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  Jonas didn't acknowledge the comment. "I couldn't help noticing that there weren't any pictures of your husband around the house."

  "I suppose you went through all the rooms!" Bridget flashed.

  Again he ignored her remark. "I expected to at least find his photograph by your bedside, but there was only a picture of your daughter in the bedroom."

  Her temper simmered near the boiling point. "You don't respect anybody's privacy, do you?"

  "Why do you keep avoiding my question, Bridget?" He tipped his head to one side in challenge. "Is there some reason you don't have any photos of your dear, departed husband?" Jonas mocked.

  "An excellent one," she snapped. "He didn't like having his picture taken. The only one I have of Brian is a school photo that doesn't resemble him at all. Believe me, if I'd known he was going to be killed so suddenly and you would expect me to produce pictures of him, I would have made certain that some photographs had been taken! Does that answer your question?"

  His mouth thinned into a disgruntled line. "It does." Turning away, he raked an impatient hand through the rumpled thickness of his tobacco-brown hair.

  At that moment Molly returned with the last bag of groceries. When Bridget noticed the way Jonas was dissecting her daughter with the narrowed sharpness of his gaze, she realized the reason for his question.

  It hadn't been because he doubted her husband's existence. He had wanted to know what Brian looked like, possibly curious to see if Bridget had married someone who resembled him. Anger flamed at his arrogant conceit.

  "Let me help you, Jonas," she declared hotly. "Molly has Brian's disposition, compassionate and sensitive. In looks, she resembles me, with the exception that she has her father's chin!"

  His piercing gaze didn't waver from the little girl, who shifted uncomfortably under his harsh study. Frowning, Molly glanced at Bridget, sensing the violent undercurrents in the atmosphere and feeling confused by them. Bridget's embittered outburst hadn't helped.

  Molly looked back at Jonas, frowning darkly. "Who are you?" she demanded with near insolence.

  Cold anger hardened his expression. "Why don't you go play with your dolls?" he suggested savagely.

  "I'm too old for dolls,"' Molly declared, arching him a haughty look. "That's kid stuff. Besides, I don't have to go. This is my house."

  "She has your stubbornness, too, Bridget," Jonas flashed.

  "Molly. I don't think you've fed the horse yet," Bridget inserted pointedly.

  "I'll do it after dinner," she shrugged.

  "Do it now, Molly," Bridget ordered with forced calm.

  The small mouth was pressed tightly closed, rebellion gleaming briefly in Molly's hazel eyes before she stalked to the door leading outside. She yanked it open, then glared over her shoulder.

  "He's 'that' man grandma was talking about, isn't he?" she accused and slammed out of the house without waiting for an answer.

  "She's only a child, Jonas," Bridget turned back to the grocery sacks. "I don't want her being caught in the middle of our arguments."

  "You brought her into it, not me," he reminded her stiffly.

  "I am aware of my part in it," she admitted. "But I want you to know that I will not have Molly hurt by what happened between you and me ten—eleven years ago."

  "Ten years, four months, and fourteen days ago," he corrected grimly.

  "Am I supposed to be impressed that you kept track?" Bridget mocked bitterly.

  Frost had accumulated on the frozen orange juice cans in her hands, but the temperature didn't seem any colder than the freezing pain that gripped her chest.

  "Will you let those groceries be?" Jonas growled, snatching the cans from her hand and dumping them back in the paper sack. When she would have retrieved them, he caught at her hands to stop her.

  "While you're remembering everything so accurately, Jonas, remember also that you were the one to walk out on me," she hurled angrily. "I haven't forgotten that, even if you conveniently have."

  "I haven't forgotten. There are a few other things I haven't forgotten, too. Maybe you have."

  Before Bridget could make the first attempt to twist her hands free of his grip, Jonas was pulling her into his arms, overpowering her struggling resistance. The familiar pressure of his hard mouth covering hers evoked a storm of memories. Lightning flashed through her veins to kindle the banked fires of passion.

  Her lips parted willingly under the expert persuasion of his demanding kiss. Joy thundered in her ears as she once again experienced the wild excitement of his embrace. The frightening explosion of her senses was more awesomely wonderful than she remembered. Every fiber of her being quivered in reaction to the hard, male contour of his body pressed roughly against hers.

  She was lost to the emotional upheaval. She was at the mercy of the arousing caress of his hands intimately roaming over her curves. There was satisfaction in feeling him shudder with ultimate longing when he buried his face in the curve of her neck. "Ten years hasn't changed it for either of us," Jonas declared huskily. His hand rested along her throat, his thumb on her pulsing vein. "I can feel your heart racing the same as mine."

  Breathing shakily, Bridget slowly pushed herself away from him. Jonas didn't try to stop her, certain now of his power over her. Her fingers raked over her scalp, hesitating for a second at the back of her head in an effort to regain some of her equilibrium.

  "I don't deny that you can make me want you, Jonas," she admitted, "but it's strictly chemistry."

  "You don't believe that," he shook his head complacently, the flames of desire still smoldering in the gray green depths of his eyes.

  "I do," Bridget insisted. "You walked out of my life ten years ago and you aren't going to walk back into it."

  "Don't count on it," he warned.

  "No, don't you count on it," she returned sharply. "I got along just fine without you and it's going to stay that way. There isn't any room for you in my life. I have Molly and my work and—Jim," she added the last deliberately, knowing that it would anger him.

  "You feel safe standing behind him, don't you?" Jonas snapped.

  "I'm only stating the way things are," Bridget lied. "You can interpret what I say any way you want to."

  "I understand what you're saying." His teeth were clenched tightly against the anger hardening his jaw. "You aren't going to give our relationship a chance to develop into something more."

  "I'm giving it the same chance you did, Jonas, when you left—none," she answered coldly. "Please leave my house."

  "I don't get any credit for coming back, is that it?" he challenged bleakly.

  "Not after ten years, Jonas. You waited too long."

  He glared at her for harrowing seconds before he turned on his heel and walked out the door. Not for a minute, did Bridget think she had seen the, last of him, but she leaned weakly against the counter, grateful for the momentary respite.

  How long would it take before his persistence wore her down, she wondered. Already she was beginning to have twinges of doubt. He sounded so sincere. But she had also believed that ten years ago until her mother had revealed his true character.

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  Chapter Four

  A SOB LODGED ITSELF IN HER THROAT. Jonas had made a fool of her once. Bridget refused to let him do it again. She turned back to the groceries on the counter, trembling as she again began putting them away.

  The outer door opened. "He's gone," Molly declared with satisfaction. "I hope you told him off, mom." Her hazel eyes were gleaming with anger. "He is the man grandma was talking about, isn't he?" This time she wanted a definite answer.

  "I believe so," Bridget admitted.

  "What's his name?"

  "Jonas Concannon."

  Molly plucked an apple from the sack and bit into it. "I hope grandpa can make him leave."

  "You shouldn't say things like that," Bridget reprimanded, but only half-heartedly.

  "Why not? It's true. I don't like him. And he do
esn't like me."

  "You don't know that." But Bridget wasn't certain exactly how Jonas felt toward Molly, except that he resented her. She carried the frozen orange juice to the freezer.

  "I can tell," Molly nodded with absolute certainty and peered at the contents of another sack. "Do you like him?"

  That was an impossible question to answer. "I don't know. Would you hand me the milk?"

  "Did you know him before he came here?" Molly lifted the milk container from the kitchen counter and carried it to Bridget.

  "He used to live here."

  "When?"

  "Before you were born." Bridget wished the questions would end, but Molly rarely left a subject alone until her curiosity was satisfied.

  "Did you know him then?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "Very well?"

  If she didn't answer the question, Molly would simply ask someone else, probably her mother. And Bridget didn't want her mother discussing Jonas with Molly.

  "I used to go out with him?"

  "On dates?" Molly made a frowning grimace. "You mean he was your boyfriend?"

  "Yes." One sack was empty and Bridget folded it up and put it in a drawer.

  "Did you love him?"

  Bridget turned sharply. "Don't you think your questions are becoming a little too personal?"

  Hearing those words from her daughter struck a raw nerve. For a moment they stared silently at each other, hazel eyes meeting hazel eyes. Molly didn't demand an answer, but her curiosity gleamed brighter than before.

  With a sigh, Bridget relented, wishing she had answered it before rather than risk having the importance of her response magnified out of proportion. "I thought I loved him."

  "What about my father?"

  "There are many kinds of love, Molly," Bridget explained patiently. "You don't love your grandmother in the same way you love me. That's the way it always is. I loved your father very much, or I would never have had you."

  Apparently satisfied, Molly chomped another bite from the apple and sauntered to the window overlooking the valley pasture. Bridget released a deep silent sigh of relief and turned to the remaining grocery sacks.

  "Still and all," Molly spoke absently, "I wish that man would go away."

  "Everything can't always be the way you want it. Jonas has the right to live anywhere he wants to live." Silently Bridget wished that he hadn't chosen it to be Vermont, or the Hanson farm.

  Molly turned from the window, a perplexed and thoughtful frown on her face, chestnut pigtails trailing down her back. "I heard grandma say that they'd paid him a lot of money to leave once and asked grandpa if they shouldn't do it again. Do you suppose they will?"

  Motionless, Bridget tried to find the breath to speak. She would have to have a talk with her mother and remind her of the big ears that children possessed.

  "What did your grandfather say to that?" she asked, dodging a direct answer to the question.

  Molly nibbled at the corner of her lip, then sighed, "He said he didn't think it would work a second time."

  "I think your grandfather is right." She was voicing her first opinion, but had to concede it was possible Jonas had returned for that very reason. "Did you dust the furniture today?"

  "Yes. Can I go into town with you tomorrow to see Vicki?" Molly tossed the apple core into the waste basket.

  "We'll see."

  "Please," she coaxed. "It's boring all by myself all day."

  "You aren't by yourself, Molly. You have—"

  "Grandpa and grandma don't count," she declared with a disgruntled groan.

  "Maybe you can come in tomorrow afternoon," Bridget smiled.

  "Great!" The frown disappeared in a burst of exuberance. "When do we eat?"

  "As soon as I have the rest of these groceries put away. In the meantime, why don't you wash your hands and start fixing a salad?"

  "Okay," Molly agreed readily and moved toward the hallway to the bathroom. She paused at the hall entrance, her hand resting against the wall. Glancing over her shoulder, she said to Bridget, "Imagine his thinking that I still played with dolls!" an adult-like expression of cutting disdain on her youthful face.

  "Imagine," Bridget murmured dryly to herself as her daughter disappeared.

  BRIDGET WAS FORCED to postpone the discussion with her mother until the weekend. The evenings when she was home Molly was naturally nearby, and since the object of the discussion was to warn her mother not to talk about Jonas when Molly was around, Bridget would have been disregarding her own advice. She waited until Molly had saddled her Morgan mare, a daughter of the mare Mr. Harrison owned, and gone for a ride. Then she walked across the road to the big house.

  As usual the house was immaculate, a reflection of its fastidious mistress. The woodwork and furniture were polished to a glowing sheen. Not a speck of dust lurked anywhere. Sunlight gleamed through clean windows accenting the pristine whiteness of the curtains.

  Brightly colored throw pillows were plumped and artfully arranged on the plush sofa, seeming to deny that an elbow had ever rested against them. Books were orderly and arranged on the shelves with not a single magazine or newspaper on any of the tables. Bridget always had the impression she was looking at a room about to be photographed for a magazine, regardless of which room of the house she was in.

  Her mother's initial delight at Bridget's unexpected visit didn't last long. She had launched immediately into what she presumed was the correct mother-older-daughter chatter until Bridget interrupted to explain the reason for her visit. Margaret Harrison's indignation was immediate, she was affronted that she should be reprimanded by her daughter.

  "Your father and I were talking privately. I had no idea at all that Molly was listening," she defended. "I certainly wouldn't even have mentioned the man if I had."

  "I know that, mother," Bridget replied patiently. "I'm merely suggesting that if you must mention Jonas, don't do it when Molly is around. She's at an impressionable age. She's already read between the lines of what she overheard and has formed a prejudice against Jonas."

  "You certainly don't expect me to encourage her to like him, do you?" Her mother stiffened visibly. "After the way he treated you. I would think you would want to make certain Molly had nothing to do with him."

  "You misunderstand my reason. I don't see any reason for Molly to know about what happened ten years ago. Thanks to you, she does have a general idea, and that's where I want it to end. That's why I want you to be cautious when you speak of Jonas around Molly." Bridget lifted the delicate china cup from its saucer and inhaled the aroma of freshly brewed tea, hot and strong the way she liked it.

  "Personally I think it's a good idea that Molly should be warned what kind of a man he is," her mother sniffed, her dark head regally erect, not a brunette hair out of place. "If he has returned to Randolph with the thought of winning you back, as I strongly believe he has, then I'm certain he wouldn't be above stooping to use Molly to get you. I'm positive he'll try to win her affections. What better way of getting to you and persuading you to forgive him?"

  It was a very plausible theory and it might have eroded Bridget's resolve not to be taken in by Jonas again. Except it had a weak point.

  "I think you're wrong, mother," she insisted.

  "I doubt it. The man is completely unscrupulous. He would do anything and use anyone to get what he wanted. He's proved that as far as I'm concerned. You above all should agree with me," was the emphatic response.

  "I know what you mean, but…" Bridget hesitated, trying to put into words something she only sensed. "Jonas resents Molly, I think, as Brian's child. It was obvious the other day when—" Bridget stopped. She hadn't meant to tell her mother of Jonas's visit.

  "—When he told Molly to go play with her dolls," her mother said with a faint air of superiority, as if nothing could be hidden from her for long. At Bridget's startled glance, she smiled complacently. "Molly told me all about it. Or have you seen him since then?"

  "No, I haven't," r
esenting the way her mother could make her feel guilty as if she was still a child.

  "It's a shame when my own granddaughter has to tell me things that my daughter should have."

  "I didn't see that there was anything to tell." Bridget defended her silence about the meeting. "I asked Jonas to leave and he did."

  "The next time he comes over, I wouldn't even open the door to him if I were you."

  Obviously Molly hadn't told her grandmother that Jonas had been waiting inside the house for them. Bridget didn't bother to enlighten her. She sipped at her tea, making no comment at all.

  "I saw him in town the other day," Margaret Harrison spoke absently. "Of course, he didn't see me," she hastened. "But I noticed the way the women seemed to gravitate to him, staring at him whether he looked their way or not. Tell me the truth, Bridget. Are you still attracted to him?"

  "You know the old saying, mother, 'once bitten, twice shy.'" But she was attracted to him. All the wariness in the world didn't alter that. Bridget replaced her cup in its saucer and straightened from the wing-backed chair. "I have a lot to do. I'd better be getting back to the house."

  "Must you?" her mother sighed ruefully.

  "Yes," Bridget insisted.

  "You and Molly come over for dinner this evening, then."

  Bridget opened her mouth to refuse, then shrugged, "What time?"

  "Is six too early?"

  "That's fine. See you later." She walked quickly to the front door before her mother could succeed in delaying her a few more minutes.

  Outside, Bridget paused on the gray porch steps of the house, struck for an instant by the vivid hues of green painting the valley and the rolling hills. The green of the land brilliantly contrasted with the blue of the sky, the air startlingly clear and fresh with scents of summer.

  Her gaze made an admiring sweep of the verdant scenery. It was a rejuvenating view that lightened her footsteps. She spied her father near the barn working on the farm tractor and smiled at the sight of him in denim coveralls, his hands covered with grease and a straw hat on top of his head.

  Despite all the money he had made selling vast acreage of his land for real-estate development, he was still a farmer at heart. Earthy, easygoing, he was the complete opposite of his wife and was the steady anchor that had kept Margaret Harrison from becoming too puffed up with an inflated sense of her own importance.