I awoke instantly. There was none of that gradual rising-to-the-surface effect that I usually experience when I'm dragged from sleep; no, this time I was switched "on" with no warning. My heart tripped to an adrenalized crescendo, my breathing, which I tried to quiet to normal, struggled to keep up with the demands of my heart.

Something was wrong. Somewhere close by, something was wrong. Something had pulled me out of my forgotten dreams.

Without moving or batting an eye I surveyed the room. Helen breathed quietly from half beneath me. Right away I noticed that our sheet had found its way to the floor and her robe had parted. She was bare.

For a moment or two I wondered if it was to her that I had awakened. Had I dreamed of her, a dream any healthy male except me would hope to have and then wake up to find? Had I felt her there, arrayed so accessibly and trustingly beneath me, and instinctively awakened to make the dream a reality, forgetting that she was my favorite sister? No, I decided. Despite the sweet scenery and our provocative position, there were no dream fragments to provide clues and I hadn't awakened in a state that would have prompted me to submerge myself in the swimming hole again.

So it had to be something else.

I listened, frozen into cautious immobility. My ears sorted the sounds of the night, recognizing and discarding the usual: the walnut-muffled clack - chaclack, clack - chaclack of the grandfather clock in the parlor chipping away the night; the soft floopf-floopf-floopf of the oil lamp on the wall above the bed as its burned-down wick ignited unburned vapors in the chimney and farted sooty smoke rings at the ceiling; the soft rustle of the pillow as Helen and I breathed; the audible thud of our hearts that shook, just a bit, our bed.

My eyes roamed as best they could without moving my head. Beyond Helen and across the floor to the far wall, the window gaped, its curtains drooping flaccidly in the soupy air. Aside from shadows, nothing moved. A half-hearted paleness on the curtains testified that the moon had managed to return to Kansas during our sleep. I reached out with my senses, probing beyond the walls into other rooms, out to the creek, the barn, seeking some clue about why I was so suddenly awake. I tried to identify smells, my skin sampled the air for feelings, for something.

Nothing.

I couldn't pin anything down. Even the bugs sounded normal for what I guessed was about three a.m. I stayed in that entanglement with Helen for another few moments, waiting for something to reveal itself; then, cautiously, quietly, I carefully extricated myself and levitated off the bed without awakening her. She groaned softly and cocked a leg, then resumed breathing peacefully.

I crept over to the south wall and quietly drew my .45 from its nesting place in the holster. The caress of the smooth steel as it moved out of stiff leather sounded out of place; Helen didn't stir. Feeling much better with a fist full of iron, I snaked over to my door. I cracked it just enough to peered out through the gap into the kitchen, but there was not enough moon to see by, so I couldn't see anything. I didn't want to go into the dark.

I tiptoed back to the bed and, after feeding the flame a little more wick, took the lamp down off the wall. I looked again at Helen and this time felt a stir of guilt at seeing her like this. For eleven years modesty, when we wanted it, had been something of a luxury. But the last two years had done some remarkable things to Helen, so modesty wasn't a luxury anymore.

I should cover her, I thought as I looked around for stray eyes. Pulling her robe over her would have awakened her, I decided, so I knelt and lifted the sheet off the floor and carefully settled it over her. She grunted and rolled onto her side, arranged herself a bit, then drifted into her quiet breathing pattern again.

I went back to my door. This time I put the lamp through and lit the kitchen. Nothing looked particularly different, so I looked left at Helen's door. It was still ajar from when she'd come to visit me. Careful to avoid creaking floorboards and looking over my shoulder often, I crept over there.

Putting the lamp inside the door I looked carefully, but saw no evidence of anyone inside. I looked at her wardrobe. Too short to hide a standing adult, nonetheless it drew my suspicion as the only visible place anyone could hide in her room. Looking left and right, lamp in one hand and equalizer in the other, I approached the wardrobe.

How to check it? Should I just fling the door open? What if someone was inside, and armed? What if they were sitting in the bottom of it, gun cocked and just waiting for Simple Ole Carl to open the door? What if, you idiot, they'd been hiding in your wardrobe, Carl, and were standing behind you now since you forgot to check your own first?

I whirled, expecting God knows what, and saw nothing. But there I was, now with two wardrobes to worry about and a heart that was on pace to set a beats per second record.

I was frightened, I finally admitted to myself. I didn't know of what, but something. I'd never come awake like this before, and didn't know what I was supposed to be doing, so I was uncertain and frightened. But I was armed. I knew fear and weapons made a dangerous mix and hoped it would be more dangerous for whoever had brought me to this state.

Think, Carl. Think and observe. Use your brain. Advice flowed from me to me in truckloads until I clamped down on it all. Standing there in Helen's room I felt my heart slow, my breathing slow and perceptions heighten even more. Calmness approached, laid its hands on me. Things became easier.

I stepped to the left of Helen's wardrobe and put a hand on its top edge. I tipped it carefully, measuring the effort needed to lift the left two legs off the floor, and sighed happily when it lifted easily. There couldn't be anyone in there. I lowered it back down and stepped in front. I opened the doors, and aside from seeing that some things had slid to the right, nothing remarkable presented itself.

One down, one to go.

"Is that you, Carl?" Helen's voice through the wall startled me into a leap away from the wardrobe. She must have heard the legs hit the floor when I'd lowered the wardrobe.

The secret searching was over, so after swallowing my heart I replied. "It's me. Something woke me up and I'm trying to figure out what it was," I said loudly back to her. "Stay there. I'm taking a look around."

"What woke you up?" Alarm in her voice.

"I don't know. I just came awake ready to fight, or something."

"You were scared, Carl?" She sounded worried. "You?"

"I guess so," I admitted. "But I haven't found anything. Now be quiet while I finish looking around."

I went to her window which, like mine, was open, and thrust the lamp outside. My head followed, eye-squinted to avoid being dazzled by the light.

Nothing out there either. No ax-armed assassins waiting to cleave my skull.

I closed her window, then, hurrying back to my room, closed mine. Emboldened, I went over to my wardrobe. The tilt was as easy as Helen's - easier, actually, since I had fewer clothes. I glanced over at Helen, who had restored her modesty, and saw something akin to interest in her eyes.

I went back to the kitchen and decided that the guest room a.k.a. pantry a.k.a. storage room was next. Nothing. That was spooky, since there was no window for light and there were a number of boxes and furniture items stored there, not to mention canned goods. Then the kitchen, the parlor, and finally Mom and Dad's room. I locked all the doors and windows everywhere I went.

By the time I'd finished making the rounds I'd come to the conclusion that I was the victim of a bad dream. I felt foolish, so I gruffed back to my room, re-holstered my Colt, rehung the lamp and turned it off, then re-joined Helen.

"Well, whatever it was, it's gone. Nothing to worry about."

"Aren't you going to check outside?" Helen, always thinking and helpful. "Or the barn?"

"I don't hear any animals getting excited. If they aren't, neither am I." Checking outside didn't especially appeal. The house had been bad enough. Let sleeping dogs lie; we were locked in and safe.

Sleep just wouldn't come. Despite little sleep and a hard day, neither of us was able to relax enough to grab what little time was left before we'd have to get up and get about the morning chores.

"Carl," she said quietly into my chest, "Are you asleep yet?"

I patted her hair. "Trying. You?"

She came up and shared the pillow. "Me, too. Am I keeping you from sleeping?"

"No. I'm just - just owl eyed, or something." I squeezed her in an affectionate one-armed hug.

I heard her sigh. "Well I don't want to just lie here awake for the rest of the night just tossing and turning. Do you?" Her hand was on my chest, her fingers moving gently.

"No," I said, the hint jump-starting my male systems. "I don't think I'd like that very much."

"Then let's do something that we'd both like," she said quietly as though she had been screwing up her courage. "Something new and extra nice, together."

During our earlier years our shared room made accidental exposure unavoidable, the same way accidental touching was unavoidable in our shared bed. Over time, as we grew and became more aware, the occasional accidents came to be replaced by intentional nudity, luscious full-length petting and, finally, our first orgasms.

One particular morning in mid-spring of 1937 after we left on our morning ride to school, Helen turned her blue eyes to me. They were young, full of trust and adoration. Her morning afterglow lingered in them as well, a smoldering, freshly sated look that only the one who had placed it there would recognize.

"This morning," she sighed with a smile, "You were the sweetest you've ever been to me, Carl." Her sincere compliment arrived right out in the middle of the prairie, unadorned and unsolicited, and unappreciated.

It wasn't that I didn't get as big a thrill out of what we were doing as Helen did. If anything, I benefitted more from our sex play than she did. But the thrills were tempered by the uneasy knowledge that we were getting far too good at making each other happy.

I grunted an unintelligible answer of the sort men are notorious for after extended bouts of debilitating sex. We'd never had intercourse, but that didn't mean I wasn't drained dry as an ancient gourd.

"What's the matter?" She asked after my taciturn reply. "Don't you like what we do?" She paused, then went on. "You know, sometimes you act so - so away, so quiet afterward! Like you're angry, or sulking or something. You're not, are you?"

I pulled up alongside Helen, then reached over and took her hand. "I'm - angry that no matter how many times I promise myself that I won't do that to you again, I always do."

"You do it because you know I love it," she offered in my defense. "Otherwise you wouldn't."

That was true. It was also true that I loved it. I didn't say anything, unsure what else I could add.

She kept at it, though. "Is that all? You're not mad at me?"

"No. It isn't your fault." I looked her in the eye. "But we shouldn't be doing anything like we just finished doing, Sweetheart. That's why I get so mad at myself. I don't seem to be able to stop."

"Well I don't like it when you get all quiet and grumpy. Will you stop being quiet and grumpy if we stop touching each other?"

"Even if I stay quiet and grumpy, we should stop. Will you help? I'm having trouble doing it by myself."

"If I help us stop, will you still love me eleven?"

I grinned at her allusion to our familiar little childhood game. Mom had told her, when she was about three, that even though I'd said or done something to make her cry, that I didn't mean it and that I still loved her.

"How much?" She'd asked through her toddler's tears.

Mom, as the story goes, turned to me. "Eleven," I'd replied in exasperation.

"'Leben?" And then a big grin. Ever since, whenever times between us got uncomfortable or uncertain, we replayed this little scene. It worked just right for us.

Henry fidgeted under me. "I've been thinking it's more like seventeen. What about you?"

She squeezed my hand and smiled back. "I was thinking about seventeen, too."

My spirits were vastly improved. Nudity and petting were replaced by serious attempts at modesty and cautious bed-sharing. Orgasms became solitary affairs, stolen in the usual manner in the privacy of the privy or elsewhere. We kept our promises and helped each other resist the whispered enticements of just-once-more.

We built her room, she moved into it, and everything remained carefully calm. Eventually I began to think that we had put it all behind us, and our already good relationship improved dramatically. I was proud of myself, and proud of her. She was a model sister, and I reflected that back by doing what I could to be her ideal brother, and we grew to admire each other even more than we had earlier.

Now here we were in bed again, and it dawned on me that all along we'd had other feelings. Feelings that would more commonly exist between sweethearts flowed between us. They were plain as day and more compelling than ever. I understood instantly that I was being invited to relieve us both of our virginities, and when I felt myself wavering between two choices, two voices began a debate within the empty lecture hall between my ears.

The first voice encouraged me to simply allow myself the night. "You've imagined this, Carl. You've closed your eyes at night for years and wrestled the dragon while she starred in some of those movies behind your eyelids. She probably watches the same movies. She's ripe, she's hot, and she wants to be extra nice with you. What could be more exciting than two people who dream about each other taking a night just for themselves? You know you would like that. Just one night, this night, for all time. Tell her so."

Voice two, the wordy spoilsport at this stage, urged restraint. "Absolutely not, Carl, she's your little sister! She trusts you, she looks up to you, she expects you to set an example for her, not lead her on! How can you even consider anything else, Carl? How would you ever explain it to Mom and Dad? 'Gee, Folks, I guess Helen and I should have checked the calendar first, huh? Well, what do you think we should name it?' You can't take advantage of her, Carl, even if she wants you to, no matter how much you both want it. She'll never be able to trust you again if you listen to First Voice. So be a gentleman, be her brother. Tell her what you think, talk with her, but keep your hands off. Remember she's your little sister and it's up to you to protect her, to look out for her, to guide her, to -"

"- To be as nice to her as she wants," First Voice finished off encouragingly. "After all, someone like Jerold will be nice to her if you won't."

I rolled on my side and found my arms full of her, full of warm curves and exotic, inviting contours where there had only been planes and corners before. "Helen -" I whispered into the shadow where her face should be. The voices harangued my conscience, their passionate advice tying my tongue while between us Helen untied her robe. I pulled her tightly against me, trapping her hand in a temporary stall.

She misunderstood it. "Carl - ah - wait, Carl! Wait, help me out of this damned robe first," she panted, excitement clipping her consonants. Then she kissed me.

The kiss, lip-parted and warm breathed, proved much too interesting to settle for just one. I took more kisses - what harm could a few kisses do? - warm, extravagant kisses and whispered urgings that sucked the last fragments of my willpower down the swirling maelstrom of taboo desire.  When she opened my pajama bottoms and impatiently yanked them off, it seemed fitting to do the same with her robe.  Both garments fell to the floor, eliminating the last of the obstacles between us.

One arm around her shoulders held her close alongside me, flat on her back so that my free hand, that luckiest of hands, could get the delicious feel of her.  "Oh, yes, oh touch me," she gasped needlessly. "Feel me everywhere!"  Then, except for the sounds of ragged breathing, squeaking bedsprings and the unheard friction of my hand travelling over her slightly sweaty curves, quiet reigned.  Words disappeared before they were uttered, harvested by open-lipped kisses.

I eventually paused my kisses to look down at her supine beauty.  Even in the non-light of the mist-filtered quarter moon she was more lovely than anything I'd ever seen, her eyes opened and glistening darkly above her smile.  Caressing the sleek length of her seemed almost a desecration, a supreme pleasure far beyond the allowed aspirations of the simple heathen indulging himself there at her side.  Fine gossamer tendrils of unfamiliar floss combed between my fingers when they dipped between her parted thighs to cup the high ground.  She tipped her hips up a bit to make herself more accessible.

"Remember how?"  She asked breathlessly.

I did.  But familiar as I was with the method, there was nothing familiar about her body anymore. "My God, Helen, you're beautiful! You've changed - you're so - so perfect!"

She reached down and got a choke hold on the dragon.  "Changed for you, perfect just for you, Carl." Her hips worked under my hand, her hand urgently gentle to the dragon.  It was one of the dances we'd developed just before we'd stopped that sort of thing.  It quieted down again, except for the bedsprings, which picked up their rhythmic sing-song.

Then, suddenly, she stopped and her head fell back. "Ah -" That was all she said as she released the dragon and placed both hands atop mine at her crotch, and pressed. Then she shuddered and jerked, Oh-yessing and sliding my hand around just right as she had those last few times we'd done this together.

I'd never been so stimulated. She was no longer an awkward, angular girl flopping about amusingly at my playful touch. She was an exquisitely appealing young woman with energy and an appetite.

A few moments after the final twanging she turned toward me. I pulled her tight and kissed her again, thrilled by the full contact I'd missed in our other position. I felt her leg slide over my waist and I reached behind her to caress the smooth roundness of her butt and keep her as close as I could.  She shifted slightly.

"Your turn, Big Brother."  Then she rolled onto her back and I, Carl the enthralled, Carl the hyper-hormoned and perverted plunderer of the lovely, demanding siren in my arms, rolled with her.  Both legs spread widely for me, and I settled myself at their cushiony apex.  I found her hands and spread them above her head, stretching us both out.  Hand in hand we were, kiss to kiss, heartbeat to heartbeat, hip to hip.

I lifted my head and looked down into her face.  Some tenuous fragment of moonlight slashed across it.  Hunger there, I recognized dizzily.  Hunger, and something else - her heels crossed my parted legs, rested on the backs of my knees.  Another slight shift beneath me.

The First Voice offered a final bit of advice. - There you are, Carl.  All lined up.  Just push. It's what she wants, it's what you want. One little push. Go ahead.  Send the dragon home.

Still, I hesitated.  Maybe, even this far down the track, I was misreading something.

She must have sensed my thoughts.  "Come inside, Carl. Make love with me now, Darling."  The urgency of her unconditional invitation dissolved all remaining uncertaintly about our destination.

The Second Voice intruded. - Tell her you love her too much to do this, Carl!  Then kiss her and send her back to her room. She'll hate you tonight but she'll love you for it one day.

One day seemed so far away . . .

"Helen," I choked, thick-voiced with the stunned slurs of raging lust. "Oh, Sweetheart I -"

The phone rang.

I leapt up to answer the claxon in the parlor; the tormented but inspirational imaginings playing in full color behind my eyelids flickered to a standstill. Another second, I told myself, two at most, and I'd have sent her back to her room. "I love you too much to do this," I hoped I was about to say. Second voice would have been proud.

It was with that sense of pride at my rock-like resolve and relief that I fled the room, the dragon spitting mad and flinging droplets here and there as it bobbed ahead of me into the parlor. A plaintive "Oh, nooo . . ." groan followed me as I escaped.

Carrie's hushed, worried tones spoke to me through the phone. "Someone's trying to get in. Can you come?"

"Get a gun. Call the sheriff," I urged instantly. "I'll be right there." And I hung up.

Running back into my room I grabbed my model '93 saddle gun, pulled on my pajamas and stuffed my sockless feet into my boots. As I did that I told Helen what Carrie had said and what I was doing.

A very unladylike expletive, then "I knew we'd never get to finish! I knew it, I knew it!" She stopped that thought. "You're not leaving me here alone!" She said, fright clear in her voice. "I'm coming too! Wait for me!" So she jumped up and ran out my door. A few seconds later she came hopping back, yanking up her Levis. She slid her feet into her slippers beside my bed, threw her robe around her shoulders and strapped on my .45.

Out we ran, through the back door to the corral, Helen's robe almost dragging the ground behind her as she struggled to hold up the heavy gunbelt too big for her waist. We leapt aboard Henry and Nancy (Helen's horse, named after Mrs. Simon) and galloped off, bareback with fists full of mane, wild as young Indians, toward the Simon farm. The quiet pre-dawn dark was cool and thick with humidity, and it wasn't long before I regretted my haste. A shirt would have been nice as we sped through the coolest part of the day. Helen, at least, had the brains to be wearing a robe.

As Henry stretched himself out trying to catch up with the faster Nancy, I noticed Helen's robe ballooning behind her, baring her for the low-hanging quarter moon's enjoyment. She seemed exhilarated with the primal nature of our urgent run, by the novelty of raw speed and her exposure as she gripped Nancy's plunging bulk between her strong legs. She laughed as she bent low, her face beside Nancy's neck and her hair flying back alongside Nancy's mane, and then Nancy broke from her gallop into a long-striding run, her rhythmic gait swift, graceful and easy to sit. She and Helen made a sleek unit, a well-oiled caped Centaur designed for speed. Henry and I, cloddish by comparison, stood no chance of keeping up with them; the best we could manage was to not lose ground too quickly. Henry was a good horse, but speed wasn't his strength.

That dark, hoof-pounding flight through the night became its own separate adventure, apart from but intensified by the unrelated danger that lurked a few minutes ahead, and I felt a surge of the same sort of elation that Helen showed. I enjoyed the experience for itself, savored its breath-taking uniqueness. I enjoyed its once-in-a-lifetime flavor and thrills, its exquisite velocity and the pervasive tang of reckless, headlong flight into known danger. It was almost intoxicating, silencing at last the voices in that empty lecture hall.

Soon the Simon house showed itself beneath the quarter moon, which sat parked about an hour above the horizon. I shouted, hoping to gain the attention of anyone who might be outside, and a few seconds later a lone figure on horseback appeared, then turned to the north and began to run. We were still hundreds of yards away from the house, but I pulled up the.30-30 and took a shot, knowing full well that I might as well throw a rock but hoping that whoever it was out there, they would realize things were getting serious. The crash of the shot woke every living thing for miles, and the cacophony of their indignant complaints rang in our ears as we pulled up our snorting and lathered mounts in front of Carrie's.

We leapt down, and while I ran to the front door Helen stood with the horses and wrapped her robe about her properly. I knocked. "It's Carl and Helen, Carrie. You all right in there?"

The door opened. Carrie stood there, a revolver in her hand and worry in her eyes until she realized what she was looking at. Then she laughed and invited us inside.

We did look funny. Helen's damp robe and slippers were accessorized by the tanned leather gunbelt and holster which threatened to slide off her hips and fall at her feet any second. Twenty-five rounds of slightly tarnished brass with silver primers provided accents to her waist and a certain wild-west cuteness to her. I was bare-chested and dripping damp for the same reason Helen was. My green pajama bottoms and boots kept me decent, if not presentable, while I brandished the Marlin.

"I think he's gone," I told Carrie before we got around to pleasantries. "I saw someone ride off. I hurried him along a little."

"I heard," she said. She turned to Helen. "Thanks for getting here so quickly. It's only been fourteen minutes." No wonder our horses were blown, I thought. A good time was around twenty or so.

"Sheriff on his way?" I asked, wondering if she intended to keep ignoring me.

She looked back at me, hesitated, then answered. "I didn't call him. We think we know who it was."

"We? Who else is here?"

"Me, Carl." Hannah stepped out of the kitchen.

Helen ran over and hugged her, the gunbelt finally dropping to the floor at her feet. "Oh, Carl and I were so worried! Jerold called, and we didn't know where to go looking for you! Are you all right?" Hannah still wore her shirt and Levis, just like Carrie did. I guessed they hadn't gotten to bed yet. It looked like a long day ahead.

Hannah told us that she thought Jerold was the person we'd seen riding off. "No one else knew Carrie was home alone, Carl. Just you and Helen, and the folks. The folks are in Kansas City, and you and Helen were home. That leaves Jerold."

I got a creepy feeling. "Maybe he was just looking for you, Hannah. He sounded like he was worried."

She shot me a blue look that hinted of things I didn't know. "Dad's horse is in the barn. We don't think he even looked in there. We think he came for Carrie."

"He tried every window and door," Carrie continued with Hannah's explanation. "If he was looking for Hannah wouldn't he have just knocked and asked me about her? Or phoned?"

That sounded reasonable. "Are you sure it was him?"

Hannah and Carrie glanced at each other, then finally Carrie admitted they hadn't actually seen him. "But he was the only one left who knew I was home by myself," Carrie re-asserted.

I asked the only question I had left. "Why didn't you call the sheriff?"

Hannah spoke up. "I asked her not to, Carl." Her eyes were shifting around, and she had a lock of almost blond hair between her fingers, twining it back and forth. "We knew you were coming."

Great, I thought. All by myself - well, with Helen as backup - and no hope of the cavalry arriving to save our bacon if we got into a tight spot. Still, that did wonders for my ego. Carl was coming, why bother the sheriff? Carl can handle things.

"What if it wasn't Jerold, Hannah?"

She gave me an uncomfortable look. "We were pretty sure it was him, Carl."

Looking at her I thought how odd all of this seemed. Helen's "what-if" questioning of the previous night came to mind. "Helen told me she wouldn't have left me a note like that, Hannah."

She turned and started back into the kitchen. "I wouldn't have, either," she explained over her shoulder before she stepped out of sight. That was the last I saw of her for a few hours, but her answer stayed with me.

Carrie took my arm. "Hannah's trying not to stare, Carl. Come on. Mom's got a robe you can use." She took me back to her mother's room and found me her biggest robe. It was dull brown and towel-like. The arms were too short and it almost wouldn't close, but it did cover me. Carrie did her best not to laugh, something Helen didn't.

We all bedded down for the rest of the night. Helen joined Hannah in Mrs. Simon's bed, and I stretched out on the divan in the parlor. I remember looking at the clock over the fireplace: 3:35. I tried not to groan.

At 6:30 I went to rouse Helen and ask for help with the chores. Hannah slept next to her, still in her Levis and shirt. I paused, struck by the picture. Helen was wrapped around Hannah, holding her like she would a child. Hannah had her arms around Helen, too. It looked for all the world like they had been confiding in each other and fallen asleep, forehead to forehead and tangle-legged, like that. I imagined that girls might sleep that way after whispering their most secret tales as a sort of acknowledgment of conspiracy and understanding. Girls, I knew, did a lot of conspiring and whispering. It was one of the things girls were especially good at.

It was Saturday; no need to wake them after all. I could handle the chores, and they'd both had long nights. Besides, it was Helen's turn to stay at Carrie's and help out. But I was unable to just step out and leave the picture of them sleeping so closely, and allowed myself another moment. Something tugged at me, resonating warmly enough to make me smile with something akin to parental affection, as though I were looking upon two daughters instead of a sister and her friend. I felt very protective suddenly.

Look-alikes, I thought, despite their age differences. Both wholesome, both sweet, both blond and built alike, their features similar enough in the dim light of morning that I wondered if all blond girls looked alike. All cats are grey in the dark, someone once said. Did that apply to blonds in the near-dawn light, too?

I left them in peace and reluctantly woke Carrie in her room. She'd kicked off her slippers and collapsed, face down, on her bed. She looked up at me groggily, a cat of a different shade of grey.

"Sorry to wake you, Carrie. I've go to take care of the morning chores at home. Will you throw the lock after I leave?"

"Uh - yes. Sure." She rubbed her eyes, then looked back up at me. "Is Helen going too?"

I shook my head. "I let her sleep. It's her turn to help you here anyway, so she'll be staying." I took off her mother's robe and handed it to her. "Thanks for letting me borrow this."

She took it and tossed it onto the bed beside her. "Oh. Yeah, that's right. Ok. Uh, you're welcome." She seemed a bit goofy yet, but as I left I heard the lock click home behind me.

I whistled up Henry, who trotted over with Nancy, then rode back to the house, too cool for comfort. Cool, I would get over. But being seen in that bathrobe, even as unlikely as it was that time of day out on the prairie and on a Saturday, would be sure to start stories, none of which I wanted to hear.

I had plenty of time to think about the night on the way home. At first I felt relief, since nothing that hadn't happened before came to pass. Then, as I thought more, I realized that it was a well-timed phone call, not my resolve, that had probably prevented incest.

Shame flooded through me.

"I should have known better, right Henry?" Henry heard his name and snorted his agreement. Nancy's ears twitched attentively as she slogged along beside us.

Next time, I assured myself in the lone comfort of the cool morning, I'll send her back to her room. In fact, I promised myself with all the self-assurance that goes with good intentions, next time we're alone I'll talk to her about all this brother-sister stuff again, and again I'll use plain English. Dad and Mom had said they were going to talk to her that afternoon, hadn't they? I should do the same, just between us, again. Maybe this time it would stick. To both of us, I amended.

By three p.m. or so I'd finished the chores for the day; even the kitchen stove was heating the water in its reservoir. I looked forward to a hot wash that night. Famished, I slapped some smoked ham onto bread and ate, chasing it with cold milk. Then, lethargic with a full belly and brain-drained with too much thinking and strange hours, I went out to the creek for a dip. The water was cool enough to provide relief from the Indian summer afternoon, but not so cool that it chilled. I found some nice mud just under the surface near the far bank of the hole and stretched out on it, feeling myself sink just a bit into its comforting, shaded ooze. It felt smooth, relaxing, and, since everything below the chin was under water, most of me was out of bug-biting range.

The girls woke me up. All three were laughing and carrying on as they put their horses in the corral and took their gear to the tack room. I watched them, vaguely disappointed that I wouldn't get the rest of the day alone. That was strange, I thought. Helen and the other two prettiest girls in four states are here, and I'm disappointed?

A few minutes later, having changed into swim suits, they came down to the hole and found me. "Hey Carl. Why didn't you answer the phone? Dad tried to call you," Helen asked.

"I didn't hear it ring. I was probably outside. What did he want?" I watched Hannah and Carrie wade into the water, a pleasant chore.

"Mrs. Simon told Carrie that they would be home tomorrow, and wanted to know if we needed anything."

Great. Another night with potential. Just what I needed. "You tell her about last night?"

Carrie shook her head. "No need to scare them, Carl. Nothing happened. And they're having a good time." No need to tell them they thought it was Jerold, she meant.

"What are you all doing here?" I asked just a little unkindly. "I thought you were going to stay the night at your place, Carrie."

Hannah spoke up. "I said it might be fun if we all had supper together and played four-handed cribbage afterward, or something."

Carrie added her piece: "Hannah and I'll make supper. It's the least we can do to repay you and Helen for getting you out of bed like that." Helen and I glanced at each other; I wondered if we both felt rescued by the phone call, or if that was reserved for just me.

Hopes for a quiet evening began to fade. "So, is everyone staying the night, then?"

Three blond heads nodded. All of them smiled. "Everyone can have their own bed here," Helen explained. "Even you, Carl." I shot her a quick glance to see if she was reminding me dangerously, just between us, of last night's near miss, but I couldn't tell. There was just her smile, and it looked innocent. She always looked innocent, even when I knew she was up to mischief. It was part of the reason I admired her so.

However, it dawned on me that there was a certain amount of safety in numbers. Three girls, probably wanting to stay up all night and tell each other girl stories or something, would be sure to let me sleep in peace. There was also the fact that we'd be together in the event a prowler or peeping Tom came to visit.

They wanted to be near me for that reason, I decided. I was a protector. That made me feel a lot better. They weren't just intruding, they were looking for a little protection. What compliment, I thought , could be more flattering to any man?

"Well, that'll be good. I thought I'd have to make my own supper. I'll stay in Mom and Dad's room then. You girls can have the rooms on the other side of the parlor." Then I thought about Jerold. "Does Jerold know where you are, Hannah?"

Her smile dimmed a bit. "He knows I'm fine, Carl. I called from Carrie's house." It was easy to see that she didn't want to discuss that topic any further. That was good enough for me. I'd have her company until she decided to leave, a prospect that didn't bother me a bit. To hell with Jerold.

About six or so, after supper, Hannah and Helen took care of putting the animals to bed for the night. Carrie and I rode back to her place to do the same. It was a quiet ride. We clopped along, not talking. It wasn't very entertaining or social. We did the evening chores, locked up the house, then started back. One day, I thought to myself as we rode home, one of us is going to say something to the other and a conversation is going to start. Where would it take us? How was it, I wondered, that she and I lived so close and spent so much time in each other's company, and talked so little? She was a half-time sister, just like Helen - home half the time, at Carrie's half the time - so conversing should have been a simple thing, an ordinary thing.

I didn't understand. I'd never been cross or ugly with her. But there we were as usual, not talking.

Evening had turned into night by the time we put away Henry and Carrie's horse, Swiftfire. Hannah and Helen had finished the dishes and cleared off the table, and we sat down to cribbage by lamplight. It was fun, although Helen and Carrie managed to skunk Hannah and me once. During our play I thought about the group sitting around our table. Each of us had a peculiarity, a situation - something that bothered us or made us different. The more I thought about it, the more I realized we were quite a bunch.

About nine or so Carrie took charge of the two younger girls and mother-henned them off to bed. I tossed another couple billets of hedge into the stove so we'd have warm water in the morning, locked up and took a pitcher of hot water back to Mom and Dad's room, where I washed and fell onto their oversized bed. Even though the house was overheated, it felt wonderful. The knowledge that it would be a night without desperate rides or sweet, deep night temptations made it even better.

A couple hours later, drenched with sweat, I picked up a pillow and staggered out onto the porch. The unopened house was just too hot with the stove going. I collapsed onto the big glider and stretched out. The air was much cooler outside, as I had hoped and was happy to notice. The girls heard the glider creaking, and it wasn't ten minutes before all four of us were stretched out on the porch, one place or another. I gave up the glider to Carrie when I went to get covers for everyone, then Helen and Hannah and I made ourselves comfortable on the floor.

When you're tired, I thought hazily at the edge of consciousness, you don't notice pretty company or how hard the floor is.

You just wake up noticing that the next morning.

I awoke to Hannah's blue eyes looking at me. For a moment I was disoriented, then remembered. I blinked, refocused on the eyes about six inches from mine. There was humor in them, I noticed, and they were upside down. I realized we were stretched out in opposite directions, but had somehow gotten onto the same pillow.

"Who was she?" She asked, reaching up with a finger to pry a bit of crust from the corner of my eye.

"Who?"  I blinked.

"The girl you were dreaming about. You were - breathing funny. Talking." She grinned.

I didn't remember. "If I was dreaming, I don't remember it. Did I wake you?"

"Only when you started talking."

"Uh - sorry." Petrified at first that I might have called Helen by name, considering our previous night's experience, I realized that I must not have, since Hannah had asked me who I was dreaming about.

"Oh that's all right. I've never heard anyone talk in their sleep before. You were interesting. I almost talked back. I'm sure we'd have had a charming conversation." She giggled. I grinned in embarrassment

I sat up and looked around, trying to recover some dignity. "Where're Carrie and Helen?"

"They left us here alone, Carl." I looked back down at her, saw the twinkling laughter in her eyes.

I figured, after thinking for a few seconds, that they'd left to do the morning chores at Carrie's house. I told her that. "They left early to do the chores at Carrie's, Hannah. We should do ours pretty soon too, if we're going to finish them before church."

I tried not to think too much about the disappointment showing in her eyes. Instead, I got up and, wrapped in a cover, went into Mom and Dad's room to put on yesterday's clothes for the chores. Hannah did the same in my room, that being where she'd first attempted to sleep the previous evening before the blast furnace of the closed house drove us all outside. We met in the kitchen a few moments later and agreed that she would make breakfast and I'd see to the chores.

The idea of Hannah in the kitchen, cooking for the two of us as I did the chores, made the work go swiftly. I pictured sitting down with her all by ourselves at our table, talking about the day and the food and whatever else came up for discussion. I felt very grown up, like a young man setting out for the day's work while his woman got their house ready for his return. It was novel, a never before experienced feeling, and, considering the company, I liked it. I fed the chickens and pigs and horses and Old Faithful, gathered the eggs, milked Old Faithful and pumped fresh water into the watering tank in the corral before I ventured back inside.

Breakfast wasn't ready yet; the stove crackled and creaked as it heated up. Potatoes and onions had been chopped for frying, a half-pound of bacon had been sliced, and six eggs sat in a bowl, whipped and ready for scrambling. Milk was already on the table, as well as bread and jam and two muskmelon halves. It was clear she liked a good breakfast, too. "Why don't you go get something on for church, Hannah. Helen may have something that'll fit you. Or you could try Mom's wardrobe. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. You look to be about her size."

"You sure, Carl? I don't want to be a bother." Uncertainty in her eyes, fingers twirling a long lock. "Won't Helen want first pick of what to wear? And what about my hair and makeup?"

"She keeps clothes at Carrie's. She'll be fine. I'm sure she'd let you use her brush and whatever else you need, so go ahead and take your pick. I'll make breakfast."

"Oh no you won't, Mr. Wheat." Bright blue bolts of indignation over a smile. "You just sit, or change into your Sunday clothes. Whichever. But I'm making breakfast, and no arguments." She wasn't brooking any nonsense, so I did as I was told. While I dressed I heard her clattering and banging around in the kitchen, and it wasn't long before the sizzle and aroma of frying food got my taste buds excited.

Breakfast was every bit as pleasant as I'd hoped. That morning, sitting there with Hannah, provided far more pleasure than the party had. We talked, we laughed, we ate, we slurped and groaned with pleasure over the fresh muskmelon, we even did the dishes and put them in the drainer.

She dressed for church while I saddled up our horses. I finished that swiftly and went back into the kitchen to sip a little more milk as I waited for her to finish dressing. When she came out of Mom's room - she found a dress she liked in there - I had to raise my eyebrows. Mom hadn't worn that dress in years, but on Hannah it looked fresh and new and just right. It was Mom's pale orange and white short-sleeved summer dress, with a scooped neckline that bared Hannah down to where she began to separate. The waist was tied with a two inch wide sky-blue sash, and a light fringe of lace at the hem hid her knees. Petticoats fluffed the skirt, and stockings dressed her legs in a smooth silky sheen. Mom's matching floppy-brimmed bonnet dangled from her hand, tails from its sash-matching sky-blue ribbon almost reaching the floor. White leather dress shoes pushed her up into the sky a couple inches and did nice things to her, and to me.

Every Sunday I saw her in church, and every Sunday she was pretty. But dressed in a grown-up dress and wearing stockings and dress shoes, she looked different. Her hair was the same, brushed out in long, almost-blond coils, her eyes were the same, her lips had a little extra red on them, and her cheeks seemed tinged a bit, too. Maybe it was a blush, I thought, since my eyes probably didn't hide my appreciation.

"Is this all right?" She asked, twirling around and watching me from under half-lowered lashes.

"You can't go to church like that, Hannah," I told her, impressed and disturbed.

She looked confused. "I can't? Why not?"

"None of the men will hear a word the preacher says, that's why. And their women will be imagining how nice it would be to drop you in a mud puddle, or something, so they won't hear anything either."

She liked that. "Well Carl! You don't have to be asleep to sweet-talk a girl, after all!" The red crept up both our necks.

"Helen has a shawl that might go with that dress, Hannah, in case you want to keep the sun off your shoulders." We went into Helen's room and immediately found it. In front of Helen's dresser I placed it about her shoulders. It was white, made up of tied-together doily-like crocheted flowers, and it covered most of the bare skin that drew my eye so insistently.

We looked at each other in the dresser's mirror, my hands lingering on her shoulders as she stood in front of me. I didn't recognize the scent that hinted at me from her hair. Probably something of Mom's, I guessed, knowing that she hadn't brought any of her own. Like everything else she had on, it stirred me.

Her hand came up to cover mine on her shoulder. "Do you like it, Carl?" She asked the drooling reflection looking back at us.

"We ought to be leaving," I said, not sure what she was asking about. I tore my eyes away and told my nose to shut up. "We don't want to have to hurry, since we're dressed up."

We locked up the house and took off for church, riding along easily and talking. I couldn't recall having spent so much time talking to a pretty girl before, but found it easy to do once I got over noticing her struggle with riding sideways in that skirt and petticoat collection. About half-way there Hannah said it might be best if we came to church from different directions.

"The gossips will wonder why we're coming to church together, Carl. I can already hear the questions." She grinned at me, probably not as concerned about that as she indicated.

I agreed that made sense, so off she rode to the south. I sat and watched her until she had gone over a small rise and was out of sight, then Henry and I continued at a leisurely pace so as to give her time to circle around. Eventually I arrived at the Round Prairie Church, an uncomplicated white building with an overly tall bell tower of simple slat construction topped by an unpainted cross. Except for the Atchison road that ran past it, it stood alone on the prairie for as far as the eye could see. Over by the corral and hitching posts the only shade for hundreds of yards blessed the livestock able to gather in its coolness. A wizened oak that had somehow avoided decades of fatal damage from the ice storms and prairie breezes provided the comfort, a grandmother doting on her charges. The time for shade was about over, though; with the impending change of season the leaves had changed into their funereal colors of sere reds and browns to announce their imminent deaths. A few of the less hardy lay scattered about her roots.

On the other side of the church the cemetery waited for us all, its stories etched in weathered marble. I used to go wandering through there as a youngster, reading names and dates and the little stories folks had carved into the marble as epitaphs. People died for many reasons on the prairie; I remember reading of death by lightning strikes, death by snakebite, death by childbirth, death by fire, death by being stomped to death by stampeding cattle, death by disease. But most did not contain such detail; just a name, a few words from someone who cared, and a lifespan:

John McEvoy, beloved son. Feb 2, 1856 - Feb 15, 1856.

Unwritten on any of those stark stones was the grief. Yet it was there, enough to bring a lump to the throat of anyone who lingered to think about the words.

Sometimes, instead of grief, there was humor:

Here lies the body of Tom McGee
Underneath this lonesome tree.
He'd still be with us instead of dead
If he'd stayed in his own bed.

June 6, 1894 - January 2, 1920

I knew most of the names, the names of the main families who'd settled this area for more than a century, names that I talked with in church, at school and in town and even, I remembered, at birthday parties. There they were, and their kin and kids and the others, the passers-through. Passers-through were less than four generations in the area, someone once told me. To be a resident you had to be able to trace your local roots back at least that far.

Helen and Carrie rode up as I was putting Henry in the corral with some of his friends. I looked around for Hannah, but she hadn't shown up just yet, so we went inside with the others. Shortly the services started, and still no Hannah.

Finally, unable to stop worrying, I whispered to Helen that I was going to look for her, and did my clumsy best to sneak out without anyone seeing me. Since there were only about forty people there, that wasn't very successful.

Henry and I headed south at his best ground-covering pace. That was Henry's strength, his long lope that covered great stretches of ground so comfortably that you could almost snooze as though you were in your favorite rocker. All the while, underneath you, Henry pistoned his way along easily at a pace he could keep up for hours.

I imagined Hannah hurt somewhere, maybe unconscious on the ground while her spooked horse watched the rattler coiled on her breast strike again and again into her face, her lips, her eyes . . . Or maybe she had fallen when her horse stumbled and tossed her into the only creek she had to cross . . .

No Hannah anywhere I looked. I continued on to her house, not able to imagine why she would have gone there. When it loomed on the horizon I shouted out for her, then noticed her dad's horse in their corral, alongside of Jerold's. Both were still saddled.

I heard her voice as I rode up. "Carl? Is that you, Carl?" Her cry was sharp and tight, but also contained a lot of Glad-You-Dropped-By.

I pulled Henry up to the hitching post in front of their house and shouted her name again.

"I'll be right out, Carl. Please wait." Again that tight, almost sing-song airiness of pitch in her voice seemed unnatural, ominous. I tied Henry to their front post and went up onto their porch and paced noisily. I could hear low-pitched voices from inside, angry voices, words indistinct but the tension and emotion clear. Jerold and Hannah were fighting about something, and I'd come along in the middle of it.

Well, that was just fine with me. If I caused their fight to stop, then I'd done something worthwhile, I thought.

A few moments later the low buzz of acrimony ceased and she stepped quickly onto their porch, then shut the door behind her. Her eyes tried unsuccessfully to contain the same mirth and happiness that had been there when we'd parted earlier, and I felt myself sicken a little when I recognized that she was forcing it.

She looked coolly assembled in a white shirt with its tails hanging down past the hem of hidden shorts. Having a sister, I knew this type of attire went on fast, especially over nothing, which my brief inspection hinted was the case. Her hair, so carefully coiffed earlier that morning, was a hastily re-brushed memory of that. The color on her lips had been removed, and when she saw me looking at them she wiped them with back of her hand.

"I got worried when you didn't show up, Hannah. Hope I didn't scare you, riding up and shouting like that. Are you all right?" I reached down and took a hand, pulled her just a little closer. The scent was still in her hair.

"Oh -" looking at places other than me - "Yes. Jerold found me as I was riding this way and reminded me that we - we have another engagement this afternoon." She looked down at herself and smoothed her shirt with her other hand, confirming that she wore nothing underneath. "I'm so sorry to have worried you." Her eyes strayed to mine long enough for me to see she meant that, then they slid away uncomfortably. The fingers on her other hand found a tress and began twisting it back and forth.

I dropped her hand, suddenly a little self-conscious at holding it and standing so near to her. " You didn't have to change. I'm sure Mom would be tickled to know you wore it to another engagement."

She seemed to strengthen a little. The fright I'd seen earlier in her eyes faded. "I just didn't feel right about wearing it someplace else, Carl. It was for church, for us." She paused. "Would you like some lemonade?" Twine twine.

I didn't want to get in the way of Hannah's engagement. "Thanks, but I should probably just head on back. I wouldn't want to take any of your time when you're trying to get ready for - whatever engagement you have to keep."

She stepped even closer and put a hand on my arm and squeezed it fiercely. I looked down into her face, where the life and mischief I expected had been tainted by something wild and cornered. "Oh no, Carl. Please stay. We have plenty of time for lemonade and pie. We can sit here on the porch and visit. We have plenty of time for that." Her eyes almost pleaded. Don't leave, they said.

"Well, if you're sure. I am a bit parched." I was confused. I knew I'd stepped into the middle of something dire, but she wanted me there, so that's where I wanted to be.

Jerold stepped out onto the porch. He wore his church suit and white shirt. His black necktie was perfectly knotted, his hair slicked up perfectly. Except for being barefoot he looked like he was still drinking punch with the Lady's Auxiliary after church. Yet somehow he had brought about this dramatic change in Hannah. Somehow the bright flower of a girl with whom I'd left for church had wilted. He'd done that, or had a hand in it. His stock hadn't been very high anyway, but it dropped out of sight just then.

"Hannah, go inside and put on something more social." Jerold's voice had the sound of authority, the sound of one who was used to obedience, the sound of one who always spoke with a veiled but understood "Or else" in his message.

I spoke up, half trying to lighten things a bit. "You don't have to on my account, Hannah."

Jerold just tossed another glance at Hannah. She looked helplessly at me and then back at him. "All right, Jerold." She went inside immediately. As soon as she was gone he greeted me.

"Go home, Carl. Don't show yourself around here again."

"Hannah invited me for lemonade," I told him, self-destructively. "I think I'll take her up on that."

"She doesn't have the time. Go home." He reached into his left shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Luckies, then lit one. I watched. When he had it stoked up he looked at me again, the cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. "I told you to go home, Carl," he encouraged me again.

"Just as soon as Hannah says I should," I replied, my belly beginning to fill with that same juice I'd noticed when I woke up so scared Friday night. "If it's all the same to you."

"It ain't." His smoke-squinted eyes were as calm as his voice, but lit with a yellowish gleam of anticipation. "If you ain't looking for a whuppin', you'd best be on your way."

Hannah reappeared, this time in a simple blue house dress and boots. I thought she looked better in shorts. "Jerold, Carl's going to stay for a bit. We're going to visit. Now leave him alone. Do you understand? I won't have you - you being impolite to my friends!" I watched their eyes lock, I saw something pass between them; I saw, I thought with amazement, Jerold look a little uncertain.

But his gaze, when it shifted back to me, rattled my guts. No uncertainty there. There, without question, was an enemy. I didn't understand how that had come about, but there was no denying it any longer: he was a threat, a hazard, a person that I would eventually have to deal with. Watch your ass, his gaze said. You're getting away with this today, but watch your ass, because this is just today.

He turned without comment and went inside. Hannah and I were left alone.

"Sometimes Jerold can be a little - abrupt," Hannah offered, not looking at me. "I apologize for his rudeness."

"Jerold is a shithead," I explained, the overdose of belly juice expanding my vocabulary. "Pardon my language."

She didn't comment on my uncharacteristically terse remark. Instead we looked at each other, and the juice began to drain so something much nicer could replace it. Finally: "Why don't you come inside and help me make the lemonade, Carl. Jerold won't bother us."

So we made lemonade in her kitchen, then took the pitcher of tangy juice and thick wedges of gooseberry pie out onto her porch.

We dawdled, visiting, making the pie and lemonade last for more than an hour. The weather warmed us, and if it hadn't been for the knowledge that Jerold was inside and probably watching I'm sure we'd have had a truly fine late morning.

Mom and Dad drove up with Mr. Farley and Mrs. Simon as we were wondering if we should make more lemonade.

"Well, Son. Your Ma and me go off for a bit and there you are, sittin' and sippin' with a pretty girl." Dad had a half-grin on his face when he climbed out of the car.

I blushed and Hannah giggled. Mr. Farley came up onto the porch and Hannah ran to hug him. The big smile on her face and his pats on her shoulder would have shown anyone they were favorites of each other. Then, over her head, he told me I was welcome to visit anytime, and I could tell he meant it.

"Thanks, Mr. Farley. Just stopped by to visit a bit."

"And dressed in your go-to-church clothes, too, " Dad chimed in. "When you plannin' on comin' home?"

"Pretty quick. Just need to help put the dishes away. I'll be along."

Mom stuck her head out of the window. "No need to rush, Darling. You make sure you give Hannah a hand first, you hear?"

I was home before noon. The ride home had given me too much time to think, and I didn't like what I'd been thinking. Something was very wrong with Jerold, and it had obviously affected Hannah. She was afraid of him, I had seen, but he was also afraid of her. Whatever was going on, I didn't like it, but I also knew better than to stick my snoot in it. Outsiders don't belong meddling in brother and sister problems, and it seemed that Jerold and Hannah had one of those.

On the other hand, no sister should ever fear her brother. Or vice versa. So maybe meddling needed doing in their case. I resolved to keep a close eye on Hannah and Jerold, and if it looked like she needed help I'd give it.

I felt better. I felt better, too, when I thought about how glad she'd been to see her dad. He would help keep whatever it was under control, I thought.

That night, after supper and a plain talking session between Helen and the folks which I was invited not to hear, Helen helped me put the animals down for the night. While we were alone I told her about what I'd seen at Hannah's house, and what I thought about it. She looked up at me, her eyes serious.

"Don't go poking around in other people's business unless they ask, Carl. You can get in trouble like that." My little sister, giving me sage advice.

"Well, it just seemed - too different, Helen. First she shows up at Carrie's, and Carrie doesn't tell us why and neither, really, does Hannah. Then she stays away from home for two whole days and nights, then disappears on her way to church. I chase her down, and she's getting ready to go somewhere else. Jerold reminded her, she said."

"Maybe she did forget. People do, you know."

"What bothered me was Jerold coming out and promising to kick my butt if I don't go home right then. What bothered me is Hannah asking me to stay, and really meaning it. What bothered me is the way they looked at each other, like they were both afraid of something. Something isn't right, Helen. Do you know anything?"

"I don't know anything more than you do, Carl. But whatever is going on you should stop prying and just be as nice to her as you usually are. She's a friend of ours." She hesitated, then added to her advice. "If she wants any help, I'm sure she'll hint or ask."

I shook my head. "It's hard to stop prying or imagining. Whenever I think about her I think about all the odd things going on."

We were walking back to the house by then, the animals comfortable. It was our turn, finally. I thought about Friday night and decided to at least mention our near miss out loud.

"I've been meaning to apologize for Friday night, Helen."

She looped an arm through mine and looked up at me, a smile on her face. "It wasn't your fault. The phone rang."

As I stared at the ceiling that night I wondered if she meant that the way it sounded.

It was a tough night.