Chapter Three

      Eric switched off the lamp on the table beside his bed and lay on his back staring into the dark. Although he was supposed to be settled in for the night, he was still dressed in his jeans, T-shirt and socks. His hostess’s image was strong in his mind. She’d told him to call her Roxy and the name fit. Living with her was a lot like living with a block of granite. He’d been at the farm for four days. It had been a Sunday when he arrived. Beginning on Monday, Roxy went into town to work each day. She’d be gone from six-thirty to three-thirty or four. When she arrived home, she’d prepare dinner. While it was cooking, she’d inspect the work he’d done that day. Then they’d eat and work on the house until dark. After that, they’d have a snack and go to bed.

      She was like a robot that went about its business on its own and expected others to behave in the same fashion. Even during mealtimes she rarely talked. It appeared that she’d told him all she was willing to relate to him on Sunday and had little else to say. She wasn’t unfriendly. But she made it clear by her actions and her body language that she didn’t want to be his friend, either. It was as if she’d constructed a barrier around herself and he was not allowed past it.

      Since Sunday, everything he’d discovered about her was from observation and tidbits she felt necessary to tell him. So far, he knew she worked at the local grocery store as a cashier, that she’d come to the farm about five years earlier and that she did have family in Philadelphia.

      The part about the family he’d learned because of a series of phone calls on Tuesday night. From what he’d heard of the conversation with her first caller, he’d realized she was talking to her mother. He’d gathered that the woman wanted Roxy to sell the farm and move back home or get a house or apartment nearer her parents. The firm set of his hostess’s jaw had told him that her mother was wasting her breath.

      A few minutes later the phone had rung again. This time the caller had been her grandmother. Since she’d addressed the caller only as Grandmama, he didn’t know if it was her paternal or maternal grandparent, but he guessed it was better than a fifty-fifty chance it was her maternal grandparent, since they spoke of her mother’s call.

      Again Roxy had held firm to her determination to remain on the farm and he’d begun to wonder why. If she sold the place, she could buy something smaller but in much better condition and probably have a little cash left over. Surely a more financially stable position would aid her in getting the boy back. Then his question had been answered.

      “Even if the social services people insist on keeping us apart, someday he’ll come looking for me and I want to be here,” she’d said. Her jaw had hardened even more, and he’d had the feeling she was holding back a flood of tears. “I know he’ll come.”

      The conviction in her voice had apparently convinced her grandmother that she could not be dissuaded, because there had been no further discussion of her selling the farm.

      His mind returned to the present as the sound of a door being quietly opened caught his attention. It was followed by softly padded footfalls coming his way. They paused outside his door, then turned toward the stairs and grew faint as they descended to the first floor.

      Each night he’d been here, his hostess had followed this same routine. In about half an hour or so, she’d return to her room and settle in for the night. The first couple of nights he’d been too tired to really think about her actions. Only the many years when his life had depended on him always being aware of his surroundings so that, even when asleep, he would wake instantly to any sounds of movement had caused him to wake enough to realize she’d risen. But he’d sensed no danger and, assuming she was a worrier and merely double-checking to make certain all the doors were locked, he’d gone back to sleep.

      Last night, however, when they’d come upstairs, he’d made a point of mentioning that they were securely locked in. Still, about half an hour after they’d retired, she’d gotten up and gone downstairs. That was when he’d asked himself why she stopped by his door and listened for a moment as if to reassure herself that he was asleep. If she was merely checking the locks, what difference would it make if he was awake or asleep?

      All day that question had bothered him. He’d told himself that what she did on her nightly rounds didn’t matter. But in spite of the distance she was obviously determined to keep between them, he found himself more and more intrigued by Roxy Dugan. He wanted to know more about her. Curiosity could be a dangerous thing where this woman was concerned, he’d warned himself. Her attachment to the boy Jamie continued to make a strong impression on him. He could begin to feel a commitment he didn’t want to feel. He was a loner and he planned to stay that way. But he hadn’t heeded his warning, and tonight he would have his answer to what she was up to.

      Slipping out of bed, he made his way quietly downstairs. There was light coming from the small room that had been Maude’s private parlor. Remaining in the shadows, he looked inside. The light was being provided by a small lamp on a round table in a corner of the room. Roxy was seated at the table shuffling a deck of oversize cards. As she laid them out and began to turn them over, surprise registered on Eric’s face.

      “I would never have pictured you as the fortune-teller type,” he said, emerging from his hiding place.

      Roxy’s gaze jerked to him. His skin had taken on a healthy glow and the T-shirt showed off the strength building in his arms and shoulders. Embers long dead within her began to glow with life. Allowing herself to feel any attraction to him was only going to lead to pain, she warned herself curtly. Aloud she said frostily, “I thought you were asleep.”

      “I got thirsty,” he lied, not wanting her to guess he’d been spying on her. At the moment she looked a great deal like a Gypsy, he thought, continuing into the room. Her face was cast in shadows, causing her brown eyes to appear nearly ebony. Her long tresses fell freely down around her shoulders and onto her back in a carefree, feminine array and, with a bit of imagination, her loose-fitting cotton robe could pass for a fortune-teller’s gown. The effect was very appealing.

      “The kitchen is down the hall to your left,” she said, fighting a bout of embarrassment. She preferred to keep this part of her life very private. Most people, she knew, thought Tarot-card reading was a foolish superstition.

      Eric ignored the dismissal in her voice, his attention caught by the artistry of the cards. “Those look as if they were hand drawn.”

      “They were,” she admitted stiffly. “My greatgrandmother made them for me.”

      Eric grinned. “So she was the Gypsy.”

      “She was a hardworking farmer’s wife,” Roxy corrected curtly. Again dismissal entered her voice. “I thought you said you were thirsty.”

      Again Eric ignored her unspoken demand that he go away. This was a side of his hostess he’d never expected, and his curiosity was whetted. Not wanting to offend her further, he hid his skepticism behind a mask of interest. “Are you any good at doing readings?”

      Roxy expected to see cynical amusement in his eyes. It wasn’t there. Still, she wasn’t ready to believe he had any real respect for the reading of the cards. She