At first her father hadn’t even noticed the tiara and the choker: they seemed a part of her. Judith rarely bought her own jewelry, and never without first consulting him. He wondered where these exquisite pieces had come from, not that it mattered. On his daughter, they were perfect.

“Are you happy, Judith?”

“Daddy...I’ve never been happier.”

In truth, she had never looked happier. The troubled sighs and temperament of the past weeks had gone. Now she seemed to glow with health and contentment.

Reluctantly, Crockett gave the credit to Count András Balaton. Ever since Judith had rescued him from the refugee camps and brought him to their hotel in Vienna, Crockett had been trying to find out who the dashing young Hungarian really was. Count, my blue butt, he’d thought, absolutely certain the title was a wishful fabrication. But he wouldn’t be the first refugee to think up an interesting past for himself.

The news coming out of Hungary was contradictory and frightening, Crockett had thought. The revolution—if it could be called that—had lasted a matter of days, and had been fiercely and brutally crushed. No one was surprised, least of all J. Land Crockett, who considered himself a proud cynic when it came to human nature. Not all the tens of thousands who had crossed the borders into the West proved to be so-called freedom fighters. There were whores and delinquents and opportunists among them—and good people, honest people. He couldn’t deny that. They’d left behind dead brothers, fathers, mothers, sisters, and they’d fled their homeland because the hope for the future had been sucked out of them.

But Crockett didn’t give a damn about them. Budapest, Belgrade, Bucharest—hell, they were all the same to him. He only wanted to know about the clever, handsome young man who had so effortlessly captured the heart of Judith Land. That was all.

“Don’t look so worried, Daddy. Everything will be wonderful.”

“You’ll let me know if it’s not? You’d tell me if you’re unhappy? Judith, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing. Remember that.”

“I will, Daddy. But please don’t worry. I have every intention of being very, very happy.”

They were the last words he had ever spoken face-to-face with his daughter. The next time he saw her, she was lying twisted and broken and still in the dusty dirt of his Texas ranch.

The light of his life was dead.

Shortly after lunch, Ashley burst into the farmhouse kitchen. “David? Barky? Hey, you guys!”

A feeble voice answered, “Ash.”

She found David wrapped in a ratty afghan in the living room and gasped at his bruised and bloody face. His eyes and lips were swollen, and blood had coagulated around his nose. But he attempted a grin. “Hey, Ash.” He coughed a little and winced in pain, holding his abdomen. “Rotten day. How’s everything in Boston?”

“David. What happened?”

Haltingly, he told her. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ve been in bar fights worse than this—’cept I usually win.”