White Mountain. Dinah McCall

the count is made, there is no going back. Understood?”

      “Understood,” they echoed.

      He unfolded the first bit of paper.

      “Yes. It reads yes.”

      He laid it aside and picked up the next, unfolding it with methodical precision.

      “No.”

      He picked up the next and the next, until he had two votes for yes and two votes for no. The room was completely silent except for the occasional hiss of an indrawn breath and the faint scratchy sound of paper against paper.

      “This is the last and deciding vote. Whatever it—”

      “Just do it!” Jasper cried.

      David nodded, then unfolded the paper. His nostrils flared. His expression went blank. He looked up.

      The men held their breaths.

      “Yes.”

      A collective sigh filled the room, part of it tinged with disbelief, part of it echoing the inevitability of what lay ahead.

      “Then that’s that,” David said. “One more time.”

      “For Samuel,” Jasper added.

      “And for Frank,” Rufus said.

      They nodded, then stood. Without speaking, they left the apartment, adjourning to their own rooms to dress for breakfast. There was work to be done.

      Isabella handed the room key to the couple who’d just checked in, directed them to the elevator, then watched them as they walked away. She didn’t have to ask. She knew they were here for the clinic. There had been so many over the years that she’d come to recognize the quiet look of desperation they all wore. Saying a silent prayer for their success, she filed away their credit card information, then turned to answer the phone. As she did, she missed seeing Jack Dolan’s descent down the stairs.

      But he didn’t miss her.

      He’d heard her voice before he’d seen her, and despite his hunger for a hearty breakfast, he had to see her again—in broad daylight, when he could be absolutely certain she wasn’t the ghost he’d first imagined her to be.

      “Good morning.”

      Isabella turned around and found herself face-to-face with the man from the lobby last night. Her first impression was one of surprise. The night before, she’d been so wrapped up in her own grief that she’d failed to pay him much attention. To her, he’d just been a lost and hungry guest whom she’d fed and sent on his way. But now, with the early morning sunlight coming in through the mullioned windows over the entry doors, she had ample light by which to see. She took a deep breath. There was plenty to see.

      He was tall—taller even than her Uncle David, who was six feet two inches. His hair was thick and straight, a warm, chocolate brown, and clipped very short. His eyes were blue, with a tendency to squint. She could tell by the tiny fans of wrinkles at the corners of both eyes. He had the physique of a runner—lean and fit, without a spare ounce of flesh. His shoulders were broad, as was the smile he gave her when he leaned across the desk.

      “Good morning to you, too,” Isabella said. “I trust you slept well after your midnight snack.”

      Jack’s gaze swept the delicate curve of her cheek and neck, then back up to her face, looking for signs of exhaustion. They were still there, behind the smile.

      “I think I slept better than you,” he said. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

      The dull ache in her heart shifted slightly as his concern gave her momentary ease.

      “Thank you.” Then she changed the subject. “I’m guessing you’re headed to breakfast. The dining room is across the lobby and to your left.”

      Realizing he’d been politely dismissed, he nodded his thanks and turned away from the desk just as an odd assortment of elderly gentlemen exited the elevator and headed for the desk.

      “Isabella…darling…you have no business working like this so soon. Where is Delia?”

      Isabella blew Thomas Mowry a kiss. “Good morning, Uncle Thomas, and quit fussing about me. She’ll be here any moment, I’m sure.”

      Jack nodded politely as, one by one, the men gave him a studied look. These, he suspected, would be the men she referred to as her uncles.

      “Good morning, gentlemen,” Jack said.

      They nodded and smiled, but Jack could tell they were only being polite.

      “I’m Jack Dolan,” he said, and held out his hand to the nearest man.

      David Schultz hesitated, but only briefly, then accepted Jack’s offered hand.

      “Dr. David Schultz,” he said. “The gentleman to my right is Dr. Jasper Arnold, then Rufus Toombs, John Michaels, and the last one on my right is Thomas Mowry. We are Isabella’s uncles. Are you visiting family in the area?”

      “Nope,” Jack said. “All my family is still in Louisiana. I’m in the area gathering some research for a book.”

      John Michaels clapped his hands in delight.

      “A writer! I always wanted to write, didn’t I, Thomas?”

      Thomas Mowry shifted his glasses to a more comfortable position on his bulbous nose as he gave Jack a closer look.

      “So you’re a writer, are you? Are you published?”

      “Not yet.”

      “Ah…I see.”

      Jack felt a little like he used to feel when his father would look at his report card. The disappointment was always there, even though he had tried hard not to show it.