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it was falling down around the genteelly impoverished Kirkland family was equally apparent. Anne Kirkland was fighting a losing battle; sooner or later she would have to accept defeat. He just wished that he wasn’t going to have to be part of that defeat.
    Taking off the rest of his clothes, he climbed into bed, wishing for the first time that he owned something as mundane as nightclothes. They usually made him feel that he was suffocating, but they’d provide at least a measure of protection if Holly felt like doing a little night walking. Would it be a different matter if it was Anne Kirkland? Probably. And yet it was Anne who was trouble, not Holly. He had to remember to keep his distance from both sisters. He had enough trouble in his life.
    Turning off the light, he lay back in the narrow bed, resting his head against the pile of feather pillows. The sheets were crisp and cool against his body. He liked the idea of Anne Kirkland sleeping in this bed. Maybe, with great good luck, he could fall asleep thinking of her. Even those dangers were preferable to his usual nocturnal companion.
    But he should have known. The fitful moonlight shone in the window, cutting a wide swath across the bed. There was just the beginning flutter of pale snowflakes filtering down. And with the inevitability of death and taxes, he remembered Nialla.
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    A NNE WAS AWAKENED at a little past seven by the blinding sunlight streaming in her wall of windows. With a small moan she burrowed back under the quilt in a vain attempt at shutting out the merciless glare. Punching up a small corner to let in a tiny amount of oxygen, she shut her eyes once more. But the quilt soon collapsed, Anne started smothering, and within five minutes she threw the cover back with a hearty curse. Swinging her bare feet onto the floor, she tried a glare at the brilliant sunshine, a glare that immediately dissolved into a delighted smile. It had snowed during the night, a good four inches, and the trees, the yard, the hillside were a fairyland of white.
    It was impossible to be bad-tempered on such a day, she thought, pulling on her best jeans and her favorite silk blouse before topping it with a less-than-baggy sweater. Why she eschewed the loose-fitting flannel shirt was something she didn’t care to consider, and the only blot on her horizon was the fact that the showers in the house were all on the second floor. The last thing she wanted to do was to run into a passion-sated Noah Grant, fresh from a night in her sister’svoracious arms. It didn’t matter that she had no right to care, both because of Wilson Engalls and her sister’s prior claim. She simply didn’t want Holly to have him.
    Within minutes the smell of freshly ground coffee was filling the underground kitchen. To Anne’s amazement the late-night glasses had all been washed and put in the drainer, the counters cleaned off, and everything left spotless. It was impossible to believe either of her hopelessly impractical siblings capable of the act or the motivation, and her father would have broken more dishes than he washed. Perhaps Steve Piersall was the housewifely type , she thought with a trace of her brother’s malice. But she knew perfectly well who had washed the dishes.
    â€œIs that coffee for anyone?” She didn’t have to turn to see him. Indeed, she had known all through the night that he’d be the first one up.
    She turned from the sink in her best casual manner, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. “As soon as it’s ready,” she murmured. “I didn’t expect to see you so early.”
    â€œI had a good night’s sleep,” he replied, a small grin lighting that dark face, and Anne caught herself staring, fascinated. He looked like a tall Celtic Gypsy, with that dark skin, the blue, blue eyes and the wildly curling black hair. And she had read too many romances, she thought with disgust.
    â€œYou were able to fend off