n Ethan Bonner's job, he was supposed to love everyone, yet he despised the woman who sat in the passenger seat of his Camry. As he turned out onto the highway from the drive-in entrance, he observed her scarecrow-thin body and hollow cheeks scrubbed free of the makeup that had once coated them. The wild auburn jumble of curls and tangles had nothing in common with the teased and tortured hair he recalled from three years earlier when the television cameras had shown her sitting beneath the Temple's famous floating pulpit.

Her appearance had once reminded him of a cross between Priscilla Presley during the Elvis years and an old-time country western singer. But instead of sequined clothing, she now wore a faded dress with one mismatched button. She looked both years younger and decades older than the woman he remembered. Only her small, regular features and the clean line of her profile remained the same.

He wondered exactly what had happened between her and Gabe. His resentment toward her deepened. Gabe had endured enough without being saddled with her problems, too.

A glance in the rearview mirror showed her little boy huddled amidst the meager pile of their possessions that were stacked on the backseat: an old suitcase, two blue plastic laundry baskets with broken handles, and a cardboard box held together with some tape.

The sight swamped him with both anger and guilt. Once again, he had fallen short. You knew from the beginning I wasn't fit to be a minister, but would You listen? Not You. Not the Great Know-It-All. Well, I hope You're satisfied.

A voice that sounded very much as if it belonged to Clint Eastwood echoed inside Ethan's head. Quit your bellyaching, chump. You're the one who acted like a jerk two days ago and refused to help her. Don't put the blame on Me.

Great! Just when Ethan had been hoping for a little compassion from Marion Cunningham, he got Eastwood. With a certain amount of resignation, he wondered why he was even surprised.

Ethan seldom got the God he wanted to hear. Right now, he'd wanted Mrs. Cunningham, the great "Happy Days" Mother God. It figured he'd get Eastwood instead. The Eastwood God was strict Old Testament. You screwed up, punk, and now you're going to pay.

God had been talking to Ethan for years. When he was a kid, the voice had come from Charlton Heston, which had been a major drag, since it was hard for a youngster to bare his soul to all that mighty Republican wrath. But as Ethan's understanding of the many facets of the power and wisdom of God had matured, Charlton had been stored away, along with the other artifacts of his childhood, and replaced by images of three celebrities, all of them woefully inadequate to be divine representations.

If he had to hear voices, why couldn't they have come from more dignified people? Albert Schweitzer, for example? Or Mother Teresa? Why couldn't he get his inspiration from Martin Luther King or Mahatma Ghandi? Unfortunately, Ethan was a product of his culture, and he'd always liked movies and TV. Thus, he seemed to be stuck with pop icons.

"Is it too cold in here?" he asked, trying to overcome his animosity. "I can turn the air-conditioning down."

"Just fine, Rev."

Her cheeky manner set his teeth on edge, and he silently berated Gabe for getting him into this situation. But his brother had sounded so desperate on the phone when he'd called less than an hour ago that Ethan hadn't been able to refuse him.

When Ethan had arrived at the Pride of Carolina, he'd found the door of the snack shop locked and Rachel and her son sitting on the turtle in the playground. There was no sign of Gabe. He'd helped load up the pitiful pile of possessions that was stacked over by the riverbank, and now he was taking them to Heartache Mountain and Annie's cottage.

Rachel glanced over at him. "Why are you helping me?"

He remembered her as being shy, and her directness took him aback, just as it had two days earlier. "Gabe asked me to."

"He asked you two days ago, but you refused."

He said nothing. In some way he couldn't entirely define, he resented this woman even more than he'd resented G. Dwayne. Her husband had been an obvious crook, but she was a more subtle one.

She gave a wry laugh. "It's okay, Rev. I forgive you for hating my guts."

"I don't hate you. I don't hate anyone." He sounded stuffy and pompous.

"How noble."

Her disdain angered him. What right did she have to be condescending after she and her husband had destroyed so much with their greed?

None of the county's ministers had been able to compete with the Temple of Salvation's riches. They didn't have rhinestone-flecked choir robes or laser-enhanced worship services. The Temple had offered Las Vegas in the name of Jesus Christ, and many of the local church members couldn't resist the combination of show-business glitter and easy answers offered by G. Dwayne Snopes.

Unfortunately, as members fled their local congregations, they took their money with them, along with the funds that had always supported the county's good causes. Before long, an area drug program was abandoned, then the food pantry hours were cut back. But the biggest loss had been the county's small storefront medical clinic, an interdenominational venture that had been the pride of the local clergy. They had watched helplessly as the money their churches had spent helping the poor ended up in G. Dwayne Snopes's bottomless pockets instead. And Rachel had been a big part of that.

He remembered the day he'd impulsively introduced himself to her as she was coming out of the bank. He'd told her about the clinic that was being forced to close and been encouraged by what he'd interpreted as a genuine look of concern behind her mascara-coated eyelashes.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Reverend Bonner."

"I'm not trying to assign blame," he'd said, "but the Temple of Salvation has taken so many members from our local congregations that the churches have had to abandon one worthy project after another."

She'd stiffened, and he could see that he'd made her defensive. "You can't blame what's happened on the Temple."

He should have been more tactful, but the large sapphires in her earlobes caught the sunlight, and he thought how even one of those stones could help keep the clinic open. "I'll admit that I'd like to see the Temple show a little more responsibility to the community."

"The Temple has pumped hundreds of thousands of dollars into this county."

"Into the business community, but not into philanthropy."

"You're obviously not a regular viewer, Reverend Bonner, or you'd know that the Temple does wonderful work. Orphanages throughout Africa depend on us."

Ethan had been trying to look into those orphanages, along with the rest of the Temple's finances, and he wouldn't let this pampered woman decked out in flashy jewelry and too-high heels get by with that one. "Tell me, Mrs. Snopes, am I the only one who wonders exactly how many of those millions of dollars your husband collects for orphans actually make their way to Africa?"

Her green eyes had turned into chips of ice, and he saw a flash of redhead's temper. "You shouldn't blame my husband because he has the energy and imagination to keep his pews filled on Sunday morning."

He couldn't hide his anger. "I won't turn my worship service into a lounge act for anyone."

If she'd responded sarcastically, maybe he could have forgotten about their encounter, but her voice had softened with something like sympathy. "Maybe that's where you're going wrong, Reverend Bonner. It's not your worship service. It belongs to God."

As she'd walked away, he had been forced to acknowledge the painful truth he didn't want to face. The grandiose success of the Temple merely highlighted his own shortcomings.

Although his sermons were thoughtful and delivered from the heart, they weren't dramatic. He'd never stirred his congregation to tears with the passion of his message. He couldn't heal the sick or make the crippled walk, and the walls of his church hadn't been bursting from overcrowding, even before G. Dwayne's arrival in Salvation.

Maybe that was why the dislike he felt for Rachel Snopes was so personal. She had held up a mirror that made him face what he didn't want to see—his utter lack of suitability to be a minister.

He turned off the highway onto the narrow road that led up Heartache Mountain to Annie's cottage. It was located less than a mile from the entrance of the drive-in.

Rachel pushed a tangled lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry about your grandmother. Annie Glide was a feisty woman."

"You knew her?"

"Unfortunately. She had an aversion to Dwayne right from the beginning, and since she couldn't get past his bodyguards to give him a piece of her mind, she gave it to me instead."

"Annie was a woman of strong opinions."

"When did she die?"

"About five months ago. Her heart finally gave out. She had a good life, but we miss her."

"Has her house been empty since then?"

"Until recently. My secretary, Kristy Brown, has been living there for the past few weeks. The lease expired on her apartment before her new condo was ready, so she's staying here temporarily."

Rachel's forehead creased. "I'm sure she won't want two strangers moving in with her."

"It'll only be for a few nights," he said pointedly.

Rachel heard the unspoken message, but she ignored it. A few nights. She needed longer than that to find the Kennedy chest.

She thought of the unknown woman who was about to have a stranger and a small child move in with her. And not just any stranger, but the town's most notorious citizen. Her head ached, and she surreptitiously pressed the fingertips of one hand to her temple.

Ethan swung wide to avoid a rut, and she banged her shoulder against the door. She glanced into the backseat to make certain Edward was all right and saw that he had a death grip on Horse. She remembered the grip Bonner'd had on her when he'd slipped his hand between her legs.

His cruelty had been deliberate and calculated, so why hadn't she been more frightened? She was no longer certain of anything, not her emotions, not even the unsettling combination of self-loathing and suffering she thought she'd seen in his eyes. She should be enraged by what had happened, but the strongest feeling she could conjure up at the moment was exhaustion.

They rounded the last bend, and the car stopped in front of a tin-roofed cottage with an overgrown garden on one side and a line of trees to the other. The house was obviously old, but it had a fresh coat of white paint, shiny dark-green shutters, and a stone chimney. Two wooden steps led to a porch, where a tattered wind sock flapped from the far corner.

With no warning at all, tears stung Rachel's eyes. This shabby old place seemed to her to be the very definition of the word home. It represented stability, roots, everything she wanted for her child.

Ethan unloaded their things on the porch, then opened the front door with his key and stood aside so she could enter. She drew in her breath. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, turning the old wooden floors to butternut and casting a golden glow on the cozy stone fireplace. The furnishings were simple: brown wicker chairs with chintz cushions, a pine washstand topped by a sponge-painted lamp. An ancient pine-blanket chest served as a coffee table, and someone had filled a galvanized tin watering can with wildflowers and set it on top. It was beautiful.

"Annie collected junk, but my parents and I cleaned most of it out after she died. We kept it furnished so Gabe could move in here if he wanted, but the place had too many memories for him."

She began to ask what kind of memories, only to have him disappear through a doorway that led into a kitchen off to the left. He reappeared with a set of keys. "Gabe said to give you these."

As Rachel gazed at the keys, she recognized them for what they were, a sign of Gabe's guilt. Once again, she remembered the ugly scene between them. It was almost as if Gabe had been attacking himself instead of her. She shuddered inwardly as she wondered what other paths his course toward self-destruction might take.

With Edward trailing behind, she followed Ethan through the kitchen, which held a scarred pine farm table surrounded by four pressed-back oak chairs with cane seats. Simple muslin curtains draped the window, and a cupboard with punched tin doors stood opposite a white enamel Depressionera gas stove. As she inhaled the particular scent of old wood and generations of family meals, she wanted to weep.

Ethan led them out the back door and around the side of the cottage to an old single-car garage. One of the double set of doors dragged in the dirt as he pulled it open. She followed him inside and saw a battered red Ford Escort hatchback of indeterminate vintage.

"This belongs to my sister-in-law. She has a new car, but she won't let anybody get rid of this one. Gabe said you could drive it for a couple of days."

Rachel remembered the scholarly-looking blond in the People magazine photo. This wasn't her idea of the kind of car a woman like Dr. Jane Darlington Bonner would drive, but she wasn't going to argue with her good fortune. With a sense of shock, she realized that she'd been given everything she needed: a job, shelter, transportation. And she owed every bit of it to Gabe Bonner and his guilt.

The fact that he would also snatch all this away the moment his guilt faded wasn't lost on her, and she knew she would have to move quickly. Somehow she had to get her hands on the Kennedy chest soon.

"Hasn't it occurred to you that I may run off with your sister-in-law's car, and she'll never see it again?"

He gazed distastefully at the battered Escort and handed her the keys. "We couldn't be that lucky."

She watched him walk away, then heard his car start. Edward came up behind her.

"Is he really giving us that car?"

"We're just borrowing it." Despite its condition, she thought it was the most beautiful vehicle she'd ever seen.

Edward looked toward the house. He scratched the back of his calf with the opposite sneaker and watched a bluebird fly from an old magnolia and settle on the peak of the tin roof. His eyes were filled with yearning. "Do we really get to stay here?"

She thought about the mysterious Kristy Brown. "For a little while. A woman is already living here, and I'm not sure how she's going to like having the two of us move in with her, so we'll have to see what happens."

Edward scowled. "Do you think she'll be mean like him?"

No need to ask who him was. "Nobody could be mean like him." She gave his cheek a quick peck. "Let's go get our things and put them away." Hand in hand, they crossed the small stretch of grass toward the house.

In addition to the living room and old-fashioned kitchen, the cottage had three bedrooms, one of them a small room that held a narrow iron bed and an old black Singer sewing machine. She put Edward there, despite his protests that he wanted to sleep with her.

Bonner's comment about turning Edward into a sissy stung. He didn't understand about Edward's illness and the effect their chaotic lifestyle was having on her son. Still, she knew Edward was immature for his age, and she hoped having his own room, even if it were only for a few weeks, would give him a little self-confidence.

She chose the other unoccupied bedroom for herself. It was simply furnished with a maple bed, a wedding-ring quilt, an oak chest of drawers with carved wooden drawer pulls, and an oval braided rug fraying a bit on the edges. Edward came in to watch her put her things away.

She had just finished when she heard the front door open. She shut her eyes for a moment to gather her strength, then touched Edward's arm. "Stay here, sweetheart, until I have a chance to introduce us."

A small, rather stern-looking woman stood just inside the front door. She appeared to be a few years older than Rachel, maybe in her very early thirties. She was modestly dressed in a tan blouse buttoned to her throat and a straight brown skirt. She wore no makeup, and her dark-brown hair hung straight to just below her jawline.

As Rachel drew nearer, she saw that the woman wasn't really homely at all, merely a bit drab. She had small, regular features and trim legs, but there was a severity about her that overshadowed those attributes and made her seem older than her smooth complexion indicated.

"Hello," Rachel said. "You must be Miss Brown."

"I'm Kristy." The woman wasn't unfriendly. Rather, Rachel received the impression of deep reserve.

Rachel realized her palms were sweating. As she tried to surreptitiously wipe them on the legs of her jeans, her index finger caught in one of the tears. She snatched it out before she did any more damage. "I'm really sorry about this. Reverend Bonner kept saying you wouldn't mind having us stay here, but…"

"It's all right." As Kristy walked into the living room, she set the paper sack she'd been carrying on the pine-blanket chest, next to the watering can of wildflowers, and placed her rather matronly black purse on one of the brown wicker chairs.

"It's not all right. I know this is an awful imposition, but I don't seem to have anywhere else to go at the moment."

"I understand."

Rachel regarded her doubtfully. Kristy Brown couldn't be pleased with the prospect of housing the most hated woman in Salvation, but her expression gave little away. "You know who I am, don't you?"

"You're Dwayne Snopes's widow." She straightened the quilt that lay over the couch with an efficiency of motion that Rachel guessed was characteristic of everything she did. Rachel noticed that her hands were small and graceful, her neat oval fingernails covered with clear polish.

"Taking me in won't make you too popular in the community."

"I try to do what's right." Her words were sanctimonious, and she spoke them a bit stiffly. Still, something about her manner made them seem genuine.

"I took the unoccupied bedroom and put my son in the sewing room. I hope that's all right. We'll try to stay out of your way as much as possible."

"That's not necessary." She glanced around the room toward the kitchen. "Where's your little boy?"

She forced herself to turn toward the bedroom. "Edward, would you come out here? He's a little shy." She hoped this explanation would keep Kristy from expecting too much from him.

Edward appeared in the doorway. He'd tucked Horse head-first into the waistband of his tan shorts, and he stared at the toes of his sneakers as if he'd done something wrong.

"Kristy, this is my son Edward. Edward, I'd like you to meet Miss Brown."

"Hi." He didn't look up.

To Rachel's annoyance, Kristy didn't say anything to ease his shyness but simply stared at him. This was going to be even worse than she'd thought. The last thing Edward needed around him was another hostile adult.

Edward finally lifted his eyes, apparently curious why he hadn't received a response.

Kristy's mouth curled into a full-fledged smile. "Hello, Edward. Pastor Ethan said you'd be here. I'm happy to meet you."

Edward smiled back.

Kristy picked up the sack from the blanket chest and walked over to him. "When I heard you'd be staying here, I brought you something. I hope you like it." Rachel watched Kristy kneel down until she and Edward were on eye level.

"You brought me a present?" Edward couldn't have sounded more surprised.

"Nothing fancy. I wasn't sure what you'd like." She handed him the sack. He opened it, and his eyes widened. "A book! A new book!" His features clouded. "Is it really for me?"

Rachel's heart felt as if it were breaking. There had been so much bad in Edward's life, he couldn't believe anything good was happening.

"Of course it's for you. It's called Stellaluna, and it's about a baby bat. Would you like me to read it?"

Edward nodded, and the two of them settled on the couch as Kristy began to read. As Rachel watched, a lump grew in her throat. He interrupted Kristy with questions, which she patiently answered, and as they continued reading, her plainness disappeared. She laughed at his chatter, her eyes sparkled, and she looked pretty.

Their interaction continued through the supper she insisted they share. Rachel ate sparingly, not willing to deprive Edward of even a bite of the chicken casserole he was devouring. With a feeling of pure pleasure, she watched the food disappear into his mouth.

After dinner, Rachel insisted on cleaning up, but Kristy wouldn't let her do it alone. While Edward sat on the front porch with his precious book, the two women worked in awkward silence.

Kristy finally broke it. "Have you thought about putting Edward in day care? There's an excellent facility at church, with a nursery school attached."

Rachel's cheeks burned. Edward needed to be around other children, and it would have done him so much good to be separated from her for a little bit. "I'm afraid I can't afford it right now."

Kristy hesitated. "It won't cost you anything. There's a scholarship I'm sure he'll qualify for."

"A scholarship?"

Kristy wouldn't quite meet her eyes. "Let me take him with me when I go to work tomorrow morning. I'll get it all straightened out."

There was no scholarship. This was charity, and more than anything, Rachel wanted to refuse. But she couldn't afford pride where her son was concerned. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I'd appreciate it."

The compassion she saw in Kristy's eyes filled her with shame.

That night, after Edward was asleep, she let herself out the back door and down the wooden steps. They creaked as she turned on the flashlight she'd remembered to take from the Impala's glove compartment before the car had been towed. Even though she was so tired that her legs felt boneless, there was something she needed to do before she could allow herself to sleep.

Keeping the beam low to the ground, she swept it along the line of trees behind the house until she found what she was looking for, a narrow path that curled into the woods. She walked toward it, picking out obstacles so she wouldn't trip.

A branch brushed her cheek, and a night bird cooed. Having been raised in the country, she liked being outside at night when she could be alone with the quiet and the clean, cool smells. Now, however, she could barely concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

Annie Glide's cottage was set high on Heartache Mountain, less than half a mile from Rachel's destination, but she had to stop several times to rest. In the end, it took her nearly half an hour to reach the notch. When she got there, she collapsed on a small outcrop of rock and looked down the other side of the mountain. Down toward the house where she had lived with G. Dwayne Snopes.

It sat brooding in the valley below, built on blood money and deception. The windows were dark now, and moonlight picked out the structure's shape but not its details. Still, Rachel didn't need light to remember how ugly it was, how overly grandiose and phony, just like Dwayne.

The garish monstrosity had been his idea of a Southern plantation. A pair of black wrought-iron gates decorated with gold praying hands blocked the bottom of the drive, while the exterior of the house held six massive white columns and a balcony decorated with ugly gold grill-work. The interior was filled with crypt-like black marble, ostentatious chandeliers, swags and tassels, mirrors and glitz, all of it capped off by a marble fountain in the foyer featuring colored lights and a Grecian maiden with showgirl breasts. She wondered if Cal Bonner and his wife possessed the good taste to remove the fountain, but then, she couldn't imagine anyone with good taste buying the awful house in the first place.

It was a steep descent into the valley, but one she'd made many times during the four years she'd lived there as she'd escaped the oppression of her marriage on her morning walks. The impatient part of her wanted to make that descent tonight, but she wasn't that foolhardy. Not only didn't she have the strength, but she also needed to be better prepared.

Soon. Soon, she would descend Heartache Mountain and claim what belonged to her son.