Wednesday's Child. Gayle Wilson

but Jeb could do anything. I remember when he was a little boy, he was as rough-and-tumble as a child could be. Into every sport known to man. Far more than my brother, Jubal, or his father ever were.”

      It was slightly disconcerting for Susan to think about the man who had answered the door tonight as a little boy. The persona he’d projected had been too blatantly masculine, even to his determination not to allow her to make any of the normal concessions because of his limp.

      “Here I am, babbling on while your tea’s getting cold,” Lorena said. “It’s just so nice to have a guest again. You go on now and eat up. I didn’t mean to keep you from your meal. Folks always like to just settle in their first night.”

      Susan smiled, unable to resist either the kindness or the food. She picked up the sandwich, bringing it to her mouth as the old woman crossed the suite and closed the door to the hall. As soon as she disappeared, Susan lowered the food, hunger forgotten.

      Special Forces, Lorena had said. And the information fit her initial impressions of Jeb Bedford. The military-style haircut. The olive-drab T-shirt. Even his arrogance.

      He was old enough, maybe midthirties, that he must have been a career soldier. And an officer, of course. There was no logical reason for her certainty about that, nothing except the indefinable air of being in command that had been obvious even in the few minutes she’d spent with him.

      And it had been only minutes. She had no idea why Jeb Bedford had made such an impression. He had been outright rude, at least until she had told him why she was here. Apparently, although he clearly rejected any sympathy for himself, he wasn’t incapable of feeling it for others.

      She attempted to put Lorena’s great-nephew from her mind, lifting the sandwich again. This time she took a bite, savoring the salt-smoke flavor of country ham, perfectly complemented by mayonnaise and the yeasty bread.

      She ate half of it before she stopped to taste her tea and realized she hadn’t asked if it was decaf. Tonight it wouldn’t matter. Once she lay down on that feather mattress, she’d be asleep in a matter of minutes. Something devotedly to be wished for, given the events of the last few days.

      This afternoon she had seen the river that had taken Richard’s life. No longer were the images of his death imaginary as they had been during the last forty-eight hours. She had been to the place where he’d died. Smelled the miasma of that muddy, slow-moving water. And she would never be able to forget any of it.

      She banished those images, determined not to think about them anymore. Tonight she would finish her sandwich and drink her tea and then climb between the lavender-scented sheets her hostess had already turned back.

      And then tomorrow she would set about finding Emma.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      JEB UNSTRAPPED the weighted belt from his ankle and tossed it on the stone floor, waiting for the familiar agony to subside. Damaged muscles still trembling in the aftermath of exertion, he picked up the towel that he’d draped across his waist and used it to wipe sweat from his eyes.

      Despite the warnings of Dr. Duncan McKey, the rehabilitation genius at Southeastern Rehab whom he’d come down here to work with, he had increased all the weights this morning as he’d gone through the routine he did twice a day. And he knew he would pay for that senseless bit of bravado.

      In spite of McKey’s continued encouragement, however, Jeb hadn’t been able to detect any improvement either in strength or flexibility during his last few sessions. With the medical board’s reevaluation in a few days, he desperately needed to believe there would be.

      Although McKey had warned him that overdoing could be as harmful to his progress as slacking off, Jeb had taken matters into his own hands. If he wasn’t able to demonstrate progress this time, he wasn’t sure the Army would give him another shot. After all, he had just about used up the special leave he’d been granted. And the military experts had been skeptical from the first, given the extent of his injuries, that he could get back into the kind of shape necessary to resume his duties with Combat Applications Group, the elite Delta Force team he’d been part of for over ten years.

      Actually, he was the only one who had ever believed that was possible. With encouragement from McKey, however, he had given it his all during the six months he’d been in Mississippi.

      He’d known from the first time he walked into the surgeon’s office that he’d found a kindred spirit. Between the framed degrees and awards had been an old poem Jeb had remembered reading as a child. It hadn’t made much of an impression then, but the final lines “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul” had, at the time, seemed to reflect his own determination. And obviously McKey’s philosophy as well.

      The problem was determination apparently wasn’t going to be good enough, he acknowledged bitterly, running his palm down the scar that bisected his thigh. Although that was now the most visible of the injuries he’d sustained when the land mine had exploded under his Humvee, it was the mangled foot and ankle that had defied his attempts—and those of his doctors—to regain the mobility he’d had before the injury. That was what the Army was demanding before they would consider returning him to CAG.

      It wasn’t that he didn’t understand their insistence. Or accept it. He did. After all, the lives of others might one day depend on how well he was able to perform. What he couldn’t seem to accept was that no matter how hard he worked, he might not be able to change what he feared was going to happen during the upcoming review at Walter Reed.

      Disgusted with how skewed his thinking had become this morning, he put the evaluation out of his mind. He wiped perspiration from his neck before he ran the towel across his hair.

      From upstairs came the familiar sounds of Lorena fixing breakfast. The soft clink of china. Water churning through the ancient pipes. And no voices.

      He glanced at his watch. It was only a little after six. Probably too early for their guest to be up. Which meant that if he didn’t want any further disruption to the routine he’d established since he’d been here, he should go up now and have his breakfast before she came downstairs.

      He didn’t bother to analyze why he wanted to avoid Susan Chandler. All he knew was that even after he’d cut out his bedside lamp last night, certain things about their meeting had replayed over and over, stuck in his mind like the notes of some half-forgotten melody. The way the dim light of the old-fashioned chandelier had put threads of gold in her hair. The way her eyes, their irises an unusual blue-gray, held on his, determined not to look at his damaged leg.

      He was doing it again, he realized. Dwelling on those few awkward minutes they’d been thrown together last night. It had been a long time since he’d been this conscious of a woman. Actually, Susan Chandler was the first woman he had reacted to this way since he’d been wounded.

      Just horny, he assured himself, his mouth relaxing into a grin. And a good sign. An indication of returning normality.

      In truth, she was a damn fine-looking woman. He should be worried if he wasn’t aware of her sexually—and therefore aware of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

      There was another sound from upstairs, one he couldn’t quite identify. Head cocked, he listened with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, but again there were no voices.

      He dropped the towel, running his left hand across the top of his hair as if to groom it. Then, balancing on his right leg, he pulled his sweatpants up over the gym shorts he wore.

      He could smell the biscuits as he climbed the basement stairs, his muscles still trembling from the routine. The area where he’d set up his equipment had at one time served as cold storage for things like apples and potatoes. It was always ten or fifteen degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

      Lorena’s age and the steepness of the stone steps prevented her from using it anymore. Since he’d been here, the basement under the kitchen had become his domain. One he would probably retreat to more often than