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steady determination, she pressed him back down against the mattress.
    “Fifteen years is fifteen years,” she said quietly, stroking her cool hand across his cheek. “Rest now, Garret. You need your strength so you can leave again.” There was a hint of irony and an edge of bitterness in her voice, but at least she knew she still understood the situation.
    He seemed to sigh, the tension escaping him with a whisper until he sank like a rag doll into the sheets. The muscles in his neck relaxed, his fists suddenly opening at his sides. His eyes closed, and he slipped away from her completely.
    Her hands lingered on his cheeks, feeling the heat burn and ebb. Unconsciously, she brushed back the black strands of his hair and smoothed the sheet up around his neck. One hand retrieved the damp washcloth from the waiting basin and she gently stroked it down his face.
    Her hands still trembled.
    With a tightening of her lips, she forced her movements to become brisker. She wasn’t sixteen anymore, she reminded herself. Fifteen years was indeed fifteen years. And she didn’t lie in bed anymore, wondering if this would be the night he would magically return and save her from the dreariness of her own existence. She didn’t dream of his spark-filled grins, didn’t recall his somber gaze as he’d touched her cheek in the rain and whispered, “Someday.”
    Now she was the thirty-two-year-old kindergarten teacher, community leader, churchgoer and volunteer. She tended children, cultivated a garden, worked in the community and maintained her legacy home. She was brisk and practical and efficient, and no one in this town ever commented about the hunch-shouldered girl she’d once been. And no one ever mentioned her mother.
    Working now on the autopilot she knew so well, she picked up the basin in one hand and the pitcher in the other, and carried them both into the kitchen. She would fix a light breakfast, then see to her garden. Then there were the phone calls to make, the meetings to reschedule, Garret to check. If she had the time, the bathrooms needed to be cleaned, the linens washed. She should probably plan on a casserole for dinner for herself.
    Plenty to do. Always plenty of things to do.
     
    Cagney appeared promptly at eight a.m., his face tense and his question immediate. “How is he?”
    “Better,” she assured him, hazel eyes compassionate. Knowing he wouldn’t be convinced until he saw Garret with his own eyes, she led him straight down the hall to the bedroom. “Fever’s down to 101, and I’ve gotten more liquids into him. I still don’t understand half of what he says, Cagney, but there’s something about a car and your folks.”
    Cagney stiffened immediately in the doorway of the bedroom, and his lips thinned for a minute. Then with a forced sigh, he relaxed his stance. “I hate this not knowing,” he said low and even.
    Suzanne placed a calming hand on his shoulder and offered him a reassuring smile. “Give him a day or two, and he’ll be able to talk. You’ve already taken care of Mitch and your folks. It will be all right.”
    She didn’t mention Garret’s selective memory of their own interactions. No reason for anyone to know about that.
    Cagney remained for an hour, hovering around the bedroom and the living room until she handed him a trowel and told him he could at least make himself useful if he was going to insist on hanging out. But just as he was about to give in and return to the sheriff’s office, Garret opened his eyes.
    “Cagney,” he said immediately, the word thick. Well-trained by now, Suzanne automatically fetched another glass of water. “The car,” Garret rasped. When he was done drinking, his eyes focused on Cagney, leaving her in peace for a change. It was just as well. Her hands had started trembling the minute she realized he was conscious.
    Cagney hunkered down beside the bed, the concern in his face evident as he stared at his brother. “What car?”
    “In the