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tall evergreens and sharp, dramatic stone peaks. Overhead, the sky was a pale wash of clear blue. No snow, except higher up than the road ever took them, on the topmost peaks. They wound down themountains, into the green, shady depths of canyons and then back up to sub-alpine heights, where the trees grew farther apart, white-barked and twisted-looking, and the gray ground lay littered with silvery rock.
    Lupe kept up a steady stream of chatter from the back seat—about the “crystalline” quality of the light, about how she wouldn’t mind pulling an Ansel Adams and doing her own series on the Sierras in dramatic black and white.
    Buck answered Lupe’s occasional questions, but other than that, he didn’t say much. B.J. kept quiet, as well. She avoided turning Buck’s way. She might be slowly allowing herself to adjust to the reality of this situation, to accept the fact that she was headed for New Bethlehem Flat whether she liked the idea or not. But she still wasn’t quite ready yet to have anything resembling an actual conversation with him.
    They reached Buck’s hometown at a little after four in the afternoon. B.J. got a quick view of a picturesque mountain village as they rounded a curve. And then they were winding their way down into a valley—or really, maybe more like a big canyon. The highway became Main Street, which consisted of a strip of pavement lined with cute old-fashioned buildings, some of clapboard, some of brick, each with a jut of porch providing cover for the rustic wooden sidewalks.
    Buck turned right on Commerce Lane. They rattled over a single-lane bridge and there, on the west side of the street, sat a rambling canary-yellow wooden building with a sharply pitched tin roof. The front yard had a slate walk leading up to a wide, welcoming porch—a porch complete with oh-so-inviting white wicker furniture. There was even a white picket fence. The large sign hanging from the porch eaves readSierra Star Bed & Breakfast in old-timey script, the letters twined with painted ivy.
    Buck swung in and parked at the curb as the front door of the house opened. A tall, slim middle-aged woman with short brown hair emerged. She wore a green corduroy skirt, a cable-knit sweater and practical flat shoes. Strictly L.L. Bean, B.J. thought: no frills, all function.
    B.J. recognized the woman from pictures Buck had shown her way back when: Chastity Bravo, mother of Buck and his three younger brothers, Brett, Brand and Bowie. B.J. turned and looked straight at the man in the driver’s seat for the first time that day. “Your mother…”
    He gave her a nod and she had the strangest urge to smile at him—an urge she quickly quelled. He was getting no smiles from her. Not now. Maybe not ever.
    By then, Buck’s mother had reached the low white gate that opened onto the narrow cracked sidewalk. She hovered there, her hands on the pickets, waiting for them to emerge from the car.
    When they did, Chastity smiled, a slow, warm smile—a smile a lot like Buck’s, though not nearly so dangerous. “Welcome to the Sierra Star,” she said in a voice as calm and friendly as her smile. “Good to have you home, Buck.”
    â€œHey, Ma.” Buck strode around the front of the SUV and fell in behind B.J. and Lupe. When he cleared the gate, he grabbed his mother in his big arms and hugged her, hard. “Good to be home,” he said, lifting her right off the walk and rocking back and forth.
    She let out a cry of surprise. “Buck, you put me down this instant!”
    Now, there was a weird moment: watching Buck hugging his mother. Yes, B.J. had seen the pictures.She’d known that a mother—and those three brothers—existed. But still…
    Odd. Very odd.
    Maybe it was just that she was used to a certain idea of him, as a guy all on his own, unattached in every way that mattered.
    Once the hugging was over with and he’d set his