lovely name."

She grinned a little and blushed. "Thanks."

Vincent glanced around the little shed. The last thing heremembered was lying in the grass outside. "How did I get inhere?"

She bent over him. "You don't remember?"

"No."

"I found you in back of the shed. You talked to me. Don't youremember that?"

He searched his memory, but things seemed fragmented and hardto hold. He was sure he hadn't seen the girl before, though. "No,"he answered.

"Well, you did. If you hadn't, I don't know what I'd havedone. But you kept saying you had to hide, so I helped you inhere."

"How long?"

"Have you been here? Since this morning. It's Tuesday," sheadded.

"What time? Now?"

"Just past dark."

The whole day gone! Catherine must be frantic. He tried tostruggle up on his elbows, setting off fresh torment in his woundedribs and leg and making his head pound.

"Don't do that," she chided him. "You'll make your head bleedagain." It was ridiculously easy for her to press him back down.

"Looking for me..."

"Who?"

He struggled for words to explain. But all he could say was,"Catherine."

"Who's Catherine? You said her name before. Outside."

"My... Catherine."

"Like, your girlfriend?"

For a moment he wasn't sure what that meant. Then, suddenly,the word had meaning. If he'd been capable of blushing, he wouldhave. "My friend."

"Oh." The girl sat back on her heels. "How do I findher?"

For that, Vincent had no answer. Catherine was nearby. Shewas frantic with worry. He knew that. But he had no idea how farhe'd travelled last night, had no clear memory of the area where theaccident had occurred. His connection with her was fuzzy, and hecouldn't tell exactly where she might be. "Don't know."

The girl frowned. "That's a problem. I'll think about it,okay?"

It would have to do. He nodded.

The effort of talking had intensified his headache, andexhausted him; keeping his eyes open was an effort. The last thinghe remembered was Melissa pulling his cloak up to cover him.

In the woods, the long shadows of evening faded swiftly intotwilight.

"Catherine."

She'd spent the day crisscrossing the woods with the others,keeping to as straight a path as she could manage, stopping often tocrawl beneath low-hanging branches or delve into thickets ofunderbrush. She straightened from peering behind a fallen tree. Michael waited, looking as tired and dirty as she felt. "Comeon," he said. "It's getting dark."

She pulled away from the helping hand he offered. "No. I haveto keep looking. I have to find him."

"We're going to find him," Michael answered. "But it's darknow. None of us have eaten since Peter brought the sandwiches forlunch."

Catherine hadn't managed to choke down more than two bites ofthe thick ham-and-cheese someone had thrust into her hands. That,coupled with the little breakfast she'd eaten, might account for herlightheadedness. Or was that because Vincent was hurt? Unconscious,maybe. Unconscious almost certainly, or he'd have responded to oneof the many voices calling his name.

Wearily she pushed lank, dirty bangs out of her eyes. "Okay,"she conceded.

The other searchers were already gathered around the parkedcars. Catherine searched each face hopefully, but there was noencouragement. Only an endless repetition of small, unhappyheadshakes. No one had found any trace of Vincent.

"That's everyone," Peter announced, after a quick head-count. "We'll head back to town for a hot dinner. Father and I found amotel that can accommodate us all..."

"No!" Catherine's protest was instinctive and involuntary. "We can't stop looking..."

"Cathy." Peter's voice was very kind. "We're all exhausted. It's too dark to search properly. We'll eat, we'll get a night'srest, and we'll be back here at dawn."

But Catherine could not be persuaded. "No," she insisted. "He's out there. Hurt. Maybe..." she stifled the thought. "He'shurt. I can't just leave him. I have to find him."

"We will, Cathy. Tomorrow. We can't find him in the dark. You know that."

Catherine turned on the others. "You can't just leave himhere. We have to keep looking..."

"We will," an anonymous male voice said. "Tomorrow."

The faces around her were resigned and oddly sympathetic. Shewanted to weep with frustration. They weren't going to listen. Theywere going back to town, and nothing she could do would stopthem.

Discouraged, she turned back toward the woods. Peter caughther arm.

"Where do you think you're going?"

She was astonished that he'd even ask. "To look..."

"Not tonight you aren't."

She wrenched away from him. "I have to find him!" she shouted. "Don't you understand? He's lost and he's hurt and I have to findhim."

"We all want to find him," Peter said, his voice steady,placating. "But not tonight. We'll find him tomorrow, but tonightyou have to sleep. You have to eat. It won't do Vincent any good ifyou collapse."

Her mind saw the sense in what he said, but her heart resistedeven when he took her arm again and drew her to the van.

All the way back to town she slumped against the door, staringout at the moonless sky.

While the rest of them searched, Peter had found the town's onemotel and rented enough rooms for everyone to have a bed. When theirlittle caravan pulled up in the little parking lot, he assumedcontrol, assigning roommates and passing out keys. Finally he turnedto Catherine. "I thought you and Jamie... but Jamie can go in withBrooke and Rebecca, if you like."

"No," she said hastily. "No. Jamie and I will be fine." Shemanaged to smile at Jamie. "I think I'll be glad of thecompany."

In addition to finding the motel and providing lunch, Peter hadalso managed to secure Catherine's personal items from the wreckedrental van; she was relieved to find clothes and toiletries waitingin her room.

After a short break to wash up, all the searchers gathered inthe room Father and Peter would share for the night. Peter hadordered pizza and soft drinks; Jamie and Michael spread out maps andleaned over them, marking out where they'd searched and where theyhadn't, formulating a search plan for tomorrow.

Catherine sank unfeeling into a chair and accepted the plasticcup of soda someone pressed into her hand. She drank absently, onlynow aware of how dry her throat was after a day of climbing andcalling.

Once, she looked up to meet Father's gaze, sharp andrecriminating. She couldn't summon anything resembling indignationin her own defense.

She chewed listlessly on a slice of ham and pineapple pizzasomeone gave her, but she was too scared to have much appetite. Shehardly noticed when someone else took the cold remnants away.

At last people began to drift off toward their own rooms. Jamie caught Catherine's eye and nodded; Peter walked them to thedoor. "We'll find him, Cathy," he said, bending to hug her. Hisvoice was pitched so only she could hear. "We will."

"I hope so, Peter," she whispered. "I hope so."

Catherine lay awake long after Jamie's breathing had settledinto relaxed regularity. She'd known before when Vincent was introuble, even when she had no reason to know. Perhaps, if sheconcentrated very hard, she could pick up some small sense of him. She made a conscious effort to relax, breathing deeply, centeringherself. Then she deliberately opened her mind, banishing straythoughts that drifted in. After a while, her head began to ache, andher right leg throbbed dully above the ankle. She flexed the ankleand sighed, and ran a hand over her ribs on the same side; for someodd reason, they'd begun to ache, too. Probably from lying in thesame position for so long.

But she wasn't giving up. She shifted slightly and reached outagain. Sometime during her effort exhaustion overcame her, and sheslept.

Melissa hurried through her chores the next morning so she'dhave extra time in the shed. Vincent's eyes were open when sheslipped inside.

"How are you?" she asked, kneeling beside him.

He still looked disoriented, but he no longer looked strange toher. "Better," he rasped, and sipped from the cup she offered. "Myleg hurts."

She frowned. He hadn't mentioned the leg before, and she hadbeen too intimidated by his appearance and size to check for morethan the obvious injuries. "Which one?"

He pointed and, after a questioning look that met with a nod,she lifted the blanket and probed gently. "Here?" she asked, when hegasped and flinched.

"Yes."

"I think it might be broken," she said. "It's really swollen,but it's too high to be a sprain. I think."

"Me, too," he agreed.

She frowned. "Would it help if I put something around it?"

"A splint. We have to immobilize it."

The mere thought of setting a broken leg was enough to make herheart leap into her throat. "Maybe just a bandage?"

He shook his head, then looked as if he regretted it. "Asplint," he insisted. "I know how. I'll help."

She wondered how he could, with his head hurting as she knew itdid, but she didn't argue. Her father had finished his morningchores and was in the house fixing breakfast; to avoid him, she ranacross to the barn. There were some horse bandages in the tack roomand she grabbed three or four of them and raced back.

"Here," she said, spilling them out where he could see them. "Will these do?"

He nodded. "We'll need a short piece of wood. Or maybe somecardboard..."

A length of wood meant going to her father's shop, which meantcrossing the yard where he might see her. She couldn't risk hiscuriosity. But there were empty cardboard boxes in the garage. Shecould reach that without being seen. She brought a box back quickly. "Now what?"

Following his directions, she hacked the cardboard into a roughsquare, then folded it, making a double thickness rectangle. Sheshaped the rectangle into a kind of cradle for his lower leg. Hegasped once or twice as she maneuvered his leg into the cradle, butdidn't cry out. She concentrated on her work; too much attention tohis pain would distract her and make her hurt him more.

She pulled the sides of the cardboard cradle up and around hiscalf, then wrapped it tightly with the horse bandages. When shefinished, his leg was encased from just below the knee to the sole ofhis foot in cardboard and bandages, and was thoroughly immobilized. "How's that?"

"Better," he mumbled, but his face was ashen under the peculiargolden tone, and sweat beaded his forehead.

"I'm sorry," she said, offering him a sip from the water cup. "It'll be better now."

"Yes," he agreed. "You have a doctor's touch."

To her surprise, she found herself blushing. "I don't knowabout that..."

"I do. My father is a doctor; he has the same way about him -be gentle, but do it quickly."

"I want to be a vet when I grow up," she admitted, and thenblushed even harder. "I mean, I don't mean you'd need... I mean..." She hid her face in her hands. "I don't know what I mean."

"I do." His smile showed the tips of his long, sharp teeth,but his differences no longer had the power to frighten her. He wasfar too gentle.

She scrambled to her feet. "I have to go. I have school. I'll smuggle you some food before I go, though, if you feel up toeating today?"

"Perhaps some toast," he said, after reflection. "Some tea, ifyou have it?"

"I think we do. I'll look after Daddy's gone out."

She closed him into the shed and ran to the house.

"Where've you been?" her father asked. "You're late." So latethat he'd started eating breakfast without her and now was nearlyfinished.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't miss the bus," he warned. "I don't have time to driveyou. I've got to get the pasture mowed, and it looks like rain thisafternoon." He pushed to his feet and carried his plate to thesink.

Melissa waited until she heard the roar of the tractor beforesweeping the uneaten breakfast toast into a napkin and setting thekettle to boil. She put the dishes in the sink and ran water overthem, then searched the cupboards for tea bags. She finally foundthem, a little dusty but still smelling of tea, behind an old box ofbaking soda. By then the kettle was boiling. She took one of thebig, heavy mugs her father favored and poured the boiling water overone of the tea bags.

Vincent was resting, but opened his eyes when she came in. "Ifound the tea," she whispered. "And brought some toast."

She sat on the floor beside him and offered breakfast. Hereached for the mug. "You can take the tea bag out now," he told herafter a first experimental sip.

"Is it okay?" she asked anxiously, pulling out the soggy bag. "I'm not good at this kind of stuff."

"It's fine," he assured her. He drank the rest of the tea, butonly managed half a piece of toast before sinking back down on thefolded horse blanket that served as his pillow.

"You're still sick," she accused.

"Head hurts," he admitted. "Nausea..."

She knew enough to know that nausea could be a symptom of ahead injury, but not enough to definitely diagnose it as his problem. But his thinking seemed clearer today. She bit her lip. "Whatshould I do for you?"

He didn't answer.

"Vincent?" She bent over him. His eyes were closed; from thesound of his breathing, he'd fallen asleep.

He was sleeping an awful lot - every time she'd checked on himyesterday he was asleep, and she was pretty sure he'd slept allnight, too. She wondered if that was normal, or if she should worryabout it. And then she wondered if what she thought of as normaleven applied to him.

She wished she could stay home and keep an eye on him today,but there was no chance of that. If she hurried now, she'd just makethe school bus. With a last look to be sure Vincent was restingcomfortably, she locked the shed and ran.

The second day of searching proved as fruitless as the first. Catherine chafed at the slow progress they made. There were so manyplaces - fallen trees, patches of heavy growth, outcroppings of rock- an injured Vincent could have crawled to hide himself, and everyone had to be carefully searched; most had to be approached on handsand knees. A light rain had fallen all afternoon, creating images ofVincent lying hurt and wet, unable to protect himself from theweather. Looking at their grim, grey faces, she knew the othersearchers imagined the same thing.

When night fell, though, she went back to town without protest;she was soaked to the skin, bruised and scraped, and so tired sheached all over. She desperately needed to rest before she wenton.

Once again, though, she lay awake long after Jamie's breathingquieted and became regular, reaching through the darkness for theslightest sense of him. And once again she failed.

The next morning, Peter insisted they all walk across to thediner for breakfast. Catherine wasn't hungry, but she accompaniedthem anyway. Hot coffee couldn't hurt. While they were there, Bud,the man who owned the garage and the car she had rented,approached.

"Miss Chandler," he said, touching his cap.

She offered a wan smile. "Good morning, Mr. Hill."

"'Scuse me for saying so, Miss, but you don't look too good. Not sick, are you?"

"No. Just tired. Still shaken up from the accident, I guess. What can I do for you?"

"Well, miss, I was noticing that you have friends here now," henodded politely to Jamie, Brooke, and Rebecca, who shared the booth,"and wondered if I couldn't have my car back. Mrs. Jennings needs anew transmission, and she's going to need something to drive while Iput it in."

"Of course." She scrabbled in her purse for the keys. "It'sparked across at the motel."

"Yes, ma'am, I saw it there." He hesitated.

"Is there something else?"

"Well..." he rocked forward and back, as if thinking. "I hearyou people have been searching Danson's woods."

"Is that what you call where the accident took place?"Catherine asked.

He nodded. "A rich feller named Danson owns all that landaround there. Doesn't use it for anything, either. Just ownsit."

"I see." Catherine paused, but there really wasn't any way tohide the fact that they'd been searching. Dozens of people must havedriven past and seen them the past two days. "Yes, as a matter offact, we have been searching up there."

"Thought so. What are you looking for? Maybe some of thelocals can help."

Catherine glanced at Brooke, seeking inspiration. Brooke gavea tiny helpless shrug.

"Her dog," Rebecca broke in. "He was in the back of the van,and got out somehow. We're trying to find him."

"That's right," Catherine agreed, relieved. "My dog."

"Seems like a lot of effort to find a dog," Bud observed. "Anawful lot of people up here."

"He's a very special dog," Catherine said, wracking her brainsto think of an exotic breed. All she could think of was GoldenRetrievers and poodles. But Golden Retrievers made her think ofsomething else. "He's a trained seeing-eye dog."

Bud raised an eyebrow. "Thought you said he was your dog? Youdon't look blind to me."

"She's not," Brooke broke in, helping. "What she means is,it's her dog for right now, but she was taking him to a school wherehe'll be matched with a blind person. Then he'll be the blindperson's dog."

"That right? Mighty fine work, miss, training dogs to helpblind people. Must be fulfilling."

Catherine didn't correct his assumption. "It is," sheagreed.

"Maybe you should put up flyers or something. Chances are oneof the locals has seen him."

"That's a good idea," Catherine said. "We'll do that."

"And if I hear of a loose dog, I'll let you know." He touchedhis cap. "Ladies."

They watched him exit the diner, then all sagged in relief. "Ithought we were done for!" Jamie muttered.

"Thank goodness for Rebecca," Catherine added. "For thinkingof the dog."

"But a seeing eye dog? Really, Catherine."

She smiled for the first time in three days. "It was dumb, Iknow. But at the time, it was all I could think of."

"Well, it worked, anyway," Rebecca said. "That's all thatcounts. Come on. Peter's leaving."

On the way to the accident site, Catherine told Peter aboutwhat Bud Hill had said. He frowned. "That's not good. All we needis for local kids to get the idea there's something to be found inthose woods. If one of them came across Vincent, there's no tellingwhat might happen."

"You can't think he would hurt a child," Catherineprotested.

"If he's as badly hurt as we suspect, he might not recognize achild. He might only perceive danger, and strike out. It wouldspell disaster, Cathy."

"We can't stop looking for him. Not until we find him."

"I agree," Peter said, surprising her. "But not so many of us. We're attracting too much attention."

She started to protest, but he shook his head, cutting heroff.

"We'll be done searching the woods today anyway, and after thatit'll be more a case of asking questions, finding out if he's beenseen, than of sheer manpower searching every square foot."

"You're sending them back. All of them?"

"All that will go. Jacob may insist on staying."

Vincent slept much of Wednesday evening, barely rousing to sipat a mug of chicken noodle soup Melissa had warmed from a can andchew on a couple of crackers. He was still lethargic Thursdaymorning, but more alert when she got home from school thatafternoon.

He'd managed to move himself while she was gone. This morninghe'd been lying flat in the middle of the shed's concrete floor; nowhe lay with head and shoulders propped on a burlap bag full ofseed.

"You're feeling better," she declared.

He accepted the cup of water she held out. "I thought it mighthelp to raise my head."

"Does it?"

His lips quirked. "A little."

"I wish I could give you something. Aspirin or Tylenol..."

He shook his head gingerly. "Doesn't help. I need time. AndCatherine." He seemed to look inward. "She fears for me."

Melissa had no solution for him. "You should drink yourwater," she said, to distract him.

He turned the cup in his hands, but didn't raise it to hislips. "Who are you, Melissa?" he asked instead. "What do you wantof life?"

She frowned. No one had ever asked her that before. "Well,"she began slowly. "I'm Melissa Rawley. I'm fourteen. I live herewith my dad."

"And your mother?"

She looked away. "She died. A couple of years ago."

"I'm sorry."

She looked and saw in his eyes that he meant it. "Yeah. Anyway, after that, my dad quit his job and we moved here."

"Where is here?"

"Here - the Danson estate. My father's the caretaker. We livein a cottage between here and the big house."

"Are there many people here?"

"Just me and my dad, most of the time. Mr. and Mrs. Dansoncome maybe once or twice a year. Sometimes they only stay for aweekend."

"It must be lonely for you."

She shrugged. "Sometimes. I like the solitude, though. Ihave the whole estate to wander in. More than a thousand acres. Trees to climb, neat hiding places..."

He smiled. "Sounds like a child's wonderland. But you aren'tprecisely a child anymore."

His observation made her blush and duck her head. "No," sheagreed, too swiftly. "I have to go do my chores now, but I'll comeback later, okay?"

He nodded slow acceptance. "Okay."

"I can't go!" Father stormed. "Not until he's found!"

Catherine, trapped in the middle seat of Peter's van, madeherself as small as possible; beside her, Jamie was doing the samething. In the seat behind them, Michael, Simon, and Rebecca werealso drawing back from the noisy altercation taking place in thefront seat.

Peter took his eyes from the road long enough to give Father afierce look. "You have to, Jacob," he insisted. "You can't look forVincent properly with your bad hip. You can't drive a car, so youcan't bring food and drink to us. And I know as much about Vincent'sphysiology as you do; I'm perfectly qualified to treat him."

"I can't just go home, Peter," Father protested. "Not andleave him here..."

"You can't help here," Peter told him. "So many people areattracting unnecessary attention; you're needed in the tunnels. Catherine and I will find him."

Catherine fervently wished her name hadn't been dragged intoit, but the expected explosion didn't come. Instead, Father twistedto look at her.

She looked back, trying to keep her face impassive. After amoment he looked away.

Peter reached across to grip Father's hand. "Look, Jacob, Iknow how worried you are. We all are. But at this point, you'remore a liability than a help. Go back with the others. Wait. We'llbring him home. I promise."

Father was silent so long that Catherine began to suspect he'dgiven up the argument and planned to simply refuse to leave. But amoment later he stirred. "You'll get word to me..." His voice wassoft, pleading.

Her heart, already raw and bruised, went out to him. He wasscared, too.

"The moment he's found," Peter promised. "I won't let youworry any longer than necessary."

As they pulled up in front of the motel, the other searchersscattered to collect their belongings and pack for the trip home. Catherine lingered outside, wanting to thank them all and saygoodbye.

The rain had finally stopped, and the sliding side door to ahelper's van stood open for loading. Weary and discouraged, she sankdown in the opening and buried her face in her hands. She'd beenfighting despair, but now it rose up to engulf her. She began toweep, quietly, into her hands.

A touch on her shoulder made her catch her breath; she swipedhurriedly at her tears and looked up.

Father stood there, looking faintly absurd in suit and tie. Hegestured. "May I?"

The van's doorway was plenty wide enough for two people. Shescooted over and he sat gingerly beside her. She held herselfstiffly, waiting to be reproached yet again for her foolishness inbringing Vincent out here.

Father's posture was just as stiff. Hands on knees, he lookedstraight ahead.

She wondered if now he would be willing to hear her apology. "Father, I'm sorry," she said in a rush. "It's all my fault he'smissing, I never should have agreed..."

He brought his hand up swiftly, cutting her off.

She wrapped her arms around her middle and waited to bechastised.

Instead, Father put his arm around her shoulders. "DearCatherine," he said softly. "This has been hardest of all on you,hasn't it?"

His unexpected sympathy was too much; her pent-up anguishreleased itself in a gush of tears, a torrent of choking sobs. Father held her, rocking gently, and offered a snowy handkerchiefwhen she finally stopped crying. "Dear Catherine," he saidagain.

"But it is my fault," she whispered. "I know it is."

"No," Father disagreed. "I was angry, Catherine, andfrightened, and I said things I regret now. Vincent wanted to go -not only to please you, but for himself, too."

"It was my idea. If I hadn't said anything..."

"Vincent would never have seen a mountain, or a lake, or evenstood unafraid in the sunshine. You gave him those things,Catherine, and I am grateful." He paused, and his voice turnedwistful. "Would you indulge an old man and tell me about yourweekend? I'd like to hear about it."

"He picked me flowers," she said, remembering. "Big bunches ofwildflowers - I don't know the names. We went wading in the shallowsof the lake, and even fished from the bank, but we didn't catchanything. We lay in the tall grass and let the sun beat down onus... we had a fire in the fireplace at night and toastedmarshmallows over the flames. Silly things. Little things."

"And he was happy?"

She thought back to the last time she'd actually seen him,standing beside the van, taking a last look around. "He talked aboutnext time."

Father sighed. "I expected that. Once he'd tasted freedom, hewould have chafed at the restrictions our life and his differencesplaced on him."

"Don't do that." Catherine was surprised at how harsh her ownvoice sounded.

"What?" Father asked, surprised.

"Talk about him in the past tense. He's alive. He's alive,Father, and I'm not giving up until I find him."

"Strangers have been searching the property along the highway,"Melissa's father said, dropping the words casually into their dinnerconversation.

Melissa's heart stuttered. If strangers were searching, theywere looking for Vincent! His friend Catherine would be among them. "Strangers?" she repeated carefully.

"City folk. Bob Nelson stopped by this morning to tell meabout it. Seems they're looking for a Golden Retriever dog. Youseen a dog around here the past few days?"

The dog was a ruse, Melissa was sure. "No," she answered. "Nodog."

"Me, either," he said. "I went up there this afternoon, talkedto them. They've about decided the dog moved on; today was the lastday they were going to spend looking."

Melissa's heart sank. From the moment her father firstmentioned the searchers, she'd been planning how she'd approach them,how she'd find Catherine. How she'd tell Catherine about Vincent,where he was, that he was safe. Now she couldn't. "Do you knowwhere the people are staying, in case we do see the dog?" sheasked.

Her father shrugged. "Sounded like they were going back to thecity," he answered. "Probably leave a phone number with the sheriff,maybe put up a notice down at Ann's..."

"Yeah," Melissa agreed, disheartened. For a moment, she'dthought Vincent was rescued.

After supper, she filled a plate with leftover macaroni andcheese and peas. She hid the plate under a dishtowel while shewashed the other dishes.

"Homework done?" her father inquired as she headed toward theback door.

Most of the time, Melissa finished her homework during studyperiod at school, and today was no different. But his questionreminded her of something else. "All except a report I have to dofor social studies. I need a book from the library for that."

He nodded. "We'll get to the library this week," he promised. "Now where are you off to?"

"Just out," she answered as casually as she could. "The rainhad me cooped up all afternoon. It's stopped now, so I thought I'dtry to find Skeeter's kittens."

Her father snorted. "She's had a half-dozen litters and we'venever found a one of them."

Melissa grinned. "I know. But it's fun looking."

"Well, enjoy yourself. But don't expect to see those kittensuntil they're old enough to come find you. And don't forget aboutbedtime. You have school in the morning." He went back to hisnewspaper; Melissa snatched up the plate she'd fixed and ran out,letting the screen door slam behind her.

This time, Vincent managed to eat some of the solid food, anddrink two cups of water.

"Thank you," he murmured when he was finished.

"I wish you'd eat more," she fretted, looking at the food stillon the plate. "I don't know how you can get well if you don'teat."

"I'm fine," he assured her.

"Yeah," she said doubtfully, wishing she fully believed him. He didn't look right. "Listen, Vincent, I have to tell yousomething."

He was always a polite and attentive listener; his expressiondidn't change as she told him about the searchers. "They're all donelooking now," she said mournfully. "I wish I'd known they werethere; I would have gone up and told them where to find you. Butthey've all gone back to the city now."

His eyes glistened, but whether in humor or in sadness, shecouldn't tell. "Catherine is not in the city," he said soberly. "She is still nearby."

His certainty confused her. "Here? But how do you know?"

He shook his head slightly, and closed his eyes. "I know."

Perplexed, Melissa sank to sit crosslegged on the cement floorbeside him. "You can tell where she is?"

"Yes." His admission seemed grudging, but there was no doubtin his voice.

"So, then," Melissa said, carefully, "why can't you tell me howto find her?"

His lips quirked in the ghost of a smile. "She is east of here- perhaps a bit north, as well. And not far enough to be in thecity. Which is south, in any case."

She gaped at him. "You can tell that? Just by, what, thinkingof her?"

"Even when I am not thinking of her," he whispered. "She isalways there."

She couldn't resist the urge to tease him. "Where? East and alittle north?"

His eyes popped open and this time there was no doubting themirth. "No, silly. In my heart. My heart tells me where to findher."

"And now, that's east and a little north. Sounds like town, tome. Hey!" Another idea flitted through her mind. "Wonder if she'sstaying at one of the motels?" She scrambled to her feet. "I'll goright now and call."

But when she got back to the cottage, her father was waiting. "I was about to come look for you," he said. "Past yourbedtime."

"Is it?" Melissa glanced at the clock in confusion. Shedidn't know it was so late.

"Find the kittens?"

It was a moment before his question sank in. "Huh? Oh. No. Not Skeeter, either."

"Didn't think you would. But I hope you had fun looking. Nowget yourself to bed."

In the morning, she had to wait until her father left the housebefore she could call around looking for Catherine. She took Vincenthis breakfast while she waited.

He listened quietly to her explanation of why she hadn't calledyet. "Don't worry," he told her. "Catherine isn't going anywhere. Not until I'm found."

She nodded, a little awed by how calm he was. When he'dfinished picking at his food, she took the dishes back to the house. Her father was on his way out.

She watched him cross the yard toward the big barn, then sprangfor the telephone. Fifteen minutes later, she cradled it indisappointment. None of the town's four motels had someone namedCatherine Chandler registered as a guest. None would tell her ifpeople from New York were now or had recently been guests at theirestablishments.

Remembering what her father had said, she put in a final callto the sheriff's office. No one from New York or anyplace else hadleft a number to be called if a lost dog was found.

And she didn't even have time to go tell Vincent of herfailure. She snatched up her backpack, grabbed the paper sackcontaining her lunch, and pelted up the long drive, hoping the schoolbus hadn't already left her.

Catherine slept more soundly than in recent nights, but stillwoke early. The soft sound of Jamie's breathing was a comfort in thestill, pre-dawn air, and she was suddenly, fiercely glad that Jamiehad refused to go back with the others. Peter was fine, but havinganother woman along made a difference. It meant she didn't have tosleep alone, for one thing; Catherine's thoughts were dark enoughwithout solitude to encourage them.

The sun was well risen by the time they finished breakfast. Asusual, Catherine merely picked at her food; she couldn't helpwondering at each meal if Vincent had enough to eat.

Over coffee, Peter began a discussion of the day's plan ofaction.

"He's not in the woods," Peter said, confirming what they allknew. "If he were, we'd have found him. I'm actually encouraged bythat," he added.

Jamie cocked her head in a question.

"It means he was able to travel on his own," Catherineexplained, her voice barely above a whisper. "If he'd been too badlyhurt - if he'd been..." she faltered, skipping over the dreadfulpossibility "...we'd have found him."

"Unless," Jamie said, pragmatic and grim, "somebody else foundhim first."

Catherine didn't want to think about that, but it was somethingthat would have to be faced. "If someone has," she managed, keepingher voice steady with effort, "how would we find out? How would welook? We can't ask if anyone's seen him."

Peter rubbed his chin. "I don't think we have to worry aboutMr. Rawley - the man who talked to Michael yesterday."

"The caretaker," Jamie remembered. "Yes, Michael said he justwondered what we were doing on his employer's property." She flasheda quick grin. "And said he hadn't seen any Golden Retriever dogsrunning around."

"I'm never going to live that one down, am I?" Catherine askedruefully. She even managed the ghost of a smile.

"Doesn't look like it," Peter agreed, and patted her hand. "Iagree Rawley's unlikely to have Vincent locked up anywhere. Now,this connection I keep hearing about. This bond. How does itwork?"

Catherine sighed. "I wish I knew."

"I know he can find you through it. Can you find him?"

During the early mornings, she'd been trying to do just that. All she'd managed was to assemble a montage of vague impressions. None of them was particularly helpful.

She sighed. "If I could, I'd have done so by now. I know he'snot dead; I'd feel it if he were. I think he's nearby; I think hemay be in some pain. But I don't know where to start looking to findhim."

"I guess," Peter said slowly, "we assume he'd be moving in thedirection of New York, trying to get home. So let's drive back outto the accident site and work our way toward the city. We'll knockat doors, we'll ask discreet questions. Maybe somebody's seensomething."

Jamie and Catherine nodded agreement; what else could they do? But when Peter prepared to turn south off the highway near theaccident site, Catherine stopped him. "Not this way," she said,surprising even herself. "He's not down there."

Peter stopped the van and looked at her in astonishment. "Ithought you couldn't tell where he is?"

"I can't. I just know he isn't down there. I just know."

Peter let out a long breath; in the seat behind them, Jamie wasunnaturally still. "Okay," Peter said slowly. "You tell me, then. Which way?"

Catherine closed her eyes and waited for something to nudge herone way or another. Nothing did. When she opened her eyes again,there were tears in them. "I don't know," she whispered.

"I do," Jamie said, from the back seat. "He wouldn't be tryingto go back to the city. He'd be trying to find Catherine. He'd beworking his way toward town."

It made sense; more, to Catherine it felt right. If he waslucid, he'd know where she was. He'd know she was looking for him,and that she'd have a way to get him safely home. And even if hewasn't lucid, if he was too badly hurt for that - surely hisinstincts would bring him to her? She wondered if she ought toremain in town, give him a steady beacon to home in on. But shecouldn't bear not to be involved in the search.

"We can skip the Danson place, since Michael talked to thecaretaker yesterday," Peter planned. "We'll start with the next farmtoward town and work our way in. Guess that means another night inthe motel."

They'd checked out that morning, but it would be easy enough tocheck back in if it was necessary. Catherine prayed fervently itwouldn't be. She didn't want another sleepless night on room 107'ssagging mattress; she wanted to find Vincent, to hug him and kiss himand bandage his hurts. And to take him home.

As Peter turned into a farmer's narrow, rutted driveway, shebegan planning the questions they'd ask.

Vincent accepted Melissa's failure to locate the searchers fromNew York with more equanimity than she'd expected. She wondered ifhe was just putting on a good front so as not to worry her.

"Anyway," she told him, "I brought you some soup. Dad's makinghamburgers for supper, and he only makes enough for us, so I can'tsteal one."

"Soup is fine," he assured her. "I haven't much appetiteanyway."

She passed over the tall, thick mug and a handful of crackerswrapped in a napkin, and settled down beside him. "Do you get boredlying here in the dark all day?"

He sipped from the mug. "No," he answered, when he'dswallowed. "Not bored. Anxious, because I know my friends areworried for me. And I sleep a lot."

She already knew that part, of course. "You sleep too much,"she answered. "Is it because you're hurt?"

"Perhaps," he answered, and took another sip of soup. "At anyrate, it keeps me from spending too much time lying here thinking. And of course I have the occasional visitor."

Melissa sat up straight, alarmed. "Visitors?"

He smiled, showing the tips of his long sharp teeth. "Thereare mice."

"Oh." She knew about the mice. They were always getting intothe burlap bags of seed Vincent rested against, and her father wasalways setting out traps and poison. "My dad complains about thebarn cats not doing their job."

"One of them visited me this morning, as well."

"One of the cats?"

He nodded. "A brown tabby, I believe it was. Came right upand sniffed me."

Melissa couldn't help a small bounce of excitement. "That'sSkeeter. She's just had kittens, so I'm surprised she was here."

"Don't be. I think there must be a hole under the shed floor -I can hear the kittens mewing."

"Really?" Melissa flew outside to investigate. Sure enough,on the back side of the shed was a small hole that started close tothe foundation and turned back underneath it. She put her hand inand touched a warm, inert mass of sleeping kittens. She disentangledone and lifted it out. Its eyes were still shut; it struggled tolift its oversized head and mewed.

"Hi, there, little one," she crooned, stroking it. "You'rebeautiful." She glanced up to see Skeeter picking her way across thefield. "Oops, here comes your mama. Better put you back."

She returned the kitten to the nest and stood back. Skeeterapproached daintily, then sat down and licked a paw.

"Too late," Melissa told her. "I've found them. And I won'thurt them, so you don't have to move them. Okay?"

The cat stopped washing and stared, then bolted past and divedinto the hole. A chorus of tiny, plaintive mews sounded; Melissaimagined the kittens swarming to find dinner.

She chuckled and went back inside.

"You found them," Vincent observed.

"I held one," she answered. "Oh, Vincent, it was so tiny, andso perfect! I'll bring you one tomorrow so you can see it."

He smiled. "You like animals."

"I love them."

"You'll make a good veterinarian," he predicted.

She looked away. "If I ever get to be one."

"You said it was what you wanted. Is there a problem?"

"My dad says the work's too hard for a girl. And vet schooltakes a long time, and costs a lot." She tugged at a loose threadhanging from the untucked hem of her shirt. "I might not even get togo to college."

"If you want it badly enough, you will."

She shook her head. "Not if Daddy has his way."

His large, furry hand covered hers. "Your father lovesyou."

She swiped at a furtive tear. "Of course he does. I love him,too. But he tries too hard to protect me, and worries and stuffsince my mom died."

"It must be very difficult for both of you." He seemed to lookinward. "I have... a very dear friend... who lost her mother atabout the same age you were when you lost yours."

"Catherine?" she guessed.

He looked surprised. "Yes. How did you know?"

She grinned. "You get this look on your face when you talkabout her."

"A look?"

"Yeah. Kind of soft and quiet and happy."

If she had to guess, she'd have said she embarrassed him. Helooked away.

"You miss her, don't you?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he answered, still gazing through the open shed door. "Very much."

She pressed his hand. "She's looking for you, Vincent. Youknow she is. Somehow we'll find her, or she'll find us, andeverything will be okay."

Melissa rolled out of bed early the next morning. It wasfinally Saturday, so she could spend the whole time with Vincent. Hewas still sleeping when Melissa went out to the shed. She knelt,careful to keep out of swatting range, and called his name. He washard to rouse, but finally his eyes opened and focused on her.

"Good morning," she greeted cheerfully. "I brought somescrambled eggs and bacon with your toast this morning."

He rolled his head away from her. "No food."

Now that he was awake, it was safe to approach. She crawledover beside him. "Is the nausea back?" She laid a hand on hisshoulder; even through all the layers of clothing he wore, she couldfeel the heat of his body. She moved her hand to his forehead. "You're so hot!"

"Feverish," he admitted, turning back to face her.

Now that she saw him clearly, he didn't look well at all. Hiseyes were filmed and sunken, his lips dry. His skin looked dull."Infection?" she wondered aloud. "But you only had the one cut onyour forehead, and that looks like it's healing just fine."

"Sometimes... injury affects me this way," he explainedhaltingly. As when she'd first found him, he seemed to find itdifficult to vocalize his thoughts.

His appearance and lethargy scared her. "What should I do? Isuppose you can't take aspirin for this, either."

He gave a weak chuckle and shook his head. "Nothing helps. Except, perhaps..." His voice faded away and his eyes closed.

"Except?" she prompted him, hoping he wasn't asleep.

He seemed to rouse himself from a great depth. "...a coolcloth for my head?"

"Sure. I'll get one right away." She raced all the way to thehouse; her father intercepted her on her way back out with a handfulof rags and a small basin of cold water.

"Where are you going with that?" he asked.

Melissa thought fast. "I found Skeeter's kittens," she said. She hated deceiving him, but at least it wasn't an out and outlie.

"Oh. Rags for a soft nest, I suppose. And water for the wearymother?"

Melissa made a noncommittal sound that he took for agreement. "Okay, but hurry back, okay? I'm going into town; I'll drop you offso you can go to the library for that book you've been hounding meabout."

Melissa was stricken. "Oh, Daddy, no. Not today. I havestuff to do."

"Like play with the new kittens, I suppose. But you can dothat later. You said you needed this book for a school report youhave to turn in, and I won't be going back to town until mid-week. So make the kittens comfortable and get back here. I want to be homebefore noon."

When he made up his mind like that, there was no use trying tochange it. "Okay, Daddy," she agreed.

She hurried to the shed, slopping water from the basin in herhaste. There was still enough to wet the cloth, though. She laidthe wet rag across Vincent's forehead. He thanked her withoutopening his eyes.

"I'll be gone for a while," she whispered. "I have to go intotown with my dad. But I'll come out as soon as I get home,okay?"

His nod was perfunctory; she wondered if he'd evenunderstood.

"I'll drop you at the library," her father said as they passedthe town limits. "Meet me at the feed store when you're done. Aboutan hour?"

"About," she agreed, and climbed out of the truck. She waved. "See you!"

His hand out the open window was his reply. It didn't take herlong to find the book she needed for her paper. She chose a fewnovels from the young adult section while she was there, and bundledthe short stack of books into a crumpled plastic grocery sackprovided by the librarian.

She had just reached the feed store when a passing car slowedand honked. Her friend Paula Morris leaned out the car's window andwaved. "Hey!" Paula shouted. "I didn't know you'd be in towntoday!"

"Me, either!" Melissa shouted back.

"We're going to the diner for ice cream. Want to come?"

Paula's older sister, at the car's wheel, smiled and waved.

Ice cream was tempting, but Melissa thought of Vincent, hurtand maybe sick, waiting back in the shed. "I'd better not," shesaid, reluctantly. "I'm meeting my dad." She gestured vaguelytoward the feed store.

"We'll take you home!" Paula volunteered, even though Melissa'shome was a good ten miles past where Paula lived. "You know Celia'sonly had her license a few weeks - she loves to drive!"

Celia nodded agreement. "We'll take you home!" she confirmed,leaning around Paula.

Melissa's father chose that moment to step down off the feedstore's low loading dock. "Hi, hon," he greeted her. "Find yourbook?"

She hefted the grocery sack in reply.

"Good. Hi, Paula. And Celia, isn't it?"

"Hi, Mr. Rawley!" Paula shouted back. "Can Melissa go with usfor ice cream at the diner? We'll bring her home."

He looked surprised and then pleased. "Sure she can," heanswered, digging in his pocket. He handed Melissa a crumpled fivedollar bill. "You don't get to spend enough time with your friends,"he told her. "You go and have a good time. Just be home beforedark."

After that, there was no graceful way for Melissa to escape. She handed her father the sack of books and climbed in the car besidePaula.

The diner was always crowded on Saturdays; they had to waitabout ten minutes before a booth emptied. Melissa used part of thetime to take a surreptitious look at the notice board posted near thecash register. There were no "lost" notices about Golden Retrieverdogs, with or without New York phone numbers.

When the booth was finally ready, the girls slid into it,giggling, and gave their orders to Ruthie.

If she hadn't been harboring a niggling worry over Vincent,Melissa would have loved the afternoon, but even her concern wasn'tenough to keep her from having a good time. One of Celia's friendsfrom high school joined them and they passed a pleasant half hourtalking and eating ice cream. Then Paula decided the huge chocolateand strawberry sundae she'd had wasn't enough, and ordered frenchfries. "For dessert," she announced happily when they came.

Talk turned to boys, and Melissa's attention began to wander. She was beginning to notice boys, but horses and kittens still heldfar more appeal.

She glanced at the booth beside theirs. It was occupied by anolder, lean-faced man and two women. The women were much younger and she speculated whether they might be his daughters. All threelooked tired and drawn. Maybe they were travelling and pushingthemselves too hard. Or maybe they'd gotten some bad news recently. There was a sadness about them - especially about the olderwoman.

"Don't you think so, Melissa?"

Startled, she turned back to the conversation. "I'm sorry,what?"

"Trevor Emmons. Don't you think he's the cutest boy in eighthgrade?"

Trevor Emmons was the cutest boy in eighth grade. No contest. The trouble was, he knew it. Melissa didn't like his stuck-upattitude, and said so.

"But he's so cute," Paula sighed. "Who cares if he's stuckup?"

"I care," she argued. The people in the booth beside them gotup to leave, and the older woman knocked her purse to the floor.

"Here, Catherine," said the man. "I'll get it."

"What someone looks like isn't as important as what they'relike inside," Melissa continued her argument. "I'd lots rather befriends with a boy who's maybe not that cute, but who's reallynice."

The older woman from the next table overheard, and looked upfrom checking the contents of her purse to smile approval.

Paula began passionately arguing her own viewpoint, but Melissaonly half heard it. What the man at the next table had said when thepurse spilled registered several beats late, like a delayeddouble-take. She pushed to her feet. "Excuse me," she muttered, andhurried after the trio.

They were well ahead of her; they'd already crossed the street,heading for the nearest motel. By the time Melissa caught up withthem, they were gathered around a mini-van with New York plates. "You girls are sure you have everything from your room?" the manasked.

The younger woman nodded. The older one pushed a hand throughher hair in a weary gesture and said, "Yes, Peter. It's all in thevan. Go ahead and check out."

"Excuse me," Melissa said.

All three stopped and looked at her politely. "What can we dofor you?" asked the man. Peter.

What she was about to say seemed absurd, even to Melissa. Butshe'd never forgive herself if she didn't ask. "I know this soundsstupid, but it's important. Really."

"Go ahead," the man urged. She could see she had his fullattention. But it was the older woman she turned to.

"Over at Ann's... I didn't mean to listen, but I heard him callyou Catherine."

Suddenly she had the woman's full attention, too. "Yes."

Melissa was so nervous her hands were shaking. Breathing wassuddenly difficult. "Do you know someone named Vincent?"

Catherine's face, pale to begin with, went ashen.

The younger woman clapped her hands together and gasped.

Peter muttered something that sounded like a prayer ofthanksgiving. "Yes, we do," he said strongly. "Do you know where heis?"

Melissa nodded.

Catherine clutched her arm, as worried as Vincent had said shewas. "Is he all right?"

"Kind of, I guess. He has a broken leg and maybe some ribs andhe hit his head. He was feverish this morning. I didn't want toleave him, but my dad made me."

"Your father's with him now?" That was Peter.

"No! Daddy wouldn't understand about Vincent. I had to leavehim alone."

"Can you show us where he is?" Catherine's voice and eyes werefrantic.

Melissa had been conditioned from childhood never to accept aride with strangers, but this was Vincent's Catherine. These otherpeople were Catherine's friends. Surely it would be okay, just thisonce. "Sure," she agreed. "Just let me say goodbye to myfriends."

An adult would never have allowed her to go off without callingher father to check, but Celia merely looked uncertain, then nodded. "Sure," she agreed. "If they're friends of your family."

Guilt pricked over the lie, but Melissa didn't let it deterher. She hurried outside and climbed into the front passenger seatof the van.

Peter, who introduced himself more fully as Dr. Peter Alcott,drove; Catherine and the other woman, called Jamie, perched anxiouslyin the seat behind them. Melissa directed them to the highway. "It's about fifteen miles," she apologized.

"Near where the accident happened," Catherine said. "Danson'swoods?"

"Yeah. We live on Mr. Danson's estate. The woods are thefarthest part from the house, because they're right on the highway. Mr. Danson doesn't like the noise, but he likes the woods."

"You found Vincent in the woods?" Peter asked.

"No. Behind the shed. I think he crawled there..."

"You said his leg is broken," Catherine interrupted. Her eyeswere stark.

Melissa didn't want to distress her, but couldn't lie any more. "It is."

"I'll examine him when we get there, Cathy," Peter tried tosoothe her. "I wouldn't be surprised to see him on the road torecovery; you know how quickly he heals."

Melissa thought of the feverish gleam in Vincent's eyes. "Idon't think it's his leg that's the problem," she ventured. "I thinkit's where he hit his head. He sleeps most of the time."

Behind her, Catherine caught her breath.

Peter must have heard her, too. "It's okay, Cathy," he saidquickly, and reached back between the seats to press her hand. "That's what happens when Vincent's hurt," he explained, speakingmostly to Melissa. "He goes into a deep, healing sleep. I'm surewe'll find he's on the mend."

"I hope so."

Melissa glanced back; Catherine's hands were clenched sotightly the knuckles were white. Jamie touched her arm and murmuredsomething comforting. Catherine nodded, but there was no appreciableslackening of tension.

"I tried to find you," Melissa said, to break the silence. "After my dad said people were looking." She looked over hershoulder at Catherine. "Vincent told me your name, but you weren'tat any of the motels."

Peter let out a low moan. "We should have thought of that," hesaid. "All the rooms were in my name - I never thought about Vincenthaving someone call. And of course he wouldn't have known I washere."

"None of us thought of it, Peter," Jamie tried to mollify him. "It's not your fault. And we've found him now."

"Yes," Catherine repeated, softly. Her gaze was distant. "We've found him now."

They neared the turnoff to the estate. "The driveway is rightup here," Melissa directed.

Peter made the turn and followed the graveled drive, goingperhaps a little more quickly that was strictly safe. None of hispassengers protested.

They emerged from a stand of trees and saw the complex ofhouse, caretaker's cottage, barns, and sheds spread out before them. Melissa gasped.

The door to the tool shed stood open; her father was runningtoward it from the cottage, something long and ugly in his hands.

A shotgun.

Behind her, Catherine let out a low cry. The van leapedforward.

Vincent's head ached. His side ached. His leg, forced tosupport him, ached most of all. Still he pushed himself up, clingingto the doorframe, and stared at the dark barrel of the gun. If hewas going to die, let it be with whatever shreds of dignity he couldmuster.

Sudden panic beat at him; Catherine's panic. He needed to goto her, but remaining upright demanded fierce concentration; hegripped the doorframe hard and tried to find her through thedizziness.

A dark-colored minivan careened up the driveway and skidded toa stop in a spray of gravel. Catherine was in that van. Andterrified.

The man with the gun stood between them. Vincent blinked hardin an attempt to clear his fuzzy vision. He let out a low snarl andtried to move forward.

The shotgun lifted and steadied, aimed at him. At this range,the man couldn't possibly miss.

Something strong and irresistible surged up in him. Catherinewas powerfully afraid. His own danger was irrelevant; he mustprotect her. Vincent gathered himself to leap.

A slim figure that had to be Melissa thrust herself in front ofhim, blocking the line of fire. "Dad! Stop!"

"Get back, Melissa!" the man shouted. "It might bedangerous!"

It. Even through the haze of pain and dizziness, the word cutdeeply.

Melissa stood her ground.

The man who was clearly her father lowered the gun's muzzle andreached out for his daughter. "Melissa, get out of the way!" hebellowed.

Melissa dodged his hand and remained where she was.

And then there were others in front of him, shielding him. Vincent shook his head to clear his vision. It didn't help, but hedidn't really need to see clearly to know who was there. "Catherine," he breathed.

Melissa's father still had the shotgun. Vincent lurchedforward, intent on protecting Catherine.

Melissa still shouted; with some dim, disconnected part of hismind, he could hear her. "No! Please, Daddy, he won't hurt you. Hewon't hurt me. He's my friend."

Vincent swayed dizzily; his ribs flared in protest and hissplinted leg stabbed sharply with every step. But Catherine wasfrightened. He pushed forward.

"You must have startled him, Daddy." Melissa's voice was lowernow; she spoke quickly, as if to get all the words said in time. "Hemust have been sleeping, and you woke him up. Please."

His will wasn't enough; his knees buckled. He fought theinexorable pull, fought the pain, fought his own damaged body.

Peter Alcott was there, suddenly, standing beside Melissa,talking to the man. "Please believe me," he said. "Vincent is nodanger to you or your daughter."

"Who the hell are you?" Melissa's father demanded, but Peter'spresence must have reassured him; he lowered the gun's barrel, thoughhe kept the weapon cradled in the crook of his arm.

Peter began talking rapidly, but there was a rushing inVincent's ears and he couldn't hear clearly. He couldn't findCatherine, either, though he knew she was close. His eyes wouldn'tfocus properly, and his legs wouldn't hold him up.

Catherine cried his name and caught his arm as he fell. Helurched toward her, jolting his ribs painfully, and felt the groundrush up to meet him.

With a strength he didn't know she had, Catherine pulled himinto her lap and cradled his head in her arms. "Oh, dear God," shewhispered. Her voice was frantic. "You're hurt, Vincent, you're sohurt..."

Racked with pain, he still tried to reassure her. "I'm allright," he managed. "Don't worry..."

Disbelief sped through their bond. "You're not," she objected. "I was so scared for you."

He'd known that, of course. Her fear had been a constantrefrain through the past days.

His vision began to clear, and for the first time he saw thepallor of her face, the deep lines framing her mouth and eyes. "I'msorry," he faltered.

She smoothed his mane from his face and shushed him.

Melissa knelt beside them and fixed Vincent with a stern look. "You should never have tried to get up," she scolded. "Yourleg..."

Now that he wasn't standing on it, the pain in his leg wasalmost tolerable. "What was I to do?"

Melissa seemed to hear his unspoken question: Lie there and lethim shoot me? She flushed. "I'm sorry he scared you."

"I'm sorry I scared him," he answered, and smiled, just alittle. "I didn't mean to; he startled me."

Her answering grin was crooked. "Yeah. I'll bet."

The dizziness finally passed, and so did the rushing in hishead. Now he could hear Peter talking in the background.

"I know what he looks like," Peter was saying. "Believe me, Ido. But he won't hurt your daughter, and he won't hurt you."

"He tried to attack me!"

"He tried to defend himself," Peter said quickly. "And Isuspect he was trying to defend Catherine, as well."

Melissa's father glanced their way. "Catherine. That'd be theone with his head in her lap."

Peter smiled. "Yes."

"Hmph. Have to admit he doesn't look dangerous right now."

"And you'll notice your daughter is holding his hand."

"Yeah," Rawley admitted. "I noticed that. And Melissa haspretty good instincts about animals and such." He reddened. "Imean... I didn't mean..."

Peter clapped him on the arm. "I know what you meant."

Vincent was glad they didn't know he could hear them. It wouldbe easier for Melissa's father that way.

Peter came and crouched in front of him. "Looks like youshould have worn your seatbelt," he said lightly, taking in Vincent'sbruised forehead. "Let's get you someplace where I can examine you." He looked around. "The back of the van will do."

"He can't walk," Melissa said quickly. "His leg's broken."

"I see that," Peter said. "Jamie, can you pull the van upclose?"

Jamie's eyes widened. "I can't drive, Peter. You knowthat."

Peter's gaze strayed to Catherine, who tightened her grip onVincent's shoulders and glared back at him. He sighed and pushed tohis feet. "I'll get it," he said. "Be right back."

He eased the van to within a few feet of where Vincent lay. "That's the best I can do," he said. "Vincent, can you make it if wehelp you?"

Vincent steeled himself and nodded. "Yes."

Melissa's father gave a small start when he heard Vincentspeak, then gave him a long, appraising look.

Peter braced himself against Vincent's good side and Catherinesupported him on the injured side. Together they heaved whileVincent tried to lift himself with his uninjured leg. Fire shotthrough his ribs and his head pounded.

"Here," Rawley said, and finally set the shotgun down, proppingit against the side of the shed. "Let me help. No offense, ma'am,"he nodded at Catherine, "but you don't look strong enough to lift abig fellow like him."

Catherine stepped away reluctantly, and Vincent mourned theloss of her touch. There was only the briefest of hesitations beforeMelissa's father knelt at Vincent's side.

"He can understand me, right?" he asked, directing his questionto Peter.

"I can understand you quite well," Vincent answered forhimself. "Thank you."

Rawley's reaction was mostly squelched; Vincent thought he wasthe only one who noticed him flinch. And of course he was the onlyone who could have sensed the combination shock and wonder that shotthrough the man.

Once his mind was made up, though, Melissa's father didn'thesitate. He and Peter got Vincent to his feet and helped him thefew steps to the van. All three were breathing heavily by the timeVincent was lowered to sit in the open side doorway.

"Let's see," Peter said when his breathing eased. "If you canjust scoot back a little, Vincent, I think I can examine you righthere..."

"No." Vincent and Peter both looked up in surprise. Rawleystood over them. "Let's get him into the house."

Melissa, standing behind her father, put a hand on hisshoulder. "Thanks, Dad," she murmured.

With Catherine and Jamie steadying Vincent in the open doorwayof the van, Peter drove slowly up the drive and parked as close tothe caretaker's cottage as he could.

Having done it once made moving easier this time; Peter andRawley flanked Vincent and helped him inside, where they lowered himto a shabby brown couch in the cottage's living room. Peter bent tolift the splinted leg, but Melissa stopped him.

"Wait," she said. "He can do it."

Catherine, who'd followed closely, had one of his hands betweenhers. It was both a distraction and a comfort. He squeezed herfingers and disengaged his hand. If he clenched his fingers in painor effort...

She seemed to understand, putting a cool hand to his face tostroke back his hair.

Melissa waited while he lifted the sound leg to the couch, thenbent to support the injured one. "Ready?" she asked.

He nodded and lifted. Melissa lifted with him, not moving thelimb so much as steadying it, as she had done so many times sinceapplying the splint. Peter jammed a cushion into place just in timefor Vincent to set the leg down.

He was breathless, and his brow beaded with perspiration, butthe leg wasn't stressed any more. Gradually the pain began tosubside.

Catherine took his hand again; this time, he allowed her tokeep it.

Peter opened his black doctor's bag and proceeded with anexamination.

Catherine looked tactfully away, but turned back at Peter'ssoft exclamation when he opened Vincent's shirt.

"Who strapped your ribs, Vincent?" Peter asked.

"I did," Melissa answered him. "They were hurting him so much,I thought they might be broken."

Peter started to unwrap the bandages, then thought better ofit. "The strapping helps?" he asked.

Vincent nodded, wishing Peter would cover him again.

"Very well." Peter pulled his shirt together again, but didn'tbutton it. "Jacob and I will want a closer look when we get youhome, but for now we'll leave it."

He glanced at Melissa. "You did the splint, too?"

"It was Vincent's idea," she said. "I just helped."

"We won't remove that just now, either," Peter decided. Helooked at Vincent. "No other injuries?"

Vincent shook his head, then wished he hadn't. "I don't thinkthe head injury's serious," Peter told him. "A concussion, perhaps. I'm more worried about the fever Melissa said you had this morning." He frowned. "Although it seems to be gone now."

Vincent's head was much clearer now, and he thought he knewwhy. "It's not my injuries," he said. His gaze went to Catherine,still holding his hand. "It was you."

"Me?" Her voice went high in surprise.

The others in the room stared.

"I have felt, all along, your fear for me. Your distress. Tofeel that, and be unable to come to you..."

"Made you sick?" she finished doubtfully.

"I think so. You were so very frightened, Catherine, and Ifelt so helpless."

Catherine bit her lip, looking unconvinced, but Peter sat backwith an air of satisfaction. "Then I won't worry. Unless, ofcourse, the fever returns." He looked at Melissa. "This is a finebit of doctoring, young lady. Vincent's fortunate you were the onewho found him."

"She was practicing," Vincent said, and paused so his nextstatement would have the proper impact. "She wants to become aveterinarian."

Melissa ducked her head. Peter, Jamie, and Rawley lookedembarrassed... and Catherine swatted him. "That's mean," sheaccused.

He smiled. "It's also true." He gave Melissa a fond glance. "She has a healer's hands."

"Healer's hands or no, there'll be no veterinary school forher," Rawley said, looking unhappy.

"Why not?" That was Jamie, speaking up for the first time.

"It's no work for a girl."

Jamie, as capable as any man, began to bristle.

Vincent forestalled her. "Women do all sorts of work thesedays," he pointed out mildly.

Rawley flushed. "So they do," he admitted. "But there's thecost..."

"Vet school costs money," Melissa added, busying her hands bybuttoning Vincent's shirt. "We don't have it."

"You will now." It was Catherine's voice, strong and certain. "College, too."

Melissa looked up sharply. "Oh, no! I never meant..."

"I know you didn't. But I've been wondering how I couldpossibly repay you for looking after Vincent... keeping him safe. Now I know."

"It's too much," Melissa's father protested. "I couldn't allowMelissa to accept such a gift."

"I want to do this, Mr. Rawley. Please let me. It's a smallthing compared to what Melissa's done, and it would be a shame to lether healing gift be lost."

Rawley looked from one to the other. "It's too much," herepeated. "Just too much."

"But she saved his life. That's worth something."

"Something, maybe," Rawley admitted. "Though she'd have doneit for nothing. Did it for nothing, if I know her." He spared hisdaughter a fond glance. "But vet school's too expensive. Somethingelse, maybe? She's been wanting a new pair of riding boots."

"She'll have them," Catherine said promptly. "But it's notenough."

"It'll have to be, Miss. I'm sorry."

Catherine didn't answer, but Vincent knew this battle wasn'tover. Already she was thinking of ways to get around Rawley'srefusal; he expected that sooner rather than later there'd be ascholarship fund set up for girls named Melissa who lived in ruralConnecticut and wanted to go to vet school.

From Peter's grin, he knew it, too, but he tactfully saidnothing. Instead, he turned to Vincent. "We need to get youhome."

"We should call Father first," Catherine said. "He's frantic,and we promised."

"You can use our phone," Melissa said. "It's in here."

Catherine squeezed Vincent's hand and followed Melissa into thekitchen.

Peter and Rawley helped Vincent up and got him out to the van. The worst part was getting in; unlike the van Catherine had rentedfor their trip, this one had seats installed in the back, and Peterwanted Vincent in the wider rear seat.

After much maneuvering, most of it painful, he made it. Melissa had left Catherine to her phone call and brought pillows fromthe house. Peter used them to prop Vincent sideways on the seat withhis leg up, and cinched the seatbelt tightly around his hips. "There," he said, with satisfaction. "Comfortable?"

"It's not exactly uncomfortable," Vincent answered. "I'll befine."

"Good."

Catherine emerged from the house and came to the open sidedoor. "Long will get word to Father," she said. "He'll have someonemeet us at the 14th Street entrance with a stretcher or something soVincent won't have to walk."

Vincent grimaced; the thought of being carried flat on astretcher from the 14th Street entrance to his chamber wasn't exactlycompelling. But maybe he'd be lucky and they'd bring some kind ofchair, instead.

Catherine stepped away from the opening and he followed herwith his eyes; unlike the van she'd rented, this one had windows allthe way around. All but the windshield were deeply tinted, and he'dnoticed earlier that no one could see in. He had no difficultyseeing out, though. Through the side window, he watched Catherineand Peter speaking to Melissa's father.

Melissa came to the van's open doorway. "I came to saygoodbye," she said, a bit wistfully.

"I'm glad you did," he answered.

She climbed in and knelt on the seat in front of him, bracingher folded arms on its back. She offered a crooked grin. "The toolshed won't be the same without you."

"I confess I will not miss it," he answered. "But I will missyou."

"Yeah," she sighed, sinking down. "I'll miss you, too. I liketalking to you. I like hearing the things you say."

"If you'd like, I will write to you."

She bounced in her seat. "I'd like that! And I'll writeback..."

He smiled. "Catherine will see that your letters reach mesafely."

"Catherine will what?" The party in question stuck her head inthe open side door. "I heard my name."

"So you did," Vincent told her. "You've been pressed intoservice on my behalf."

Her answering smile was tender. "Okay. Do I get to know whatI have to do?"

Melissa giggled. "Not very much," she said, offeringassurance. "Just let me send my letters for Vincent to you."

"Absolutely," Catherine promised. "And forward his on to you,no doubt?"

"Please," Vincent answered. "Melissa's is a friendship I wouldnot care to lose."

"Nor should you," Catherine answered briskly, and now her smilewas for Melissa. "I owe you more than I can ever repay, Melissa. I've given my address and phone number to your father. If you everneed anything, I want you to let me know."

"I didn't do anything," Melissa protested. "I just helped alittle."

"You may have saved his life," Catherine contradicted. "Andthat's worth everything to me. So if you ever need anything..."

"I'll call you," Melissa said, giving in.

"Right."

Melissa let her breath out in a long sigh and turned back toVincent. "I guess it's time to say goodbye," she said sadly.

"Not goodbye," he told her. "Until we meet again."

She leaned across the seat back to hug him fiercely. Hereturned the embrace; he would miss this young woman whose good heartand stout determination had protected him.

When she released him, Melissa's eyes were wet with tears. Shebacked hurriedly out of the van. Catherine climbed in to take herplace, where she could reach back and touch Vincent.

Peter and Jamie climbed into the front seats. Peter buckled upand looked back over his shoulder. "Everybody ready?"

Vincent closed his hand over Catherine's and nodded. "Ready,"he answered.

Melissa slid the side door closed and retreated to her father'sside; her father slung an affectionate arm around her shoulder andshe leaned into him, smiling. Even though he knew she couldn't seehim through the darkened glass, Vincent lifted a hand infarewell.

"She's very special to you," Catherine observed, her voicesoft.

"Very," he acknowledged. "I'm fortunate to have found such afriend."

Catherine smiled and squeezed his hand. "So is she."

The End