Nick had lobbied hard, all summer, to be allowed to consider his school days over. He was bright enough to go onto college as Jarrod was doing, but he had no interest. His talents and his inclinations were all towards the outdoors and the hard work of the ranch. Victoria wasn't entirely happy with the decision-who knew how Nick might feel in a few years?-but Tom eventually came around to see the wisdom of it. He needed the help on the ranch, and in this day a boy was generally a man at seventeen, especially a boy like Nick, already at his full height and filling out everyday. If this was to be his life he might as well get to it. He'd already had more schooling than his father had, and look how far the father had already gone.

Nick did feel a little uneasy sending his younger brother off alone. Heath had been Nick's devoted shadow since he'd been old enough to walk. Nick had always made certain there was a place for Heath in his activities, and older boys who wanted to play with Nick had to accept Heath, or go elsewhere. The two boys were as close as the differences in their ages and temperaments allowed. Their tastes were the same, and they had spent the long summer days exploring every inch of the ranch and learning the arts of hunting, fishing, and running cattle. Nick's exuberance was balanced by his younger brother's quieter, more cautious nature.

So this day marked for Nick his passage from boyhood into manhood. But he watched his little brother go with unease. Heath had the double disadvantage of being younger than many of his classmates, with a November birthday, and he'd always been small for his age. That was starting to change; he'd grown quickly this summer. Still, he would have been an easy target for the older boys at school, especially given that Heath's temperament was little inclined toward fighting, except as a last resort. But Heath had never borne the brunt of much bullying, for few boys were willing to make sport of Heath if the result were trouble with Nick. Nick's temperament was much inclined toward fighting as a first option. Nick had done a good bit of wrestling with his brother this summer, doing everything he could to make sure his brother could do a creditable job of defending himself if he had to. He felt pretty certain Heath could handle himself well enough, but he was a little unhappy at the thought that, after all these years, Heath would have to face the schoolyard without his older brother.

Victoria's unease was a little different. She knew how much Heath hated school. Unlike his brothers and sister he was a poor student. He seemed bright enough, and he handled his math subjects well. But he read with difficulty. It was not for lack of trying. Heath brought the same quiet stubborn nature to his school work as to all other tasks, and he made real efforts to improve. His efforts brought little visible results. It was puzzling, for he had no trouble retaining information that he heard, so it was not a failure of basic intelligence. Why he struggled so was a mystery. In the long run it probably wouldn't matter a great deal, for there were more than enough responsibilities and rewards on the ranch to occupy both Heath and Nick in the future. But it was hard to see him struggle so for so little improvement, and harder still to know how much he took his shortcomings to heart. Children could be so cruel; after Jarrod's and Nick's successes, and Tom Barkley's rising prominence, more than a few enjoyed seeing at least somebody with the name Barkley stumble. Victoria suspected that even the schoolteacher wasn't quite immune from that nasty impulse.

For Heath the day held one bright spot. He hated school and he hated going without Nick. But after being the younger brother all his life, today he was the big brother, entrusted with the care of his little sister. Nick was his soulmate, but he'd always had a tender regard for his little sister, and he'd often found time for her along with his more vigorous play with Nick. She in turn adored him; he was her favorite brother. Of course she was already almost nine, and not in need of a great deal of supervision. But he was still proud to be the older brother, the one in charge. Audra could be a tease, but today she meekly accepted her role as little sister.

So Victoria watched them go with a mixture of pleasure and sadness. Amazing how quickly they grew. You could see the change in Heath since the spring; suddenly he seemed a little too long-legged for his pony. And Audra, tamping down her natural giggliness and falling into line behind her older brother. You could be so proud of them. Why then the sudden clutching at her heart, the sudden desire to see them not twelve and eight, but ten and six, or eight and four? Time only ran in one direction; children only grew up and away. Upstairs in this house was her oldest son, ready to go off for his last year of college. Impossible to believe.

Nick caught a little of her melancholy. He put his arm around his mother and said, "Well, there go our babies."

That made Victoria laugh and lifted most of her sadness. "Our babies, Nick? You're not such a grown up as that!"

With the expansiveness of seventeen, Nick said, "They'll always be children to me."

Victoria raised an eyebrow at that. "I doubt they'll accept that." On a more serious note, she said, "But I do appreciate your seeing them off. I know they appreciated it too."

"Yes, well..." Nick, embarrassed as always at the revelation that others knew just how soft he was, strode off toward the barn.

Victoria watched him go with more lightheartedness than she'd felt as the younger ones had gone. Yes, they only grew up and away; but she thought all four were going in a way that made her very proud.

Victoria didn't see either of the children until supper time. At table Audra chattered long and rapidly about the several new girls in school, what games they'd played at recess, Miss Hairston's new green dress. Heath said nothing. He seemed surprisingly uninterested in his supper, too, and that was hard to understand, for she'd made certain that supper tonight was something he especially liked.

And now that she'd noticed that, she realized there was a certain nervousness to Audra's chatter. When Audra finally paused for air, she said quietly, "And what about you, Heath? How was your first day at school?"

"Fine," he said briefly, without looking up.

Audra looked at him uneasily. Why didn't he just fess up? Heath was usually good about that, he knew the rules. You got in a lot less trouble for the things you fessed up to than for the things they found out about. Besides, the whole thing had been silly and hardly Heath's fault. But he said nothing and said nothing and Audra got more and more nervous. If Father found out...

"Heath got in a fight," she blurted out. She was rewarded by one quick, angry look from Heath. She shrugged apologetically.

"What?" Nick put down his fork. This was just what he'd been worried about. Though it couldn't have been much of a fight, for Heath had no marks on him. Though his right hand was suspiciously in his lap. Perhaps it had all gone Heath's way. Well, of course it had. He'd taught him well. Still. "Who was it? I oughta-

"Nick," Tom said. At that warning tone Nick quieted, although unwillingly. Tom turned to Heath. "Well?" he said. "Is this true? Were you fighting today?"

"Yes," Heath said finally.

"This is a good start to a new year," Tom said dryly. "I'd like to hear the particulars, please."

Heath said nothing. He was hunched down in his chair. Victoria had never seen the boy so tense. Normally he quick enough to admit any wrongdoing. Why this resistance now? An unease fell over the table.

Still, he said nothing. He surely knew that this defiance-for that's how Tom would describe it-would only deepen the penalty. But he said nothing.

By now the tension had caught even Jarrod's attention. Almost twenty-one, he rarely paid any heed to the noisy comings and goings of the younger members of the family, and a schoolyard brawl was particularly calculated to incur his boredom. Nick had had so many of them and had been so fond of relating any detail. But even Nick had rarely had the nerve to remain silent under direct questioning from Father.

Audra broke first. "Shorty Pickles," she said quickly. "Heath got in a fight with Shorty Pickles."

A good deal of the unease lifted then. Shorty Pickles-Ralph Pickerell-was a brash, combative boy, nearly Nick's age but frequent failures in school had put him in with Heath. He was a short but heavy boy much given to ham-handed teasing and, as a result, frequently found himself in fistfights. Few boys had the patience to withstand a full assault from Shorty. Sooner or later everyone ended up fighting Shorty Pickles.

"Well, good!" Nick said. "I hope you thumped him good."

"Oh, he did!" Audra said. "You should have seen it."

"Nick. Audra, really." In a gentler tone, Tom said, "I understand that Shor-Ralph can be very difficult. Still, Heath, I'm surprised at you. What caused this fight?"

But again Heath didn't answer. He'd given up all pretense of interest in his food and laid down his fork. Tom's eyes met Victoria's across the table. She had no answer to his question.

The lessening of tension had affected Audra. She saw the whole thing as terribly silly, including her brother's silence. After all, it had been funny, really. "Shorty said Heath was a doctor," she giggled. Boys fought over the stupidest things.

"Adopted," Heath said softly. "Not a doctor. Adopted."

That set Nick off. Why, he'd go to school himself tomorrow. That nasty little runt. About time somebody gave him a good licking. It'd be a pleasure.

But there was only Nick talking. Heath looked quickly from Victoria to Tom and then back down. He heard their silence.

Finally, Tom said, "Ralph does have a talent for saying hurtful things. Still, Heath, I'm disappointed in you. You're old enough to know that fighting is not a solution. I'd hoped you'd take more after Jarrod's example. And fighting just gives people like Ralph Pickerell power over you. Fighting gives more attention to their lies-" Tom emphasized the word "--than they deserve. However, in light of the situation-first day of school, Ralph Pickerell-I'm going to let this go. But, young man, the next time I hear about you fighting in the schoolyard I won't be so lenient. Is that understood?"

Heath nodded, his eyes still downcast.

Seeing how upset the boy was, Tom said, "You don't seem much interested in your supper. Would you prefer to be excused?" When Heath nodded, Tom said, "Go on, then. And remember you're to be in by dark."

Heath bolted from the table, only to be called back by his father. "Come back, Heath. There's one more thing I need to say to you." Heath reluctantly went over to his father's chair. "I assume that you fought Ralph Pickerell because you believe he is a liar. I'm only going to say this to you once, because I'm not going to waste my time refuting Shorty Pickles's lies. You are my son, just as much and just the same as Nick or Jarrod. Now let's hear no more about this." He caught Heath's right hand. "See if Silas has some ice for that. It'll be sore in the morning."

When he was gone, Nick said, "I should have gone with them today. But where the hell does Shorty get his ideas?"

"Language, Nick," Tom said. "Not at the dinner table. And don't you get any ideas about going into school tomorrow and settling scores. It's about time that Heath learned to deal with these things himself-and better than he did today. It's unfortunate, but there are many Shortys in this world. Where they get their ideas hardly matters. It's how a man deals with them that does."

"Father," Nick said, "folks like Shorty only understand fists."

"Folks like Shorty understand nothing, Nick, and that's the problem. There are times when a man does have to fight. It's just that those times don't occur as often as you seem to think. When you're older you'll see that. Now, I'll hear no more about this nonsense. Pass the biscuits."

It was all very well for Father to say there weren't many times that you had to fight, but Nick knew better. From his own experience he knew that Shorty was a nasty little piece of work. Shorty could smell weakness the way a crow could smell carrion. It didn't surprise him in the least that Shorty had hopped on Heath the very first day. Nick had given Shorty a few black eyes over the years, and Shorty had been afraid to bother Heath so long as Nick had been around. Whatever Father said, Nick was glad Heath had fought him.

He knew he'd find his younger brother in the barn. Heath had always been drawn to horses, and he'd always been able to get the most out of them. Even as a small child he'd had a patience and a quietness to him that calmed skittish animals. Of course his pony had been properly cooled down and groomed before being put in his stall, but now Heath had the animal out in the crossties, and he was working on the mane.

Nick knew Heath had a calming effect on horses; they usually had the same on him. Someone who knew Heath less well would have thought the boy was peacefully absorbed in his task. Nick knew better. Lightly he said, "You know, you got off pretty easy in there. Gettin into a fight, first day of school-if it'd been me I reckon Father would have had the switch on me."

Heath shrugged a little and leaned in closer to work over a microscopic knot in the mane.

"Look," Nick said, "Shorty's a pain. He'd say anything if he thinks it'd rile you. Hell, he would call someone a doctor if it'd start a fight." When that got no response, Nick said more gently, "I know this is the pot callin the kettle black, but you shouldn't let nonsense like that get to you, Heath. Father's right. He doesn't deserve the attention that fighting him gives him."

Heath ran his fingers through the fine mane. From ears to withers now the dark hair lay smooth and shining. "What if it's not nonsense?" Heath said finally.

"Oh, Jesus," Nick swore. "Heath, you can't believe that. I mean-you're my brother. How can you even question that? It's just something Shorty made up, and apparently he chose real well."

"But why?" Heath said. "Why'd he chose that? Why not say I'm short or ugly or stupid?"

Nick shrugged impatiently. "Who knows? Who knows why a hardcase like Shorty does anything? Maybe-maybe cause you're younger and smaller than Jarrod and me. And blonder. I don't know. Maybe-oh, I don't know. It's a waste of time worrying about it, Heath."

Heath said nothing. He put back the comb and picked up a fine curry comb. He started to work on the pony's dark bay coat.

Nick knew that Heath was still troubled. It puzzled him: how could anyone, even someone as dense as Shorty Pickles believe this nonsense? Worse, how could Heath? His own brother. Go easy, he told himself. "Heath," he said gently, "you act like you believe this."

"Maybe it's true."

"But it can't be. Heath, I remember you-I remember when you were just a baby."

Heath said, "That doesn't prove anything. Just they adopted me when I was small."

Now Nick was beginning to be angry, though he knew much of his anger really came from seeing his younger brother so far from help. His voice tight, he said, "You're my brother. You know it. And you heard Father say it."

Softly, Heath said, "She didn't say anything."

It took a minute for Nick to understand. "Well-of course she didn't. She didn't have to. You heard what Father said."

"I heard."

His tone was so forcedly even, so equivocal. Nick realized that Heath wasn't to be argued out of this-at least not tonight. For a moment Nick stood there, his big hands dangling empty and useless. For as long as he could remember he had been the big brother, the protector. So little had ever been wrong in his brother's life that he couldn't fix. Now this stupid business, this obvious lie-and yet he'd never felt so separated from his brother, so helpless. Heath was caught in some relentless tide and all of Nick's swimming couldn't bring him any closer. Feeling thwarted and alone, Nick said coolly, "You curry that horse any more and he'll be bald," and then he left.

Victoria went to the library, knowing Tom would be there working, and alone. She closed the door firmly behind her. Tom looked up, smiled briefly, and bent back over his books.

That smile took her breath away. How could he look so-so normal, so undisturbed? Heath's words had been like a bomb. Victoria saw, as she hadn't seen for many years, how fragile the foundation of their lives really was. Their terrible secret in the hands of the Pickerells, for Victoria didn't think Shorty's taunts had been random, surely he'd heard something. The Pickerells had been squatting on those same few miserable acres all those years ago. Even then they hadn't been the sort of people either Tom or Victoria would treat as intimates. And yet-they'd been in the area. Somehow they knew. Dear God.

"We made a mistake," she said, half to herself.

"About what, my dear?" Tom asked, still bent over his books.

"About Heath," she said more loudly.

"Do you think so?" Tom asked, his tone a little vague. "Seeing as it was only the first day of school, and considering the provocation, I thought it was appropriate to let him off without any punishment. I assumed you'd agree. You've always said he needs less discipline than Nick."

"Oh, Tom," she said sharply. How could he be so dim? "Not about his punishment. We've been wrong not telling him the truth. We should have told him long ago. But certainly we shouldn't have lied to him again tonight."

Tom looked up finally. His blue eyes were frosty and so were his words. "I did not lie to him."

"Please, Tom, this is no time to split hairs. He is your son, but not just the same as Nick or Jarrod. And he should know that."

"Victoria. We discussed this years ago, and settled the matter. We agreed that we would take the boy in and treat him as our child." A newly harsh note crept in. "Perhaps you regret that."

"Tom, how can you say that? When have I ever treated him as less than my son? When?" He had no response. She went on, "Tom, this isn't a matter we can settle by agreement. The truth is the truth. And apparently there are people out there who know it. People like the Pickerells."

Tom reached for his pipe, began to fill it. "The Pickerells know nothing. There is nothing to know. And there is nothing to discuss. Far too much time has already been wasted on a foolish schoolyard fight." He lit the pipe, puffed a few times. "If you disagree with me-Victoria, know this. Discuss this matter any further with Heath and you go against my express wishes."

She watched in amazement, surprised by the coldness in his tone, the rigidity of his stance. As if this matter could be willed away. As if the bell could be unrung, by his express wish.

More gently, Tom said, "Victoria, we considered all this years ago. We reached our decision for good reasons. Those reasons are just as good-more so, really-than they were before. Think of Heath, my dear. What would it profit him now to know all that?" Victoria noticed that even now Tom would not use the word truth for facts he chose to deny. Even here. "How would he feel? You see how upset he is just at the thought. You say you love him..."

"Of course I do," Victoria interrupted, impatient. "Of course I do. That's why I think he must be told."

Tom shook his head. "But that's just why he shouldn't be told. You are his mother. Do you want him to believe otherwise? Would you have him believe himself a stranger in the midst of his own family?"

"Tom," she said sadly, "I think he already believes that."

"Nonsense. Of course he was upset today-it would be an upsetting experience for anyone. But I've reassured him. This will pass away and be forgotten, and everything will be for the best."

"The Pickerells," she said, "and who else?"

"Oh, my dear, the Pickerells." Tom smiled thinly. "Treat this matter with the contempt it deserves and it will die a speedy death. Who could believe a Pickerell?"

Your son, for one, she thought.

Tom straightened the papers on his desk, moved one pile away, another one in. "You must trust me on this, my dear. You know I'm right." He looked up, looked at her squarely. "I know my son," he said quietly. "I know what's best for him. Leave it, Victoria."

She turned away. Yes, Tom knew his children, but not as well as he thought. He did not appreciate the dreamy poet behind Jarrod's logical facade; he did not suspect the insecurity that prompted Nick's bravado; certainly he didn't suspect the wilfulness of his pretty little daughter. And Heath-even she, she began to think, did not really know what lay beneath his quiet manner. She'd always thought his quietness was the face of his assurance, as it was for his father. But his father lacked intuition; his father would not have read the currents that had eddied around the dinner table. His father would not have known.

And yet-and yet she was so used to relying on Tom, on Tom's judgment. This magnificent house: if you had told her that a house like this would have been her fate she wouldn't have believed it-except that Tom had told her just that, and he had been right. He was so often right. His determination had carried them over so many rough places. Could he be right now? She thought not; and yet she was not sufficiently sure to deny him.

By the time she reached the library door he was already absorbed in his work again. She closed the door softly.

The brouhaha at the dinner table hadn't held Jarrod's interest beyond the moment that Heath left the table. Like Nick he was only too familiar with the uglier impulses of the Pickerell clan. He thought it an odd slander-odder still that Heath had taken the bait-but no more than that. Schoolyard fights might still interest Nick-well, any fight would always interest Nick. But Jarrod was a grown man now, just about ready to leave for his last year of college, and next year back east to study law if everything went well.

He was a little surprised, then, when he heard a soft knock on his door. Given the hour he expected it to be Mother, but it was Heath. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," Jarrod said. "Need a little help with your schoolwork?" Jarrod had helped Heath in the past, mostly reading out loud. His brother's school problems baffled Jarrod, for Heath understood math problems that he himself did, yet even fairly simple texts gave him trouble. A little disappointing to realize that Heath, like Nick, wouldn't be the kind of brother that you could talk to about the book you just read.

Aside from those lessons, Jarrod had rarely given his youngest brother a separate thought. For so long now his two brothers had been a single entity, NickandHeath. And very much more Nick than Heath, for the younger boy seemed so much in the older one's orbit. Rare to see one without the other. Once Nick had been his own closest playmate, but from early days it had been clear that Heath was much more Nick's type than Jarrod. And aside from those lessons, Heath had long been in the habit of taking his problems to Nick.

Now, though, a faint line had appeared between Heath's brows, and Jarrod remembered that nonsense at the dinner table. Surely that was what Heath had come about, but it took a little time for Heath to settle down and broach the topic. When he did, it was with a bluntness that would have made Nick proud.

"Why are they lying to me?" Heath asked simply.

"Lying?" Jarrod laughed a little, nervously. "You don't really think Father would lie to you."

Heath looked down. Then he said: "But they are."

"Heath, I don't think so. I remember-"

And then suddenly his voice trailed off. What, exactly, did he remember? He had been eight, old enough to remember fairly well. He and Nick had been sent away to Uncle Jim's. Had stayed away longer than expected. Some muddle-the twin births, the death of the healthier one, not the one they'd expected to die. Something like that. Lucas? Had that been the name? It hadn't been mentioned much since then.

But the strange air in the house. The electricity between his parents, the hair-rising-on-your-neck feeling just before a thunderstorm. Not what you expected on such a happy occasion. And the atmosphere had lingered, breaking up slowly, over a long period of time. Grief over the lost child?

No, Jarrod thought slowly, no. There had been another lost child-the year before Heath had been born. He remembered his mother's silent tears, his father's unusual gentleness to them all. No, it had been quite different. No, something else had been wrong after Heath's birth, something that had stayed wrong for a long time. Something between his parents.

He looked at Heath, a little puzzled. His own blue eyes, their father's eyes, looked back at him. But it's impossible, Jarrod thought. Impossible that he could look like, and not be...His father's words: You are my son. If Shorty Pickles were right his father was an out-and-out liar, something Jarrod couldn't quite believe.

Looking at Heath he understood that the younger boy wasn't just a copy of Nick; there were shadows in the boy's personality much like his own. He could tell that his younger brother had been trying to solve this puzzle through logic, just as he'd been trying, and had come to the same perplexing end. It could not be true.

"But you believe it," Jarrod said. "You think they're lying."

Heath nodded.

Gently, Jarrod said, "I wish I could tell you you're wrong."

"But there's something, isn't there. Something you know."

Jarrod shrugged. "Not know, not really. It's just a feeling."

Heath nodded again. "Yes, it's just a feeling." He left as quietly as he'd come.

Jarrod sat up for a long time after that. He didn't feel the same hero-worship for his father that Nick did. But in all these years he'd never questioned his father's honesty. Or his mother's. Even at his age he felt jarred, uneasy, as if bedrock had turned to quicksand. Impossible, he thought again. No, his tidy lawyer's mind realized, it was possible. Logic told him how it was possible; instinct told him the possible was true.

For most of his life Heath had shared a room with Nick. Only recently had Victoria thrown up her hands and given up a guest room to let the boys have separate rooms. Nick was such an accumulator; he kept everything that had any meaning to him, and it seemed everything had meaning. His old saddle, proudly displayed; models he'd built; compositions which had gotten As; toys long outgrown; every letter or card he'd ever received; and so on. Heath was just the opposite. He had few treasures and most of them fit into one of his father's old cigar boxes. Living in the midst of Nick's clutter had made him impatient for a space of his own.

At first it had been strange. At first he'd missed the comforting solidity of his brother's presence, even on the other side of that big room. Now he was glad, glad to have a thick windowless door between him and everyone else. Between him and his family. No, between him and that family, not his.

Mechanically he changed, got into bed. Once he'd blown out the light it was impossible to stop thinking. He said his name once, out loud. How empty and strange it sounded. Made up. There was no such person, not a real person. What was his name, really? Who was he, really? How on earth had he gotten here?

Perhaps there was another family out there, hoping to find him. The thought didn't make him feel any better. Besides, what was the likelihood that there was another family out there? How on earth would they have lost him? No; he belonged to nobody, nowhere. Nobody looked out into the hazy September night sky and wondered where he was.

The family he wanted was right under this roof. Audra, sweet and giggly and sometimes a little heedless, who looked at him with such confidence. Jarrod, thoughtful and kind. Nick-Nick who must be the best brother in the world. Even Father, who would be so stern sometimes, scary even, but when you'd done right he could make you feel ten feet tall. And Mother. She was not his mother. No other family could make up for losing them.

And it was all a lie. Every smile, every kiss, every nice word-it was all a lie. Not Nick and Jarrod and Audra, they'd been as duped as he'd been. But Mother and Father. Every day of his life had been a lie. All those lectures about telling the truth, fessing up. From those liars!

And other people knew. Even Shorty Pickles knew the truth before he did. How many other people knew? How many other people knew he was an impostor? How many other people thought he knew all about the lie and went on pretending? Pretending that was his name and this was his house and this was his family, when all of it was a lie.

And what could he do about? He would have to get up tomorrow and go to school and the day after, and the day after that. Knowing what he knew now. In the morning he would have to go downstairs and sit at the table and hear their voices. Knowing what he knew now.

Knowing he knew. He was clever enough, and old enough, to figure out what Jarrod had figured out, that there was a way for his father to have told the truth and yet not really told the truth. He'd seen it, seen it on his mother's-no, not his mother-face in a split second. The thought was no comfort. It still made his whole life a lie.

The door opened and closed quietly. He knew her step like he knew his own breath. He'd been sickly when he was very young. How many nights had she sat beside him, gentle and strong. No matter how bad his sickness had been he'd never felt afraid when she was there, he'd always felt sure the bad feelings would go away. She could sit by him forever now, and it wouldn't take the bad feelings away.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. Not quite meeting his eyes, she pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. He couldn't help shrinking away a little. Her voice was a little unsteady. "Your father wouldn't lie to you."

She's not my mother, he thought. It was the worst thought of all, the hardest. The tears that had been just behind his eyes all afternoon, all evening, broke loose. He sat up, threw his arms around her neck, buried his face against her shoulder.

At first she was pleased, pleased that he still turned to her. And then, with a chill, she realized it would be the last time. He believed, he knew, and no number of kisses or caresses or comforting words could take back that knowledge from him. For these last few moments he was granting himself the indulgence of being her son; and when he broke away at last the most vital bonds between them would be broken.

The moment came. His tears were gone. His arms slackened, dropped, and he pushed away. She took out a handkerchief, wiped his face as if he were still a very small child, and he was patient under her touch. Hoping to hide the desperation in her heart, she said, "I love you."

He nodded. "I love you, too." It did not help.

For several years it had been their family custom to have a new photograph taken of the whole family just before Christmas. The photographs were a luxury they could easily afford now, and, given how fast the children grew, it was sweet to have the photographs to look back over, remember how small they'd once been. It had been the custom, too, to put the two youngest children in the center of the picture. Small, fair, with a strong resemblance between the two, they'd been the shining center of the family.

But beginning that year it changed. Audra was still at the center of the picture, but Heath had begun to move away. Before he was eighteen he was at the periphery of the family group, a satellite held only at the farthest reach of gravity.