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opened as Griffin was reaching for his coat.
    Sam Harper stood just inside the house, rainwater pooling silver around his worn boots. He stared at Griffin, trying to read his face. Beside him, the Reverend Winfield Hollister waited in calm silence, a tall, spare man with gentle eyes and an even, unblemished complexion.
    Griffin’s voice sounded hoarse and unsteady in his own ears. He’d seen death so many times; why couldn’t he learn to accept it?
    â€œThe baby died,” he said.
    Field Hollister laid one hand on Harper’s shoulder, but he didn’t speak. That was one of the things Griffin liked best about his friend, that he knew when to talk and when to keep still. Usually.
    â€œAnd Fanny?” pleaded Harper. “What about Fanny?”
    Griffin searched the ceiling for a moment, wishing that he could lie or even just evade the truth somehow. “She’s alive,” he said, at last. “But she’s lost too much blood, and she’s weak.”
    The lumberman stumbled blindly across the room and into the small bedroom. The place of his betrayal.
    â€œYou did your best,” ventured Field.
    Griffin’s sigh was ragged. “Yeah.”
    The minister folded his hands. “Fanny isn’t going to survive this, is she?”
    Griffin shook his head, and tension clasped the nape of his neck in a steel grip. Because he needed something to do, he consulted the watch he carried in his vest pocket. It seemed incredible that it was only nine o’clock in the morning.
    Field cleared his throat diplomatically. “Well, she’s in the hands of the Lord,” he said, as though that settled every question, made everything all right.
    The look Griffin turned to his best friend was scathing and fierce. “Damn it, Field, save that for your sheep, will you?”
    Hollister slipped out of his shabby overcoat and drew a worn, much-used Bible from its pocket. Griffin could see some inner preparation taking place; it was a familiar look that never failed to nettle him.
    An awkward silence fell, broken only by the pounding of the rain overhead and the soft sound of Sam Harper’s grief.
    Griffin folded his arms, lowered his dark head. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    There was compassion in Field’s face, and more understanding than Griffin was prepared to encounter just then. “Nonsense,” he said, somewhat gruffly. Then a wariness came into Field’s features, a remembering. Again, he cleared his throat.
    Griffin knew the look. “Out with it, Field,” he prodded impatiently.
    â€œJust promise you’ll stay calm.”
    Griffin felt everything within him tense. “What is it, Field? Is Becky dying?”
    Field was moving toward Fanny’s room, where he was needed. “No. But Fawn Nighthorse just told me that Jonas has the girl. She saw Rachel get into the carriage and leave about half an hour ago.”
    Griffin felt something terrible erupting inside him. “Rachel? She was sure it was Rachel?”
    â€œShe said it was the girl with purple eyes.”
    Griffin grasped his coat and bag in two savage motions and bolted toward the door. “I’ll be back,” he growled. And then he bounded out into the rain.
    â€¢   •   •
    Rachel felt warm color pound in her cheeks as the plump, matronly housekeeper studied her.
    â€œWould you like a cup of tea?” the woman asked, after an agonizing moment. “It will take awhile to heat your bathwater.”
    Tea. Rachel couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed such a luxury. She nodded, trying not to seem too eager. “Please.”
    â€œThis way, then,” sighed the housekeeper, with noble resignation.
    Rachel followed her through a great, arched doorway and across a magnificent dining room. Here, there were costly, colorful rugs on the floors and real paintings on the tastefully papered walls. A massive chandelier hung, its many