Chapter 1
Chapter 1
T he small dark room was airless and full of the familiar odors of saddle soap, well-oiled leather, and stale coffee. It began to sway eerily, as if the floorboards were buckling. Becca knew that her knees were beginning to give way, but she couldn’t steady herself and she had to clutch the corner of the desk in order to stay on her unsteady feet. Her throat was desert dry, her heart pounding with dread as she stared in horror at the small television set across the room. The delft blue coffee cup slipped from her fingers to splinter into a dozen pieces. A pool of murky brown coffee began to stain the weathered floorboards, but Becca didn’t notice.
“No!” she cried aloud, though no one else was in the room. Her free hand flew to the base of her throat. “Dear God, no,” she moaned. Tears threatened to pool in her eyes and she leaned more heavily against the desk, brushing against a stack of paperwork that slid noiselessly to the floor. Becca’s green eyes never left the black and white image on the television but fastened fearfully on the self-assured newscaster who was tonelessly recounting the untimely death of oil baron Jason Chambers.
Flashes of secret memories flitted through Becca’s mind as she listened in numbed silence to the even-featured anchorman. Her oval face paled in fear and apprehension and she felt a very small, very vital part of her past begin to wither and die. As the reporter reconstructed the series of events that had led to the fatal crash, Becca vainly attempted to get a grip on herself. It was impossible. Dry wasted tears, full of the anguish of six lost years, burned at the back of her throat, and her breath became as shallow and rapid as her heartbeat. “ No !” She groaned desperately. “It can’t be!” Her small fist clenched with the turmoil of emotions and thudded hollowly against the top of the desk.
Hurried footsteps pounded on the wooden stairs, but Becca didn’t notice. She couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. The door to the tiny room was thrust open to bang heavily against the wall, and a man of medium height, his face twisted in concern, rushed into the office.
“What the hell?” he asked as he noticed the defeated slump of Becca’s shoulders and the stricken, near-dead look in her round eyes. She didn’t move. It was as if she hadn’t heard his entrance. “Becca?” he called softly, and frowned with worry when she didn’t immediately respond. He took in the scene before him and wondered about the broken cup and the brown coffee that was running over a scattered pile of legal documents on the floor. Still Becca’s fearful eyes remained glued to the television set. “Becca,” Dean repeated, more sharply. “What the hell’s going on here? I was on my way up here when I heard you scream—”
Becca cut him off by raising her arm and opening her palm to silence him. Taken aback at his sister’s strange behavior, Dean turned his attention to the television for the first time since entering the room. The small black-and-white set was tuned into the news; the story, which held his sister mutely transfixed, was about some light plane crash in the Southern Oregon Cascades. No big deal, Dean thought to himself. It happened all the time; a careless pilot got caught in bad weather and went down in the mountains. So what? Dean shifted from one foot to the other and searched Becca’s stricken white face, searching for a clue to her odd actions. What was happening here? Becca wasn’t one to overreact. If anything, Dean considered his younger sister too even-tempered for her own good. A real cool lady. Becca’s poise rarely escaped her, but it sure as hell was gone today.
While still attempting to piece together Becca’s strange reaction, Dean leaned over to pick up some of the forgotten legal documents. It was then that the weight of the news story struck him: Only one man could break his sister’s cool, self-assured composure, and that man, if given the chance, could cruelly twist Becca’s heart to the breaking point. It had happened once before. It could happen again, and this time it would be much worse; this time that man had the power to destroy everything Dean had worked toward for six long years.
Silently Dean’s thin lips drew downward and his icy blue eyes slid to the screen to confirm his worst fears. He waited while the sweat collected on his palms. A faded photograph of Jason Chambers was flashed onto the screen and Dean’s pulse began to jump. It was true! Jason Chambers, head of one of the largest oil companies in the western United States, was dead. Dean swallowed back the bile collecting in the back of his throat.
The news of Jason Chambers’ death didn’t fully explain Becca’s outburst. Dean wiped his hands on his jeans before straightening and then listened to the conclusion of the report. He hoped that the reporter would answer the one burning question in his mind—perhaps there was still a way out of his own dilemma. He was disappointed; the question remained unanswered. Dean’s jaw tightened anxiously. When the news turned to the political scene, Dean turned the set off.
Becca slumped into the worn couch near the desk and tears began to run down her soft cheeks. She wiped them hurriedly aside as the shock of the newscast began to wear off and the reality of the situation took hold of her. Her hand, which had been raised protectively over her breasts, slowly lowered.
“Are you all right?” Dean asked, his voice harsh despite his concern. He poured a fresh cup of coffee and handed her the mug.
“I . . . I think so . . .” Becca nodded slowly, but she had to catch her trembling lower lip between her teeth. She accepted the warm mug and let its heat radiate some warmth into her hands. Though the temperature in the stifling office had to be well over eighty degrees, Becca felt chilled to the bone.
The silence in the room was awkward. Dean shifted his weight uncomfortably. He was angry, but he didn’t really know whom to blame. It was obvious that Becca was caught in the web of memories of her past, memories of Brig Chambers and his tragic horse. Dean’s lips pursed into a thin line as he paced restlessly in front of the desk while Becca stared vacantly at the floor. A silent oath aimed at the man who had caused his sister so much pain entered his mind. Brig Chambers could ruin everything! Dean coughed when he leaned against the windowsill and looked across the spreading acres of Starlight Breeding Farm. Brig Chambers, if he was still alive, had the power to take it all away!
Dean asked the one question hanging between his sister and himself. “Was there anyone with Jason Chambers in that plane?”
Becca closed her eyes as if to shield herself from the doubts in her mind. “I don’t know,” she whispered raggedly.
Dean frowned and rubbed his hands over his bare forearms. He pushed his straw Stetson back on his head, and his reddish eyebrows drew together. His blue eyes seemed almost condemning. “What did the reporter say?”
“Nothing . . . the accident had only happened a couple of hours ago. No one seemed to be sure exactly what caused the crash . . . or who was in the plane. The reporter didn’t seem to know too much.” Becca moved her head slowly from side to side, as if to erase her steadily mounting fear.
“The station didn’t know who was in the plane?” Dean was skeptical.
“Not yet,” she replied grimly.
Dean ran a hand over his unshaven cheek and pressed on. “But surely someone at Chambers Oil would know.”
Becca sagged even deeper into the cracked leather cushions and toyed with her single, honey-colored braid. It was difficult to keep her mind on her brother’s questions when thoughts of Brig continued to assail her. “The reporter said that there was a rumor suggesting that Jason might have had a couple of passengers with him,” Becca admitted in a rough whisper. Hadn’t Dean heard the story? Why was he pressuring her?
“Who?” Dean demanded. His blue eyes gleamed in interest.
Becca shrugged and fought against the dread that was making her feel cold and strangely alone. “No one seems to know for sure; I told you it’s only speculation that anyone was with Jason . . . no one at Chambers Oil is talking.”
“I’ll bet not,” Dean muttered, unable to hide the edge of sarcasm in his words. His eyes turned frigid.
“Maybe they just don’t know.”
“Sure, Becca,” he mocked. “You of all people know better than that. If Chambers Oil isn’t talking, there’s a good reason. You can count on it.”
“What do you mean?”
Dean looked his sister squarely in the eyes and the bitterness she saw in his cold gaze made her shudder. His scowl deepened. “What I mean is that we, you and I don’t know if Brig Chambers is alive or dead!”
Becca drew in a long, steadying breath as she met Dean’s uncompromising stare. Her brother’s harsh words had brought her deepest fear out into the open and she had to press her nails into her palms in order to face what might be the cruel truth. He can’t be dead, she thought wildly, grasping at any glimmer of hope, but fear crawled steadily through her body, making her blood run cold and wrenching her heart so savagely that it seemed to skip a beat in desperation.
She wouldn’t allow the small gleam of hope within her to die. “I think that if Brig had been on the plane, the television station would have known about it.”
“How?”
“From the oil company, I guess.”
“But they’re not talking. Remember?”
“I . . . just don’t think that Brig was on the plane.” Why didn’t she sound convincing?
“But you’re not sure, are you?”
“Oh, God, Dean,” she whispered into her clasped hands. “I’m not sure of anything right now!” As quickly as her words came out, she regretted them. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to snap at you; it’s not your fault,” she confessed wearily. “It’s all so confusing.” Silent tears once again ran down the elegant slopes of her cheeks.
“What are we going to do?” Dean asked, not moving from his haphazard position against the windowsill. Anxious lines of worry creased his tanned brow.
“I don’t know,” Becca admitted as she faced a tragedy she had never before considered. Was it possible? Could Brig really be dead? Her entire body was shaking as she drew her booted feet onto the edge of the couch and tucked her knees under her chin. As her forehead lowered, she closed her eyes to comfort herself. No matter what had happened, she vowed silently to herself that she would find a way to cope with it.
Dean watched his sister until the anger that had been simmering within him began to boil. His fist crashed onto the windowsill in his frustration. “I told you that we should never have gone back to old man Chambers,” he rebuked scornfully. “It was a mistake from the beginning to get involved with that family all over again. Look what a mess we’re in!”
“Not now, Dean,” Becca said wearily. “Let’s not argue about this again.”
“We have to talk about it, Becca.”
“Why? Can’t it wait?”
“No, it can’t wait, especially now. I told you that going back to Jason Chambers was a mistake, and I was certainly right, wasn’t I?”
“I had no choice,” Becca pointed out. “We had no choice.”
“Anything would have been better than this mess you managed to get us into! What the hell are we going to do now?”
Trying futilely to rise above the argument, Becca attempted to pull the pieces of her patience and shattered poise into place. “For God’s sake, Dean, Jason Chambers is dead! For all we know, other people might have died in that plane and all you can think about is the fact that we owe Jason Chambers some money.”
“Some money?” Dean echoed with a brittle laugh. “I wouldn’t call fifty thousand dollars ‘some money.’”
Becca could feel herself trembling in suppressed fury. “The man is dead, Dean. I don’t understand what you’re worried about—”
“Well, then, I’ll enlighten you, dear sister. If Jason Chambers is dead, we’re in one helluva mess. I don’t pretend to know much about estates and wills or anything that happens when a guy as rich as Jason Chambers kicks the bucket, but any idiot can figure out that all of his assets and liabilities will become part of his estate. You and I and the rest of Starlight Breeding Farm are part of those liabilities.” Dean took off his hat and raked his fingers through the sweaty strands of his strawberry-blond hair. “There’s only one man who is going to benefit by Jason Chambers’ death: his only son, Brig. That is, if the bastard is still alive.”
“Dean, don’t . . .” Becca began. She was visibly trembling when she rose from the couch, but in her anger some of the color had returned to her face and a spark of life lightened her pale green eyes.
“Don’t you dare come to the aid of Brig Chambers,” Dean warned. “Any praises you might sing in his behalf would sound a little hollow, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, Dean . . . all of that—”
“That what? Scandal?” Dean suggested ruthlessly.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not? Does the truth hurt too much? Don’t you remember what happened at Sequoia Park?”
“Stop it!” Becca shouted irritably. In a more controlled voice, she continued. “That was a long time ago.”
“Give me a break, will ya, Becca? Brig Chambers nearly destroyed your reputation as a horse breeder, didn’t he? And that doesn’t begin to touch what he did to you personally. Even if your memory conveniently fails you, I’ve still got mine.” Dean wiped a dusty layer of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand before striding to the small refrigerator and withdrawing a cold can of beer. He dropped into a chair, popped the tab of the can, and let the spray of cool white foam cascade down the frosty aluminum. After taking a lengthy swallow, he settled back into the chair and cradled the beer in his hands. His cold eyes impaled his sister, but he managed to control his temper. Calmly, he inquired, “You’re still carrying a torch for that bastard, aren’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t believe you.” Another long swallow of beer cooled Dean’s parched throat.
“Oh, Dean, let’s not argue. It’s so pointless. What happened between Brig and me is part of the past. He took care of that.”
Dean noticed the wistful sigh that accompanied her argument. “Then why did you run back to Brig’s father when you needed the loan?”
Becca’s full lips pursed. “We’ve been through this a hundred times. I had no other choice. No bank in the country would loan me ten thousand dollars, much less fifty thousand.”
“Exactly. Because Brig Chambers ruined your reputation as a horse breeder.” His knowing eyes glittered.
Becca ignored Dean’s snide comment. “Jason Chambers was my only chance . . . our only chance.”
Dean drained his beer and crushed the can in his fist. He tossed it toward the wastebasket and missed. The can rolled noisily across the floor to stop near the worn couch. “Well, Becca, you had better wake up and face facts. Our ‘only chance,’ as you refer to old man Chambers, is dead. And now, for all we know, his son, or whoever’s still alive, practically owns our Thoroughbred. The only thing we’ve got going in our favor is that no one knows about the loan or the horse. That is right, isn’t it? Jason Chambers was the only person who knew about Gypsy Wind?”
“I think so. He’s the only one at Chambers Oil who would have been interested.”
“Good! I guess we can count ourselves lucky that the local press hasn’t shown much interest in her. Maybe we’ll get a break yet. If our luck holds, the attorneys for Chambers Oil will be too busy with the rest of the Chambers empire to worry about our note for the fifty grand. Maybe they won’t even find it. The old man could have hidden it.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why? He wanted to avoid the publicity as much as we did.”
“That was before he died. I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Dean, but I don’t like it. There’s no way we can hide that horse and I wouldn’t want to try. The Chambers family has to be advised that the collateral for that note is Gypsy Wind. That’s only fair, Dean.”
“That’s not fair, Becca, it’s damned near crazy! How can you even think about being fair with the likes of Chambers? What’s going to happen is that we’ll lose our horse! The last six years of work will go down the drain! Take my advice and keep quiet about the Gypsy.”
“I can’t! You know that. Keeping quiet would only make things worse in the long run. Sooner or later someone in the Chambers family is going to find the note and realize that we owe that money. And what about the horse? Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t hide Gypsy. For one thing, she’s insured. Soon she’ll start racing. One way or another the Chambers family is going to find out about her.”
Dean muttered an oath to himself. “Okay, Sis, so where does that leave us? Back at square one? Just like we were six years ago? What the hell are we going to do?”
The headache that had been building between Becca’s temples pounded relentlessly against her eardrums. To relieve some of her tension, she tugged at the leather thong restraining her hair and pulled the thick golden strands free of their bond. Absently she rubbed her temples and ran her fingers through her long, sun-streaked tresses. “I wish I could answer you, Dean, but I can’t. Not right now. Maybe later—”
Dean ground his teeth together. “We can’t wait until you pull yourself together, damn it! We haven’t got the time!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that we have to find out if Brig Chambers is still alive! You’ve got to call Chambers Oil—”
“No,” Becca blurted. “I . . . can’t.”
Dean bit his lower lip and shook his hands in the air. “You have to, Becca. We’ve got to know if Brig was a passenger on that plane. We have to know if he went down with his father.”
“ No !” Becca’s face once again drained of color. Caught in the storm of emotions raging within her, she dropped her forehead into her palm. “We’ll find out soon enough,” she murmured.
“What are you afraid of?”
Becca’s green eyes, when she raised them, pleaded with her brother to understand. “I’m not ready, Dean. Not yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be . . . able to face the fact that Brig might be dead,” she admitted.
“So I was right. You are still in love with him.” Dean’s mouth pulled into a disgusted frown. “Damn it, Becca, when are you going to realize that Brig Chambers is the one man responsible for nearly ruining your life?”
The tears that Becca had been struggling against began once again to pool, but she held her head proudly as she faced her reproachful older brother. Why couldn’t Dean understand the pain she was going through? How could he remain so bitter? Her voice was low when she replied. “I know better than anyone what Brig did to me, and it hurt for a very long time. But I cared for that man, more than anything in my life . . . and I can’t forget that. It’s been over for a long time, but once he was everything to me.”
“You’re dreaming,” Dean said icily.
“Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” Dean demanded as he stretched and paced restlessly in the confining room.
“Because I want you to know how I feel. I was bitter once and it’s probably true that I should hate Brig Chambers, but I don’t. I’ve tried to and I can’t. And now that he might be dead . . .” her voice broke under the strain of her churning emotions.
For a moment sorrow and regret flashed in Dean’s opaque blue eyes. It was gone in an instant. “There’s no way I can understand how you still feel anything for that louse, and I think you had better prepare yourself: Brig might already be dead. As for Gypsy Wind, I think we have ourselves one insurmountable problem.” His face softened slightly and for a fleeting moment, through the shimmer of unshed tears, Becca once again saw her brother as he had been during her childhood, the adolescent whom she had adored. The callused and bitter man had faded slightly. His expression altered and she could feel him closing her out, just as he had for the past few years. Now, when she needed him most, he was withdrawing from her. “Come on, Sis,” he said tonelessly. “Buck up, will you?”
He opened the door to the office, and as quickly as he had burst into the room over the stables, he was gone. Becca heard his boots echoing hollowly against the worn steps. Slowly she followed her brother outside. She stood on the weathered landing at the top of the stairs. Holding her hand over her eyebrows to shade her vision, Becca watched the retreating figure of her brother as he sauntered to his battered pickup, hopped into the cab, engaged the starter, and roared down the dry dirt road, leaving a dusty plume of soil in his wake.
* * *
The late afternoon sun was blinding for Northern California at this time of the year, and the wind, when it did come, was measured in arrid gusts blowing northward off Fool’s Canyon. The charred odor of a distant forest fire added to the gritty feel of weariness that had settled heavily between Becca’s shoulder blades.
He can’t be dead, she thought to herself as she remembered the one man who had touched her soul. She could still feel the caress of his fingers as they outlined her cheek or pushed aside an errant lock of her hair. She closed her eyes when the hot wind lifted her hair away from her face, and she imagined Brig’s special scent: clean, woodsy, provocatively male. Idly she wondered if he’d changed much in the last six years. Were his eyes still as erotic as they once were? It had been his eyes that had held her in the past and silently held her still. Eyes: stormy gray and omniscient. Eyes that could search out and reach the farthest corners of her mind. Eyes that understood her as no one ever had. Eyes that touched her, embraced her. Eyes that had betrayed her.
“He can’t be dead,” she whispered to herself as her palm slapped the railing. “If he wasn’t alive, I would know it. Somehow I would know it. If he were dead, certainly a part of me would die with him.”
Slowly she retraced her steps back into the stuffy office and reached down to pick up the remains of the coffee cup. Her movements were purely mechanical as she straightened the papers and placed them haphazardly on the corner of the desk. She wiped up the coffee, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in thoughts of a happier time, a younger time. Though she sat down at the desk and attempted to concentrate on the figures in the general ledger, she found that the mundane tasks of keeping Starlight Breeding Farm operational seemed vague and unimportant. Images of Brig kept lingering on her mind, vivid pictures of his tanned, angular face and brooding gray eyes. Becca recalled the dimple that accompanied his slightly off-center smile and she couldn’t help but remember the way a soft Kentucky rain would curl his thick, chestnut hair.
Deeper images, strong and sensual, warmed her body when she thought of the graceful way he walked, fluid and arrogantly proud. Her cheeks burned when she imagined the way he would groan in contentment when he would first unbutton her blouse to touch her breasts.
“Stop it!” she screamed as she snapped the ledger book closed and pulled herself away from the bittersweet memories of a love that had blossomed only to die. “You’re a fool,” she muttered to herself as she pushed the chair backward and raced out of the confining room. She had to get away, find a place in the world where traces of Brig’s memory wouldn’t touch her.
Her boots ground into the gravel as she ran past the main stables, across the parking lot, and through a series of paddocks, far away from the central area of the ranch. She stopped at the final gate and her clear green eyes swept the large paddock, searching for the dark animal who could take her mind off everything else. In a far corner of the field, under the shade of a large sequoia tree, stood Gypsy Wind. Her proud head was turned in Becca’s direction, and the flick of her pointed black ears indicated that she had seen the slender blond woman leaning against the fence.
“Come here, Gypsy,” Becca called softly.
The horse snorted and stamped her black foreleg impatiently. Then, with a confident toss of her dark head, Gypsy Wind lifted her tail and ran the length of the back fence, turned sharply, and raced back to the tree, resuming her original position. Dark liquid eyes, full of life and challenge, regarded Becca expectantly.
A sad smile touched Becca’s lips. “Showing off, are you?” she questioned the horse.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind Becca.
“I thought I might find you here,” a rough male voice called as a greeting to her.
Becca looked over her shoulder to face the rugged, crowlike features of Ian O’Riley. He was shorter than she, and his leatherish skin hid nothing of his sixty-two years. Becca managed a thin smile for the ex-jockey, but nodded in the direction of the spirited horse. “How did the workout go this morning?”
The bit of straw that Ian had been holding between his teeth shifted to one side of his mouth. “’Bout the same, I’d say.”
Becca sighed deeply and cast a rueful glance at the blood-bay filly. As if the horse knew she was the center of attention, she shook her dark head before tossing it menacingly into the air.
“There’s no way to calm her down, is there?” Becca asked her trainer.
“It takes time,” Ian replied cautiously, but his words were edged in concern. “It’s hard to say,” he admitted. “She’s got the spirit, the ‘look of eagles,’ if you will . . . but . . .”
“It might be her undoing,” Becca surmised grimly.
Ian shrugged his bowed shoulders. “Maybe not.”
“But you’re worried, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m worried. History sometimes has a way of repeating itself.” He noticed the ashen pallor of Becca’s skin and thought that he was the cause of her distress. He could have kicked himself for so thoughtlessly bringing up the past. He wanted to caution Becca about the Gypsy, but he had to be careful not to disillusion her. In Ian’s estimation, Becca Peters was one of the finest horse breeders in the country, even if her brother was worse than useless. Ian attempted to ease Becca’s mind. “Gypsy Wind just needs a little more work, that’s all.”
Becca wasn’t convinced. “She does have Sentimental Lady’s temperament.”
“The spirit of a winner.”
“It was Lady’s spirit that was her downfall.”
Ian waved dismissively and his face wrinkled with his comfortable smile. “Don’t think that way, gal. Leave the worrying to me; that’s what you pay me for.”
“If I paid you for all the worrying you do, I’d be broke.”
Laughter danced in Ian’s faded blue eyes and his grizzled face showed his appreciation for Becca’s grim sense of humor. “Just leave Gypsy to me. We’ll be ready, come next spring.”
“Ready for what?”
“Whatever the competition can dish out. Surprise them, we will. Even the colts.”
“You think she can keep up with the colts?” Becca was clearly dubious and a cold chill of apprehension touched the back of her neck. The last time she had put a filly against a colt, the result had been a nightmare. Becca had vowed never to repeat her mistake.
“Of course she can. Not only that, she’ll outclass the lot of them. Just wait and see. Remember, we have the element of surprise on our side.”
“Not much longer. The first time she runs, the press will be there, digging up everything on Sentimental Lady.”
“Let them. This time will be different,” he promised. Ian gave Becca a hefty pat on the shoulders before he sauntered back toward the broodmare barn.
Becca’s gaze returned to the fiery horse. She wanted to be unbiased when she appraised the blood bay filly, but Becca couldn’t help but compare Gypsy Wind with her full sister, Sentimental Lady. Gypsy was built similarly to Sentimental Lady, so much so that it was eerie at times. Though slightly shorter than Lady, Gypsy Wind was heavier and stronger. Fortunately, Gypsy’s long, graceful legs were stouter than Sentimental Lady’s, capable of standing additional weight and stress. Her coloring was identical except that the small, uneven star which Lady had worn so proudly was missing on her sister.
Doubts crowded Becca’s tired mind. Maybe she had made a foolish mistake in the breeding of Gypsy Wind. The question haunted her nights. How was she supposed to know that the offspring of Night Dancer and Gypsy Lady would produce another filly, an uncanny likeness of the first?
As she watched the dark horse shy from a fluttering leaf, Becca wondered what Brig would think if he saw Gypsy Wind. She had asked herself the same question a thousand times over and the answer had always been the same. He would be stunned, and afterward, when the initial shock had worn thin, he would be furious to the point of violence. Still, Becca had hoped to someday proudly show off the Gypsy to Brig. New tears burned in Becca’s throat as she watched the dark horse and realized that Brig might never see Gypsy Wind. Brig Chambers might already be dead.
Becca let loose of the emotional restraint she had placed upon herself and cried quietly, feeling small and alone. She lowered her head to the upper rail of the fence and let out the sobs of fear and grief that had been building within her. Why had she never swallowed her stubborn pride and told Brig Chambers just how desperately she still loved him? Why had she waited until it was too late?