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feet again. Lumbered toward them.
    When he took Ephriam’s arm, though, the old man pulled free. “Unhand me,” he said. “This is an outrage!”
    Sarah’s mind was racing wildly through a series of possibilities, all of which were disastrous, but she’d had a lot of experience dealing with imminent disaster, and she rose to the occasion.
    â€œPapa,” she said, “poor Thomas is feeling very ill. It’s his asthma, you know. If you don’t get him to Doc Venable, quickly, he could—” she paused, laid a hand to her bosom, fingers splayed, and widened her eyes “—perish!”
    â€œGreat Scot,” Ephriam boomed, taking Thomas by one arm and dragging him toward the front door, and the busy street outside, “the man needs medical attention! There’s not a moment to spare!”
    Thomas cast a pitiable glance back at Sarah.
    She closed her eyes, offered a hopeless prayer that Charles Elliott Langstreet the Third would get lost between the depot and the bank, and waited for the Apocalypse.
    By the time Charles actually arrived, she was quite composed, at least outwardly, though faintly queasy and probably pale. She might have gotten through the preliminary encounter by claiming she was fighting off a case of the grippe, but as it turned out, Charles didn’t come alone.
    He’d brought Owen with him.
    Sarah’s heart lurched, caught itself like a running deer about to tumble down a steep hill. Perched on a stool behind the counter, in Thomas’s usual place, a ledger open before her, she nearly swooned.
    Owen.
    Ten years old now, blond like his imperious father, but with his grandfather’s clear, guileless blue eyes.
    The floor seemed to tilt beneath the legs of Sarah’s stool. She gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself.
    Charles smiled, enjoying her shock. He was handsome as an archangel, sophisticated and cruel, the cherished—and only—son of a wealthy family. And he owned a thirty percent interest in the Stockman’s Bank.
    Owen studied her curiously. “Are you my aunt Sarah?” he asked.
    Tears burned in Sarah’s eyes. She managed a nod, but did not trust herself to speak. If she did, she would babble and blither, and scare the child to death.
    â€œSurprised?” Charles asked smoothly, still watching Sarah closely, his chiseled patrician lips taking on a sly curve.
    â€œWe came all the way from Philadelphia on a train,” Owen said, wide-eyed over the adventure. “I was supposed to spend the summer at school, but they sent me packing for putting a stupid girl down the laundry chute.”
    Sarah blinked, found her voice. “Was she hurt?” she croaked, horrified.
    â€œNo,” Owen said, straightening his small shoulders. He was wearing a tweed coat and short pants, and he seemed to be sweltering. “She did the same thing to Mrs. Steenwilder’s cat, so I showed her how it felt.”
    â€œThe girl is fine,” Charles said. “And so is the cook’s cat.”
    â€œWe’re going to stay at the hotel,” Owen said. “Papa and me. I get to have my own room.”
    â€œWhy don’t you go over there right now and make sure the man we hired at the depot takes proper care of our bags?” Charles asked the little boy.
    Owen nodded solemnly and left.
    Sarah’s heart tripped after him—she had to drag it back. Corral it in her chest, where it pounded in protest.
    â€œWhy did you bring him?” she asked.
    â€œI couldn’t leave the boy with Marjory,” Charles answered. “She despises him.”
    Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, certain she would swoon.
    â€œYou must have known I’d come, Sarah. Someday.”
    She opened her eyes again, stared at him in revulsion and no little fear. He’d moved while she wasn’t looking—come to stand just on the other side of the counter.
    â€œIf only because of the