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eyelids.
    “Well, you have a chance to give it to him.” Kitty turned her head. “Here’s our little Christopher now!”
    Adam looked up in time to see a small boy come barging out through the front door. He held onto the porch railing with both hands and made his awkward way down, one step at a time.
    Adam could empathize with the child’s gawkiness. He remembered the clumsy, inept days of his own childhood, when everything — including his feet — seemed much too big for him to control. He’d used to have to go up and down the stairs in the exact same way that Christopher was doing right now.
    The boy was small and slender, with frail-looking bones. A cowboy hat dangled on his back, and a kerchief was tied badman-style around his neck. There was western stitching on his pale red shirt, and his dark red pants were too big for him. They bunched at his waist where his belt had been cinched, and drooped slightly where the leather holster was clipped. At first glance, Christopher’s hair appeared to be black, like his mother’s. But as the boy stepped forward into the sunlight, Adam could see that it was actually dark brown, like his own.
    Just like his own.
    Adam’s heart skipped a beat.
    The child ran down the walk, plastic boots slapping the pavement, spurs jingling. “Mother! Joey wants to know if it’s time to open the presents and have cake and — ”
    Christopher looked up, and pulled up short at the sight of Adam, a tall stranger standing on the front lawn. The little boy tried to stop in his tracks, but he skidded and bumped into his mother. He ducked behind her, then leaned forward and peered shyly out from behind her waist. His eyes were wide and blue, his expression cautious but friendly.
    Oh, but the child had the look of his mother. Had her sharp nose and round eyes, her feathery brows and pointed chin. But the mouth, when it curled upward into a tentative smile, was a mirror image of Adam’s, and the fingers that clutched Jenna’s legs so tenuously were the same long, slender digits that Adam possessed.
    Looking at those fingers, Adam could feel his stomach drop to his feet. The boy was not the child of Bud Appleton, Adam’s oldest friend. The boy was not the grandchild of Bill and Kitty Appleton.
    The boy was Adam’s own son.

C HAPTER F IVE
    H IS OWN CHILD. H IS BOY.
    Adam tore his gaze away and looked at up Jenna. All traces of his good mood were gone, swept away in the tidal wave of her treachery.
    She took an involuntary step backward when she saw the fury in his eyes. Then she raised her chin slowly in defiance.
    Kitty spoke up, beautifully oblivious to what was going on around her. “Christopher,” she said, and her tone was chiding but indulgent. “You know you’re not supposed to run in those boots. The soles have no tread; you could slip and fall.”
    She took his hand and pulled him out from behind his mother. “Now come say hello.” She led him forward until he and Adam were facing each other.
    Father and son, Adam thought. He had never felt so lost. Or so angry.
    “This,” Kitty said to the boy she thought was her grandson, “is Mr. Balentine.”
    “Adam,” Adam said quickly. How could he be Mr. Balentine to his own child?
    Jenna spoke up. “Uncle Adam,” she said, her voice rough. She cleared her throat and added, “Christopher, you can call him Uncle Adam. He’s an old friend of your father’s, so I don’t think he’d mind.”
    Christopher looked up at his grandmother, who smiled and nodded encouragement. Then he stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. — I mean, Uncle Adam. My name is Christopher.” The voice was thin and chirping, like a baby bird, but the words were pronounced with a sweet perfection that told of many hours conversing with grown-ups.
    Adam looked down at the pale little hand being offered to him. He enveloped it in his own, being careful not to clamp down too hard on the delicate bones. Then he released the hand and hunkered down so he