“I hope you mean that,” she said finally, and there was a slight husky note in her voice before she turned away to gaze out the open porthole. “It’s long past the time for us to make our marriage work. I’m so weary of running, of being lonely and uncertain. Perhaps I am behaving as you’ve said I am before—a nag, but only because I don’t want us to fall into that trap again.”

“We won’t. Have some faith in us. Just don’t try to talk it to death, Ginny.”

She turned back to face him; growing light spread over her face, illuminating the spare cushion of high cheekbones and the straight, slim nose above her deliciously tempting lips, the mouth of a demimonde curving into a faint smile. A dimple flirted at one side and the cleft in her chin deepened as she laughed softly.

“I’d forgotten how blunt you can be when I least expect it. I suppose I should be grateful you’re not your usual sarcastic self.”

Her smile eased the tart words and she shook her head the smallest bit when he shrugged.

“Yeah, I’ve been told that I’m not always so charming.”

“I have no doubt of that, and by more women than I’d care to know about, I’m certain. Oh, don’t look at me that way. I have no intention of asking for names and places. It would take far too long. You have had far too many women in your life.”

“But none of them ever haunted me like you have,” he said, an attempt at levity that fell flat. It was faintly surprising to realize he meant it. No woman had ever stuck in his mind like Ginny…not even the other woman he had once asked to marry him.

Elizabeth Cady Burneson stepped out onto the porch of the rambling ranch house and stared at the black hills outlined against a red sky. Sunset was beautiful, a time of peace for her, as the day’s chores were nearly finished and the children ready for bed. She sagged against a weathered post, weary but content. Lingering scents of a fresh apple pie drifted on the soft air, late summer blending mellow light and fragrances most pleasantly.

A muffled giggle drifted out the open door and then a childish shriek; she smiled as she heard Martin’s laughter.

He was so good with the children, as he had promised he would be. Even with the child who was not his own, but another man’s son, the child that his real father had never seen, or even knew about. The only legacy of his parentage was in his middle name. He had been christened Matthew Morgan Burneson, at Martin’s insistence, for he said that the boy should inherit something of his real father, even if only a name.