She had always been in control of her life and the people around her. Since her mother’s untimely death twenty years ago—the newborn, a boy, had died at birth—her father had doted on Mary Beth, granting her every wish. When she was little, her Grandma Lloyd watched over her. Once she’d started kindergarten, her father, as a school principal, spent as much time with her as his schedule allowed. They had the same days off and shared the long stretch of weeks in the summer months. Howard Caine let nothing come between him and his only child.

Her Grandma Lloyd had been a strong-minded, highly moral woman who would have a few things to say about her current predicament, Mary Beth thought ruefully.

Love for her grandchild had often overruled her grandmother’s better judgment, though. She had spoiled Mary Beth shamelessly while at the same time managing to instill character by dint of her own example.

But sometimes Mary Beth wished she could be a little less responsible. Being a good girl meant you didn’t take chances. Sometimes even she forgot that she was an emotional person, as vulnerable as any other woman when it came to love.

“Mother’s flowers are beautiful.” But not as beautiful as you, Parr thought as he spoke.

Facing him at last, she replied, “Yes, they are. Alma and Mr. Mays put a lot of work into this garden.”

“Would you believe that she had a fit when I first hired Mays to help her?” He began walking steadily in her direction. “She didn’t want a gardener any more than she wants a housekeeper.”

“I can just imagine.” Mary Beth smiled, her eyes finally making contact with his. What she saw in those obsidian depths startled her, but before she could respond, his expression quickly changed from desire to concealment.

“That rosebush over there,” he said, pointing to a large, healthy shrub, “was moved from the old house. I helped her plant it again when I was about ten. It was one of the few things the old man ever gave her.”

“It’s hard to hate a rosebush.”

Even nature was a loaded subject. She knew that Bobby Joe was the only one in the family who ever mentioned Kenneth Weston without any trace of bitterness. Even Alma, who seldom spoke of her late husband, couldn’t hide the hostility in her voice whenever she said his name.

“Guess so.”

“Alma certainly has a green thumb.” She wanted to start running to him, to meet him halfway, but she couldn’t move. There was something odd about the way he was acting that made her uneasy. “I’m the opposite. Every plant I buy seems to keel over within a week. Hands of death,” she joked, wiggling her fingers at him.

He was suddenly right beside her, his rugged six-foot-three frame towering over her, his big, rough hands reaching out to take hers. “No way.”