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leaves, and daydreaming. On one level, she continued her prayers for Luke from the evening before, asking the Lord if Luke might one day escape the task of bookkeeping and use instead the ready skill he had with woodworking.
    But then she became aware of a rhythmic pounding from somewhere in the distance. She stopped and listened. She couldn’t imagine who’d be building on anything out this far. Her steps quickened as a childish memory of an old tumbledown shack on the Lantzes’ property surfaced in her consciousness. She crept through the trees to the sunny clearing and stopped, pressing hard against an old oak.
    Clad in blue jeans, work boots, and a loose white shirt, Luke was atop the low roof of the old shack. His back was to her, his head bent, as he concentrated on securing a new white pine board to the roof. The sun caught on the muscles of his arms as he lifted the hammer, and she made an inadvertent sound of pleasure at the sight. He half turned in her direction, then seemed to tense and put a foot back onto the gray wood. There was a brief cracking sound and a muffled cry. Rose gasped as the weathered part of the roof gave way beneath his weight and Luke disappeared in a rain of old wood and an ominous cloud of dust.

Chapter Eleven
    R OSE RAN TO THE DOOR OF THE SHACK, COUGHING AS SHE breathed in the dust. She flung open the door and saw Luke lying facedown and still beneath a splintered pile of boards. She began snatching at the boards, heedless of their weight or the scratches from the wood on her arms.
    “Luke! Are you all right?”
    He gave a faint groan, then sneezed from the mess she was kicking up. “Rose—you know it’s me?”
    “ Ya , of course . . . since that first time in the woods.”
    Luke sighed, a gusty exhalation, rolled over onto his back, and stared up at her through the dust and shards of wood. “I should have known,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and slid one arm up and over his face, revealing an ugly gash on the underside of his wrist.
    She dropped to her knees beside him and began to tear a strip from her apron and dab at the blood.
    He lowered his arm slowly. “Don’t. It needs to be washed first. And I think there’s a splinter there.”
    Even his voice seemed different now—husky, inviting. And his dark blue eyes gleamed up at her with a knowing confidence. She let her eyes trail down his torn shirt to the low-slung blue jeans and shook her head, wondering if she was losing her mind. Was this really her Luke? The irony of her sense of proprietorship struck when she realized that no woman would take for granted the holding of the man before her.
    “I—should have told you that I knew who you were,” she said. “But I wanted you to trust me, to tell me what you were doing. You didn’t.” Her eyes met his, and he caught her hand, pulling her dirty fingertips to his lips.
    “Nee ,” he murmured against her skin. “I was wrong.”
    He kissed her fingers with lingering passion, as she watched, mesmerized; then he let her go. She snatched her hand back as if she’d touched hot coals, feeling her face grow warm, whether from anger or excitement, she wasn’t sure. Her thoughts felt thick, like the oatmeal she’d choked down at breakfast.
    “Well, then—what? Why did you go on pretending with me that you were the thief?”
    He smiled at her, a flash of white teeth and something fast and wolfish that made her catch her breath. “I am the thief.”
    “You—you touched me and kissed me, and I thought I was betraying Lu—you! Or that you were betraying me . . .” She broke off in confusion.
    “Let your hair down, Rose, will you?” His eyes were intent, compelling, and she wondered if he’d taken a knock on the head when he’d fallen.
    “Wh-what?”
    “Please. I want to see you—revealed, like you’re seeing me.”
    “Revealed?” she repeated slowly. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
    “I’m the same person I’ve always been, Rose. Maybe you