“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.”

      —Matthew 6:18–20

      “For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.”

      —1 Timothy 6:9–10

      To Eunice, Ed and Jeanine,

       thanks for a great summer!

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      PROLOGUE

      March 1

      She’d managed to climb in a rear window, her heart pounding with fear and exertion. Had anyone seen her? At this time of night in this little burg? She doubted it. Standing in the apartment lit only by her flashlight and thin moonlight coming through the windows, she laid her flashlight on the floor. Where should she start looking? It had all seemed so easy when the idea had first come to her.

      She approached a built-in bookcase. As she reached up to remove the books from the top shelf, it began. The wall in front of her eyes started to undulate as if an earthquake were taking place. Then the floor beneath her feet began to ripple. She staggered and caught hold of the bookcase, cursing.

      And then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Or was that just part of the flashback, too?

      ONE

      March 2

      Sylvie, I am going to wow you with a big surprise tomorrow! What could Ginger’s wow surprise be? This question kept bobbing to the surface of Sylvie Patterson’s mind—interrupting her work. She sat at her PC near the front of her store, My Favorite Books, answering customer e-mails.

      Last night Ginger, her favorite cousin, had blown into Winfield, intending to spend the next two months in her apartment above Sylvie’s bookstore. Just a few years younger than Sylvie, Ginger would be busy “polishing” her dissertation on Alaskan whales. Last night Ginger, with her long, curly red hair and golden freckles, had been more effervescent than usual.

      And in just a few more minutes, Sylvie would close up shop and find out what Ginger’s big secret was.

      The little bell on her shop’s door jingled and cold air swished inside. In the off-season, Sylvie didn’t usually look up from her monitor to see who’d come in. But today it might be Ginger.

      She glanced up. Not Ginger.

      Ridge Matthews looked back at her. He stood there against the wall, which was lined with shelves and shelves of books.

      Waves of recognition on so many different levels undulated through her. So much history lay between them. A tide of remembrance billowed in the conscious silence between her and Ridge. Ridge was still tall but not too tall, still broad-shouldered, and still possessed the same dark brown, nearly black, very serious eyes. Only a few glints of gray in his short-cropped hair reminded her that eighteen years had passed since he’d been a year-round resident of Winfield.

      “Sylvie,” he acknowledged her with the grave voice he’d acquired that awful summer night eighteen years ago.

      “Ridge,” she returned the greeting and forced a smile. She rose, holding out her hand. I’m surprised to see you, Ridge, but not unhappy. Never unhappy.

      As if there were an invisible line etched in sand between them, he hesitated a split second and then came forward and gripped her hand—briefly.

      He was still as buttoned-up as his black wool winter coat. Last December, she’d glimpsed him at a wedding, another of his rare visits. And now she thought she knew his reason for appearing here today. “Are you looking for Ben?” she asked. “He’s running an errand for me.”

      Ridge digested this in several moments of silence. “My mother said he doesn’t come home after school. Every day he walks here from the bus stop.”

      Yes, going home to your parents’ house is way too depressing for any kid. For a long time, the Matthewses’ home had been nothing but a house, merely four walls, a roof and floor. That was why Ridge had forsaken Winfield.

      “Thanks for being kind to Ben.” His low tone curled through her.

      Resisting his effect on her, she forced another smile. “Ben’s a good kid. Are you here to visit him for a few days?” she added, hoping his answer would be yes.

      “I’m moving him away this weekend.”

      She stiffened with shock. “With you to Madison? Now?”

      The door opened behind Ridge. More frigid air rushed in.

      “No,” Ridge said, “an opening has come up unexpectedly in a good military school near Milwaukee. Ben was next on the waiting list. He’s scheduled to start bright and early on Monday.”

      Just inside her door, blond-haired and freckle-faced Ben halted, looking as if he’d just received the death sentence.

      She took an involuntary step toward him. Military school? For Ben? No.

      “Military school?” Ridge’s