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everything else that lives up here.”
    â€œWhat do you do?”
    â€œWhatever I can.” He shrugged. “In the summer, I drive tourists around on all the Jeep trails. In the winter, I give ski lessons to other tourists over at Telluride. Sometimes I tend bar down in town.”
    â€œAt the Dirty Sally.” She remembered the saloon.
    â€œThat’s right. It’s named after a mine.”
    â€œSpeaking of mines, what do you know about the French Mistress?”
    â€œYou mean this place?”
    â€œIs there more than one?”
    He shrugged. “I really don’t know anything about it.”
    â€œIt was a gold mine, right? Was there any gold in it? Reggie said there were rumors. . . .”
    â€œThere were rumors, all right. I think Murph made up half of them himself, to keep people guessing.”
    â€œWhy would he do that?”
    â€œHe didn’t like people knowing his business. That included me.” He leaned forward and set his mug on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “I don’t know about the gold. Murph had money from somewhere.” He gestured toward the picture window in front of them. “It may not look like much to you, but it cost a lot to fix up this place. Whether he paid for it with gold or some other way, I don’t know. He was good at keeping secrets.”
    â€œWhat kind of secrets?”
    â€œYou, for one.” He stood. “I’d better go.”
    She didn’t want him to leave. In the dark, she was so much more aware of her loneliness.
    Unlike Reggie, Jameso didn’t seem too concerned about leaving her alone in the remote cabin. He was probably used to rugged mountain women who looked after themselves. Maggie had always thought of herself as independent; she always held a job and had her own money, her own friends. But here, in this alien landscape, she felt weak, unsteady on her feet.
    Or maybe that was just the shot of whiskey in the coffee. “I’ll be fine,” she said, though she hadn’t meant to speak the words out loud.
    Jameso gave her a curious look. “Why wouldn’t you be?” He headed toward the door. “I’ll stop by again sometime, see if you need anything,” he said.
    â€œThanks.” She stood in the doorway, one hand clutching at the rings on the chain beneath her shirt. She watched him climb onto the motorcycle and roar off into the night, the taillight a single red ember disappearing down the mountain.
    â€œI’ll be all right,” she said again as she closed the door and turned back to the fire. But just all right wasn’t going to be enough. She wanted to be happy again, to remember what that contentment felt like. She contemplated the star-spangled view and felt a swell of something inside her; it was not yet strong enough to be called hope. She’d label it possibility.
    Â 
    Lucille smoothed the plaid quilt over the twin bed and frowned. Was the plaid appropriate for a thirteen-year-old boy? Would he rather have rocket ships or baseballs or something else entirely? Should she have waited for him to get here and let him pick out the furnishings for his room?
    She sat on the end of the bed and looked at the mismatched dresser and chair, and the student desk shoved under the eaves. Everything was gleaned from the antique/junk shop she owned. The things were donations or items she’d picked up at auctions or even out of alleys on trash day. She wouldn’t bother telling Olivia that, or Lucas. If the boy took after his mother at all, he was sure to be embarrassed by his grandmother, as Olivia had always been embarrassed by her mother.
    She had no idea what the boy was like. The last time she’d seen him he was seven months old. The last time she’d seen him in person, she amended. Olivia sent photographs from time to time. The last was of an owlish-looking boy with pale blue eyes behind round, wire-rimmed glasses, his close-cropped blond