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of her head and she had on just a light touch of makeup. Watching her gather her briefcase, McCallum thought absently that he much preferred the tired woman of the night before, with her glorious hair loose around her shoulders.
    “We’ll go in my car,” he said when they reached the parking lot, putting his sunglasses over his eyes. They gave him an even more threatening demeanor.
    “I have to go on to another appointment, so I’ll take my truck, now that it’s been fixed, thanks to you….”
    He opened the passenger door of the patrol car and stood there without saying a word.
    She hesitated for a minute, then let him help herinto the car. “Are you deliberately intimidating, or does it just come naturally?” she asked when they were on the way to the hospital.
    “I spent years ordering noncoms around,” he said easily. “Old habits are hard to break. Plays hell at work sometimes. I keep forgetting that Hensley outranks me.”
    That sounded like humor, but she’d had no sleep to speak of and she felt out of sorts. She clasped her briefcase closer, glancing out the window at the landscape. Montana was beautiful in spring. The area around Whitehorn was uncluttered, with rolling hills that ran forever to the horizon and that later in the year would be rich with grain crops. Occasional herds of cattle dotted the horizon. There were cottonwood and willow trees along the streams, but mostly the country was wide open. It was home. She loved it.
    She especially loved Whitehorn. With its wide streets and multitude of trees, the town reminded her of Billings—which had quiet neighborhoods and a spread-out city center, with a refinery right within the city limits. The railroad cut through Billings, just as it did here in Whitehorn. It was necessary for transportation, because mining was big business in southern Montana.
    The Whitehorn hospital was surrounded by cottonwood trees. Its grounds were nicely landscaped and there was a statue of Lewis and Clark out front.William Clark’s autograph in stone at Pompey’s Pillar, near Hardin, Montana, still drew photographers. The Lewis and Clark expedition had come right through Whitehorn.
    Jessica introduced herself and McCallum to the ward nurse, and they were taken to the nursery.
    Baby Jennifer, or Jenny as she was called, was in a crib there. She looked very pretty, with big blue eyes and a tiny tuft of blond hair on top of her head. She looked up at her visitors without a change of expression, although her eyes were alert and intelligent.
    Jessica looked at her hungrily. She put down her briefcase and with a questioning glance at the nurse, who nodded, she picked the baby up and held her close.
    “Little angel,” she whispered, smiling so sadly that the man at her side scowled. She touched the tiny hand and felt it curl around her finger. She blinked back tears. She would never have a baby. She would never know the joy of feeling it grow in her body, watching its birth, nourishing it at her breast….
    She made a sound and McCallum moved between her and the nurse with magnificent carelessness. “I want to see any articles of clothing that were found on or with the child,” he said courteously.
    The nurse, diverted, produced a small bundle. He unfastened it. There was one blanket, a worn pink one—probably homemade, judging by the hand-sewn border—with no label. There was a tiny gown, a pretty lacy thing with a foreign label, the sort thatmight be found at a fancy garage sale. There were some hand-knitted booties and a bottle. The bottle was a common plastic one with nothing outstanding about it. He sighed angrily. No clues here.
    “Oh, yes, there’s one more thing, Detective,” the nurse said suddenly. She produced a small brooch, a pink cameo. “This was attached to the gown. Odd, isn’t it, to put something so valuable on a baby? This looks like real gold.”
    McCallum touched it, turned it over. It was gold, all right, and very old. That was someone’s