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original oak mantel, took up almost all the space along one exterior wall. It had been used for drying purposes when the area above the garage was a storeroom, and he had gotten Mrs. Master’s permission to refurbish it and use it. He had stripped the wood of the mantel down to the grain, and then stained it, following that with a clear lacquer. He found that manual labor occupied his free time and made him tired enough to sleep at night. Once the fireplace was in shape, he kept logs burning in it almost constantly when he was home. If a person could actually call such a place home.
    Reardon shrugged out of his jacket, and his fingers lingered on the collar as he moved to put it down. She wore this, he thought, and then tossed it furiously aside.
    That Bradshaw girl. She kept turning up, making it impossible for him to forget her, distracting him from his singular purpose in returning to Yardley. No matter how attractive he found her, she was Carter Bradshaw’s daughter, and sure to hate him. He mustn’t lose sight of that fact.
    Other things remained in his mind instead. The way she had looked when she touched his arm at her father’s grave, tentative, searching, alive with curiosity. The way she had come to his aid at the Phelps hangar, the impulse of kindness that had turned into the kiss he could still taste, still feel. The color of her eyes, the softness of her hair...Reardon pressed his lips together, refusing to continue the train of thought. He had to stop thinking about her. It was driving him crazy.
    He didn’t need this. He didn’t need to wonder about her or dream about her, which he did almost every night. The dreams were the worst. They weren’t bad dreams. He was used to those; he’d had nightmares constantly ever since he went to jail. The dreams concerning Leda were different. They were tantalizing excursions into erotica from which he awoke tormented, his muscles in knots, his body bathed in sweat that soaked the sheets twisted around his limbs like coiled snakes. Sleep was impossible after such episodes. He would often lie awake until it was time to get up, reliving the fantasy in his mind.
    He wanted to believe that such a reaction was normal for a man in his situation. Leda Bradshaw was the only woman he had touched in four years, the only female who had held him, kissed him, in a very long time. It was perfectly natural for him to respond to that, wasn’t it? Surely his obsession with her was nothing more than the reaction of a starved man to his first sight, and taste, of food.
    But he wasn’t able to convince himself completely. He was attractive to women, he knew that. Since his release from prison he had discovered that this remained unchanged; he’d had other chances, with other ladies, and had turned them down.
    He’d turned them down because he wanted Leda Bradshaw.
    * * * *
    Leda shut the door of her dressing room and wedged the top of a chair under the knob to block it. She was dodging Chip Caswell, as usual, and he had a tendency to barge in unannounced, probably hoping to catch her in a state of undress. She sat in front of her lighted mirror and wondered what she was going to do about her leading man.
    Chip was a veteran thespian in his thirties, with an extensive career in stock and a two year stint on a syndicated series for a cable station to his credit. This, plus several guest spots on nighttime television, had long ago convinced him that he was in league with Laurence Olivier. What he was doing playing opposite Leda in the outback of eastern Pennsylvania was anybody’s guess, but Leda suspected that it had something to do with his reputation for easy living and hard drinking. He had probably become too unreliable to sell to the networks, as evidenced by his late appearances for morning rehearsals, bleary eyed and hung over to the point of incoherence. So far his looks hadn’t suffered much, so he was still employable, and he enjoyed his work immensely, strutting around in