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  "If you re certain it's all right with Vicki's mother, I don't mind." Bridget's permission was met with gleeful giggles and hurried assurances from the second girl that her mother didn't mind. "I'll pick you up at Vicki's house a little after five. You watch for me."

  "I will, mom." The promise was blithely made, the girl's bubbling excitement centered on now and not later.

  As the two girls turned to leave, they simultaneously noticed Jonas and paused. Youthfully bright hazel eyes studied him curiously, seemingly unaware of his intense scrutiny. Jonas kept staring, searching for the mark of her father. Finally the girl glanced hesitantly at Bridget.

  "Molly, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine, Jonas Concannon." Reluctantly the introduction was made. "Jonas, this is my daughter, Molly, and her friend Vicki Smith."

  "Hello, Molly, Vicki." He nodded curtly, for some reason not trusting himself to say more.

  "Hello." The breathless greeting from Molly was shyly echoed by the second girl.

  "Run along, you two." Bridget smiled, and the pair darted past Jonas and out of the door with the same exuberance that marked their entrance.

  Jonas watched Molly disappear before slowly bringing his gaze back to Bridget. "She looks very much like you," he commented stiffly.

  "I'll—" There was a breathless catch to her voice, which Bridget self-consciously laughed off. "I'll take that as a compliment."

  "I meant it as one;" he confirmed. "How old is she?"

  "Eight. Of course, Molly would insist that she's almost nine. It's funny how when you're young, you always want to be older."

  Bridget lifted a hand to flip her shoulder-length hair away from the rolled collar of her pullover, the first gesture of nervousness Jonas had seen her make. There was a measure of satisfaction in knowing she wasn't as poised and nonchalant as she appeared.

  He hoped he was making her uncomfortable. He knew what she was doing to him. God, how he knew! He thrust his hands deeper in his pockets, balling them into fists.

  "Do you have any more children?" The question was dragged from his throat while over and over his mind kept repeating, "Molly could have been ours."

  "Only Molly. She's happy and healthy, and I'm satisfied with that." Bridget forced a smile, the corners of her mouth trembling with the effort.

  Jonas wondered if she, too, was thinking that Molly could have been their child, but she wasn't. Another man had fathered her, and Jonas felt the bitter swell of jealousy and anger.

  "How are your parents?" He changed the subject abruptly.

  "Very well." Her hazel eyes didn't quite meet his look as she answered. "It's coming into the busy time for them with sap starting to run. You wouldn't recognize the sugar-bush. Dad has pipes running all over now. It's much more efficient than bucketing it out in sleds."

  "Genuine Vermont maple syrup." Jonas tipped his head back, remembering. "It's been years since I've had any."

  Not in ten years. But it was eleven years ago that Jonas was recalling. He had volunteered to help Bridget and her father gather the sap one weekend. Once the sap started running it was a daily chore and he had taken part on that one occasion.

  Jonas remembered tramping through the wet snow to the large grove of maple trees on the farm with Bridget at his side, a gloved hand clasped in his. Her father had walked behind the sled pulled by the Morgan mare, the bells on the harness jingling in the crisp air.

  The sky was sharply blue, the sun brilliant and the barren branches of the maple trees had east cobwebby shadows on the snow. It was all so fresh in his mind that it could have been yesterday.

  "The maple trees have to be about forty years old, then it takes four of them to make a barrel of sap." Jonas began mimicking the lecture Bridget's father had given him as if he'd been a city boy. "And it takes a barrel of sap to make one gallon of maple syrup. You don't make it into syrup by snapping your fingers. No, sir, you have to boil it down to a thick consistency, testing until you get it to the exact density. Then it has to be filtered and graded, packed and labeled. It's a science."

  Bringing his chin level again, he gazed at Bridget, a gentle smile softening the hard line of his mouth. "Do you remember that day?"

  "How could I forget?" The firelights were back in her eyes, dancing and laughing, caught in the magic spell of memory. "You bombarded me with snowballs."

  "Strictly in self-defense. You kept shoving snow down my neck," Jonas reminded her.

  His gaze slid to her lips, parted in a ruefully acknowledging smile at the way she had provoked him those many years ago. The snowballs had only been a part of his retaliation. The rest had come when Bridget lost her footing in the snow and had fallen while trying to run from him.

  She had laid there laughing, too breathless to move, and he had joined her in the bed of snow, intending only to silence her with a kiss. No, that wasn't true. He had wanted to make love to her, whether it had been in the middle of a blizzard or on the rim of an erupting volcano.

  But the first kiss had been innocent enough until Bridget had seen the veiled look in his eyes and had made an almost inaudible moan of surrender. There had been nothing innocent in the second kiss, nor the third or fourth. Jonas remembered fighting through her heavy winter outer garments to find the slender, feminine form they hid.

  Only there hadn't been any satisfaction in that. He had wanted to feel the warm softness of her flesh, but her father had called to them, the mare's jingling harness warning them of his approach. One glance and her father had known more had happened than a playful romp in the snow, but he had said nothing.

  It had been the first of many times that Bridget had driven Jonas to the edge of his control. There had been moments when he was certain she enjoyed making him insane with wanting her.

  It had been the beginning. But where there is a beginning, there must also be an end. Jonas thought it had ended, until now, this moment, when he wanted her more than he ever had in the past.

  Tearing his gaze from her trembling lips, he saw that Bridget felt it, too. It was there in the darkening of her hazel eyes, the sweet torment of physical wanting.

  "Bridget." His low, husky voice said her name in urgent demand.

  She looked away, drawing a deep breath and releasing it in a shuddering sigh. "That was a long time ago, Jonas."

  "Was it?" he issued tautly, angered that she could control her emotions when he had so little control over his.

  "I…have a customer coming. Excuse me." Except for that second's hesitation, Bridget was again cool and composed.

  Flicking an impatient glance toward the door, Jonas saw the woman a step away from the entrance. He turned instantly back to Bridget, his look hard and demanding. "Send her away," he ordered. "Tell her you're closing early today."

  The stubborn set of her chin gave him his answer before she spoke. "I won't do that, Jonas," she said quietly. "Not can't, but won't."

  The shop door opened and closed to the tinkling of the overhead bell. "Hi, Bridget. It looks like snow out there. Have you heard the forecast?" the woman asked, dabbing a tissue against her red and runny nose. She nodded briefly at Jonas, giving him a curious look.

  "No, I haven't," Bridget denied.

  "It's going to snow," the woman insisted, then glanced around the store. "Where's your jute?"

  Jonas shifted in irritation, wishing the woman would find her jute and get out. He studied Bridget's composed features while she pointedly ignored him.

  "It's in the aisle behind the dark skeins of yarn. What are you looking for?" she inquired, and Jonas gritted his teeth.

  "I don't know." The woman shrugged, reaching in her pocket for a slip of paper. "I'm picking it up for my sister Bonnie. She wrote down what she wanted. This craft stuff is her thing, not mine."

  "I'll help you." Bridget stepped from behind the counter as the woman behind the aisle.

  Jonas turned to block her path, catching her by the shoulders to stop her when she would have pushed her way past him. She stiffened in resistanc
e, flashing him a resentful look.

  "Have dinner with me tonight." The invitation was halfway between a command and a plea. He wasn't content to just hold her as his fingers began to sensually massage her shoulders. "For old times' sake."

  The impulse was there to draw her against his chest and kiss her into a submissive mood of acceptance, but Jonas couldn't do that, not after ten years, and not after the circumstances of his leaving, regardless of what the interim had proved.

  "It isn't possible, Jonas." Bridget coldly and firmly removed his hands from her shoulders. Smiling aloofly, she added, "Have a good time this weekend. I know Bob and Evelyn will enjoy your visit."

  In final dismissal, she brushed past him. The gold of her wedding band winked mockingly from her left hand and Jonas cursed himself for forgetting its presence. Rigidly he watched her disappear behind the aisle without a backward glance.

  He was a fool to come back. It had been over ten years since he had left, and the ashes were cold. It was too late to breathe fire into them now, especially when another man had built one in his place.

  Jonas stormed out of the shop, slamming the door in frustration. Why had he let her creep back into his system like a recurring sickness? Why couldn't ten years have made her fat and misshapen or dowdy and frigid?

  He was halfway to his car before the mountain air cooled his temper and slowed his stride. The ignition keys were in his hand and he was reaching for the door when he glimpsed the skis on top of his car.

  With split second decision, he turned away to enter the bus depot-drugstore combination. He walked directly to the pay telephone and thumbed through the directory until he found the number he was looking for. Dropping the coins in the slot, he dialed the number and waited.

  A man answered and Jonas spoke briskly. "Hello, Bob, this is Jonas."

  "Jonas! Evie has the spare room all ready for you and dinner in the oven. Where are you?" There was a brief pause before he added, "Evie said if your car has broken down, she doesn't want to hear about it. No excuse will be accepted for missing dinner tonight."

  "Look, I'm sorry, Bob," Jonas broke in impatiently, "but something's come up. I can't make it."

  "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?" Bob laughed. "What is she? Blond or brunette? I know—brunette, that sexy little number I saw you with in New York!"

  Jonas neither confirmed nor denied that there was a woman involved in his decision. "Let me take a raincheck on your invitation, Bob, and I'll visit another time," he lied.

  "You're always welcome, you know that."

  "You have my telephone number. If you ever get back to New York, call me," he offered politely.

  "Maybe next month. Evie has been talking about going ever since I left her out of my pre-Christmas trip. Take care and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

  A few minutes later, Jonas was behind the wheel driving out of town. Maybe I'll call Eileen when I get back, he thought disinterestedly. I haven't seen her for a while.

  With a start he realized he hadn't seen the brunette Bob had mentioned since he had made up his mind three weeks ago he was coming to Vermont this weekend. Bridget's memory had been working on him as early as then.

  "Damn!" His fist hit the steering wheel in frustration.

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  Chapter Two

  TOWELING THE BATH WATER from her skin, Bridget paused uncertainly, listening. Someone was moving around in the living room. Draping the towel over a hook, she reached for the cotton robe hanging on the bathroom door. The material clung to her damp skin, interfering with her efforts to pull it around her.

  She ventured into the small hallway, tying the sash as she walked. The living room was empty when she peered around the corner, but she heard movement in the kitchen. Pushing the hair away from her forehead, she frowned.

  "Who's there?" she called, moving hesitantly toward the open archway to the kitchen.

  A dark-haired woman moved into her view, smiling and waving to her from the area near the kitchen sink. "It's just me."

  "Mother!" Bridget sighed in exasperation. "What are you doing?"

  "I brought over some scallions and lettuce from the garden. It really makes a difference to start the plants in the greenhouse first. Do you know I believe we will have tomatoes ripe enough to eat next week? I do enjoy fresh vegetables and your father just loves working with plants." She began opening cupboard doors. "I brought over some roses, too. Where do you keep your vases, Bridget? I really think you should start locking your door. Living alone the way you do in the country and with new people moving in all the time, you just never know who might walk in."

  "That's true," Bridget agreed dryly, and walked to the cupboard above the stove to get the vase.

  "Oh! You were taking a bath!" Margaret Harrison declared, only that moment noticing the robe her daughter wore and the damp tendrils of chestnut hair around, her neck.

  "Yes, mother." Bridget was accustomed to her mother's lack of observation.

  "Are you going out tonight?" She began arranging the roses in the vase Bridget had handed her.

  "Yes, with Jim," Bridget replied, with a lilt to her voice that prodded the memory of a previous instance when she had related her plans for the evening, "I can arrange the flowers."

  "Yes, you do that," her mother agreed, "and I'll clean the lettuce and the scallions."

  "There's no need for you to do that, mother." Bridget determinedly stayed calm. "I will."

  "You're going out this evening, you can't have your hands smelling like scallions." She turned the cold water tap on in the sink. "Where do you keep your knives, Bridget?" Counting to ten, Bridget opened the silverware drawer and handed a paring knife to her mother. "I should think it would be much easier if you kept the knives in a separate drawer. There's too much risk of accidentally cutting yourself when they're with other utensils. But it's, your house and you're entitled to keep them where you please."

  "Thank you, mother." But the faintly caustic remark sailed right over her mother's head.

  "Jim is a good man. I like him," Margaret Harrison continued, not missing beat. "He'd make an excellent father for Molly. Strong and dependable, intelligent, too. He isn't still working on that highway crew during the summers, is he?"

  "Yes, mother." Bridget tried to concentrate on the roses.

  "That's such a shame. He should spend the summers furthering his education instead of wasting such a fine mind doing manual labor," was the sighing reply.

  "Jim is still trying to pay for the cost of his first education," Bridget pointed out dryly.

  "Of course, I understand that," her mother nodded, but Bridget doubted that she did. "But I just know that he could do so much better than teaching in this little college. I—"

  "The Technical College in Randolph Center is an excellent school," Bridget defended.

  "Yes, but Jim could do better. With a little more training, I'm sure he could get a professorship in some Ivy League college, Princeton or Dartmouth. It would be so much better for you and Molly."

  "Mother, isn't anybody good enough for me as they are?" Bridget demanded, agitated beyond endurance by her mother's constant meddling. "Must you keep trying to change them and mold them into what you think they should be?"

  "I am not trying to interfere." Margaret Harrison looked sincerely stunned by the accusation. "Your father and I only want what's best for you."

  "Don't bring dad into it," Bridget protested, "You know very well he only thinks and says what you tell him."

  "You know very well we talk things over—"

  "Until he finally agrees with what you decide." Bridget turned away. She was losing her temper, and it was pointless.

  "I assure you, Bridget, in everything we do we always first try to think what would be best for you. And that includes the men you see. We want you to have the best, and that isn't wrong," her mother smiled. "Molly is going to be getting to that age soon and you'll find out for yourself what your father and I have gone
through with you. Speaking of Molly, where is she? Out riding?"

  "No, she's been wanting to spend the night with Vicki ever since the summer vacation started. Since I was going out with Jim, tonight seemed the perfect opportunity."

  "Vicki? The Smith girl? Really, Bridget, do you think that association is—"

  "Mother!" Bridget pressed a hand to her forehead, rubbing at the throbbing pain of tension. "She is my daughter. I am quite capable of deciding whom she should have as friends. Just the way you decided for me ten years ago!"

  Her mother stared at her for a silent moment, a hurt look to her brown eyes. "Why in heaven's name would you bring that up?"

  "I don't know," Bridget shrugged impatiently. Her hand was shaking as she reached to adjust the roses in the vase. She felt the familiar hollow, gnawing pain eating at her chest. "It doesn't matter."

  Her mother turned back to the sink, rinsing the lettuce under the tap. "Your father and I were certainly proved right to do what we did. After all—"

  "But maybe I didn't want you to be right." Bridget had to press a hand to her mouth to help swallow back a sob. "Maybe I loved him. Maybe that's all I cared about." She ran her fingers through her hair. "Didn't you ever think of that?"

  "It's all in the past, Bridget. You shouldn't let it upset you anymore. You have Jim now and—"

  "I don't happen to love Jim," she retorted stiffly. "He's very nice and good fun, but it ends there. So don't go planning any wedding in the future. One was enough."

  "You surely can't be feeling bitter about that," her mother protested with a disbelieving frown. "You have Molly and—"

  "Mother, please, go home." Bridget reached over and turned off the cold water. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but I would like you to leave before I lose my temper."

  "If that's what you want—" Margaret Harrison's chin elevated in stiff acceptance, wounded dignity in her proud smile "—of course I'll leave."

  She carefully dried her hands on a terry towel near the sink and Bridget felt the emotional guilt swarming over her.