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accompanied the sound and she took a step forward to see more clearly the upheaval that time had wrought. One of the sycamore trees had fallen. It lay sprawled across the clearing with roots exposed and lifeless branches disfiguring the brook’s natural flow.
    “Oh,” she repeated quietly and turned to Dane.
    A muscle worked in his cheek before he clamped it tight with a frown. “You should have stayed in the car. I would have told you.”
    But somehow Amanda knew that he wouldn’t have. “What do you suppose could have happened?” she asked.
    He thrust his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and surveyed the scene with dispassionate eyes. “Probably a combination of things. Shallow roots, a strong wind. I don’t know. What does it matter?”
    Her gaze swept the length of the tree and found the grassy bed where once she had lain in his embrace. Shadowed now by part of the fallen tree, it no longer reminded her of what had once been and, impulsively, her heart sought a way to deny the change.
    “Maybe the ogre of the woods?” A derisive silence followed her pitiful attempt to recapture the past and she wondered why she had even felt the urge to try.
    He shrugged.  A simple, eloquent shrug. “Well, whatever happened here, it seems like a fitting end. Come on, let’s go. Martha is expecting us.”
    He pivoted and walked back to the path, leaving her to follow. Amanda hesitated as tears welled behind her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry for the whim of nature that had spoiled this spot or if it was simply a need to shed a teardrop for the innocent young woman who had once loved and been loved here.
    A fitting end, she thought.
    Blinking aside the emotion, she turned and followed the path back to the car.
     

Chapter Three
     
    “More cider, Amanda?” Martha extended the silver coffee urn with a hopeful flourish and a doubtful smile.
    With a shake of her head Amanda refused the third offer to replenish her cup. She took one last sip of the pungent drink and wished that Martha allowed something stronger than apple cider to be served in her home.
    “What about you, Dane?” Martha swung in his direction to urge a refill. He sat in an overstuffed wing-back chair, looking very much at home with his feet propped on a matching hassock and dubiously eyeing the cup perched on the chair arm.
    “What?” he asked absently, glancing first at Amanda and then at Martha. “Oh, no. No more cider. I’ve got all I need, thanks.”
    “I can’t give the stuff away this year,” Martha grumbled as she plopped the antique server onto the matching silver tray and arranged the rest of the tea service around it.
    Amanda reprimanded her impulse to smile. Only Martha would serve cider in an heirloom tea service. Perhaps that was one of the reasons she seemed ageless. Martha never hesitated to do the things that gave her pleasure, no matter what anyone else might think. She was a mixture of youth and wisdom, her appearance a salt and pepper blend, her good nature spicy with humor and tart advice.
    “Well, well, well.” Martha folded her stout frame into her favorite Boston rocker and surveyed Amanda with interest. The green eyes held a hint of their usual Irish blarney as they made a quick perusal. A visual inspection that Amanda ordinarily accepted as a matter of course.
    But today, knowing that the affectionate light in Martha’s eyes would soon dim in disappointment, Amanda was ill at ease. To conceal her discomfort she leaned forward to set her cup on the coffee table, then settled against the sofa cushions to await Martha’s judgment.
    “You’re too thin, Amanda.” The blunt criticism was softened with a wink as Martha turned to Dane. “You should take better care of her. She’s wasting away to nothing.”
    Dane looked up, his gaze brushing Amanda in unconcern. “She’s a long way from that, Martha. Amanda just needs a jug of your cider and some tender loving care.”
    Meeting his eyes with a lift of