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the phone to call the number she had written beside it for just this moment. Then she went back to Ryan to await the ambulance.
    The next few days were a nightmare of despair for Cara as she sat beside Ryan’s bed, knowing that his life was ebbing away and that there was a brother in Texas who did not know it. Her one source of comfort was the soft-spoken law partner from Ryan’s firm who had arrived at the hospital shortly after his younger colleague had been admitted.
    The man, who appeared to be somewhere in his midthirties, had approached Cara with deeply distressed eyes and handed her his business card. “I am Harold St. Clair,” he told her, “a friend and colleague of Ryan’s. His doctor had instructions to call me.”
    Out of the maze of grief through which she wandered during the remaining three days of Ryan’s life, one fact emerged clearly: Ryan had his business affairs in order. The firm, Harold told her, had been named to handle Ryan’s estate. His personal effects would be sent to his brother in Texas. The firm would take care of the disposition of Ryan’s town house and furnishings. It would see to the sale of the red Ferrari, unless, of course, she wanted it. It had been a stipulation of Ryan’s that she was to have anything in the town house she desired.
    Cara was aghast. None of Ryan’s things were hers, she made it clear to the lawyer. Then she remembered the photograph on the mantel. “There is one thing,” she hurriedly amended. “A picture of Ryan and his brother. I—I’d like to have that.”
    “Of course,” the lawyer agreed, making a note in his small leather book. He cast a contemplative glance at the averted profile of the girl. She was exquisite, no doubt about that. No wonder Ryan had completely lost his head over her.
    In the three days, Ryan became lucid only once. Cara was sitting beside the bed, dozing. Harold had gone to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Ryan opened his eyes and looked at her. “Hi,” he said, and Cara, thinking she was dreaming, lifted her blond head.
    “Ryan…” She smiled and drew her chair closer to the bed. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”
    “Thank you for not asking me how I’m feeling.” He gave her his ironic grin. “I wouldn’t want to lie to you.”
    “It’s bad, is it?”
    “Yes, very bad. I almost waited too late to ask you something.”
    Cara’s throat closed painfully. She reached for Ryan’s cold, inert fingers, careful not to disturb the tubes taped to the back of his hand. “Ask me what, Ryan?”
    “Do you trust me, Cara?”
    “With all my heart.”
    “Then would you promise to do something for me after I’m gone, even though I can’t tell you now what it is? Think before you answer, love. I know that Yankee determination of yours well enough to know that once you give your word, the devil himself couldn’t make you break it.”
    “Is it important to you that I do whatever it is you’re asking?”
    “Yes. It means that I can rest in peace.”
    “Well, then, I promise, Ryan.”
    “Thank you, Puritan. You won’t be sorry. You will be at first, and your courage will try to desert you, but don’t you let it. See your promise through to the end. You’ll be glad you did. I am confident of that.”
    “How—how will I know what it is you want me to do?”
    “Harold will give you an envelope after my death. I have left instructions in it. Remember always that I had only at heart the interests of those I…loved.”
    The words trailed off. His lids closed in quiet finality. “Ryan, dearest—” But Cara knew that Ryan had slipped forever beyond the sound of her voice. Already the beloved features had assumed an eternal stillness. Tenderly, as the tears began to come, she lifted Ryan’s hand to her cheek and cradled it there for a few private seconds before the door burst open and blurred images in white surrounded the bed. Someone in a business suit spoke gently in her ear and eased Ryan’s hand away, then led