And the father? Was it Balaton, whom Crockett had liked, nurtured, treated like a son? Or was it the farmer? The madman.

In the beginning, when he’d seen the tiara and choker and studied the impertinent lovely face of Ashley Wakefield, seeing the eyes of his wife, his daughter, comparing the photograph with the portrait—in the beginning, he had wanted only to hate her. She had lived and Judith had died. He wanted to know who she was, wanted answers, but he didn’t want anything to do with this woman who called herself Ashley Wakefield.

But he had changed his mind. An old man, he thought, has that right.

There was a commotion going on behind him. Roger was saying sharply, “Miss Balaton, please be reasonable—”

“No, I want to talk to Crockett.”

She stormed onto the porch, and turning from the screens, Crockett controlled any surprise he might have felt from entering his face. She was wet and windblown, exhausted and very angry. “Sarah Balaton. Well, well. Did you come with your father and David Wakefield?”

Her face went pale, but she made an effort to retain her sense of outrage. “No, of course not. You told them to leave me behind....”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I did no such thing.”

“Aren’t they here?” Her voice was very small.

“No.”

“But they...they left about forty-five minutes before I did. I had to find a boat, and...they should be here by now. What have you done with them?”

Crockett recalled the phone call from David, that Balaton had volunteered to get him. What was his game? Had Bartholomew Wakefield intercepted them? How?

“Well, then where in the name of hell are they now?” he demanded of no one in particular. “Dammit. Roger, notify the Coast Guard at once. I want that boat found.”

Sarah was beginning to hyperventilate. “Daddy...”

“There’s nothing we can do, Sarah,” Crockett snapped, but he regretted his gruffness. The poor girl looked so forlorn. Despite his own impatience and concern, he softened his tone. “We’ll just have to wait. And Roger, bring more tea, with lots of sugar. Sarah’ll be needing something in her system to keep her going.”

Even in the torture of labor, Judith Land was radiant. Her lightly tanned skin gleamed with perspiration, and her hair was matted and tangled; dark soaked tendrils hung in her face. For fourteen hours, the pains had been coming. Now it was nearly impossible to tell when they began and when they ended.

The man who had agreed to help her laid a fresh white sheet under her, and he softly told her she could begin to push now.

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“You must, Just let the baby come....”

“I can’t do it!”

Her abdomen was enormous. In the last days, her joints had swelled in the blistering summer heat and humidity, and she had moved about slowly, wishing for an end to this miserable pregnancy. She had no qualms about swearing about her discomfort. Women had babies, she said, because men could never tolerate such prolonged agony.