The Manor House...

Jonesy's sneer was less a mark of contempt than an effort to conceal the disturbing pricks of inadequacy he was fighting. The Manor House might be bigger, newer, and more opulent than Ten Acres, he told himself, but that didn't mean that Matthew Wheeler was any better than he was. And it didn't matter that Jonesy wasn't even the rightful owner of Ten Acres, that he was holding it in trust for the boy. No, that just meant that he was more calculating, more determined, and more ruthless than Matthew Wheeler had ever been. Old money. Wheeler practically bathed in it, and did nothing to earn it. Well, Jonesy had paid his dues. He'd researched. Contrived "chance" meetings. Cultivated trust when there was only deceit. He hadn't earned the Frayne estate in the traditional sense, but by God, he'd still earned it. Especially having to put up with the boy.

Wheeler had nothing to compare to that. Nothing at all.

He followed the little maid down the hallway, eyes trained on a pair of trim legs exposed by her black skirt. Well, maybe Wheeler had some things that he didn't...

She stopped in front of a heavy oak door and knocked once before opening it. Jonesy's nerves returned in full force as he forced himself to enter the spacious, decadent private office. It was entirely masculine, with thick carpet, panelled walls, and oversized chairs, all in earth tones. A man's room. His eyes drifted to the massive cherry desk, and the man sitting behind it.

"Jonesy," Wheeler said, leaning back in his high-back leather chair.

He held himself as straight as his stooped shoulder would allow, refusing to acknowledge weakness to the powerful man in front of him. Wheeler didn't offer him a seat. Instead, he opened a humidor and withdrew what looked to be an excellent Cuban cigar. Jonesy watched with rapt attention as he clipped the end and lit it. He brought it to his mouth slowly and inhaled deliberately. Jonesy's nerve endings came to life, and he could practically feel the nicotine coursing through his veins. Damn Wheeler! He licked his lips nervously before he could stop himself, and waited for Wheeler to offer him a cigar. When no offer was forthcoming, he absently patted his breast pocket, reassuring himself that he still had his cigarettes with him.

"Mind if I smoke?" Jonesy inquired, already fingering his lighter.

Wheeler's hard, narrow stare had him dropping the lighter back into his pocket and wishing that he'd never opened his mouth. Wheeler had been vague about the purpose of the visit, insisting only that it was imperative that they meet immediately. Jonesy began to wish that he hadn't complied so quickly. Something told him that this wasn't going to be a pleasant meeting of the minds, or result in any type of relationship that would benefit him.

In fact, he was beginning to think he'd be lucky if he was able to walk out of the Manor House on his own two feet.

Jonesy stood before the desk, watching in awkward silence as Wheeler inhaled and exhaled, inhaled and exhaled, savouring the cigar just to taunt him.

"You haven't brought him to me," he finally said, breaking the silence. He held the cigar loosely and leaned back in his chair. Though Matthew Wheeler was sitting, Jonesy had the distinct impression his host was looking down on him.

"He's gone," he said, stuffing his hands in his pocket to keep from doing anything embarrassing like wringing them. "Up and disappeared yesterday. Never came back to the house at all as far as I can tell." He was babbling, giving too much information, and he knew it. Still, anything seemed better than the uncomfortable silence while Wheeler studied him.

"Then you'll find him." His voice was cool, but the order clear.

"Now hold on just a minute," Jonesy protested. "I don't know where he is. He up and left without a trace. How am I supposed to find him?"

With an indolent shrug and a bored expression, Wheeler said, "That's not really my concern, is it?" He stood, and Jonesy took an involuntary step backward, even though there was a desk between them. "Know this. If you don't find him, you will disappear, just like Peter Belden. It won't be hard to seize your land, what with the heir being unaccounted for." He moved out from behind the desk, and Jonesy took another step closer to the door. "I suggest that you find him quickly."

Jonesy nodded. He swallowed hard and tried to say something, anything, but Wheeler turned his back, effectively dismissing him.

"It's not as if I'll miss him," he muttered under his breath, but the businessman had excellent hearing, and turned back to him with a raised eyebrow.

"You're even more ruthless than I imagined," Wheeler said, and his disgusted expression said that it was not entirely a compliment.

Jonesy slunk through the door and down the hallway, his hunched shoulder more pronounced than when he'd arrived. When he finally escaped out the front door, he hurried away, ignoring the pain radiating from his shoulder to his back. By the time he'd reached the cover of the trees that separated their property, he'd fished the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and dropped his lighter twice. When he finally managed the coordination of lighting the thin white stick, he had to take several drags and lean against a tree before his hands stopped shaking.

What was he going to do? Wheeler wanted the boy. For what reason, he didn't know, and he was pretty sure that he didn't want to know. Not that it much mattered. There wasn't anything Wheeler could do to the boy that Jonesy hadn't planned to do himself.

He dropped the butt of his first cigarette onto the path and ground it into the dirt, staring uncaring at the embers. By the time he was halfway through the second cigarette, his mouth had twisted into a cruel sneer. Maybe this would be better than burning down Ten Acres around the boy's ears. After all, he couldn't possibly be blamed for whatever Wheeler chose to do to the boy, right?

He rubbed his now-steady hands together with malevolent glee. Wheeler was doing him a favour. And all he had to do was find the boy and deliver him. What could be easier?

In the preserve...

Jim whistled as he grazed his knife over a rough spot in the small piece of wood that he held, expertly forming the shape that haunted his every waking moment. Now that he was living in the preserve, away from the oppression that had dogged his days at Ten Acres, his heart was lighter, and he found that he was drawn to dwelling on the few pleasant aspects of his life. By far the most pleasant, he thought with a smile, was the memory of his brief but impacting conversation with Trixie. Trixie Belden, of all people! Daughter to Peter, and sister to Brian.

He shook his head. Once he'd realized the identities of the men in the preserve, it hadn't been hard to figure out. And Peter had been so ridiculously glad to hear that Trixie was in good health and apparently still in Matthew Wheeler's good graces, that he'd immediately made Jim feel at home, extending the hospitality of his shack as if it had been a palace. Brom was happier than Jim had ever seen him; at the moment he was napping, and had no need to exert himself unless he chose to do so.

He continued to whittle, the piece of wood rapidly taking the form of a curvy woman. The curly hair, he decided, was the most difficult part. But also the most satisfying. He ran his index finger along the tiny curls, and imagined what it would feel like to run his fingers through Trixie's golden curls. It would be soft, he decided. And it would spring back into place once he released it. Would she like having her hair touched? Would she even allow it?

He started, almost slicing his thumb, when a quiet voice spoke behind him. "That's some good whittling," Brom said, lowering himself to a seated position beside him. He plucked the figure from Jim's hands and studied it carefully. "Looks familiar..."

Jim snatched it back and tucked it into his pocket. "It's just a figure," he protested weakly, determined to ignore Brom's playful probes.

"Sure it is," Brom agreed, eyes twinkling. In a lower voice, he warned, "You'll want to watch your step. I imagine the two Mr. Beldens are protective of the girl."

Jim's jaw dropped. "How did you...?" He quickly composed himself. "I'm not in love with her."

Brom shook his head. "That's even worse. You wouldn't play with the girl's affections, would you?"

"Of course not!" Jim protested. "I wouldn't—"

Brom eyed the pocket which housed the figure.

"I'm not playing with her!" Jim repeated, his voice getting louder. "I just..." he said, his anger diminishing as he focused on the spirited blonde. "I just can't stop thinking about her," he admitted.

Brom nodded, as if satisfied with the answer. They sat in companionable silence, and Jim was pleased to observe that Brom's breathing was deep and steady; he hadn't experienced any more shortness of breath, and his colour had definitely improved since they'd taken up residence with the Beldens. Brian checked him regularly, and Brom, after years of catering to other people's whims, seemed content to take it easy.

"So," the elderly man said, breaking the silence. "Is that the third one, or the fourth?"

Jim flushed and patted the figure in his pocket guiltily. "Fifth. Whenever I find something particularly beautiful in the preserve, I leave one behind," he admitted sheepishly. "Kind of like I'm sharing this adventure with her."

Brom stared at him, unblinking. "No," he finally said, "I guess you're not playing with her affections."

Jim blew out a breath.

It wasn't as if he needed Brom's approval. Still, it was nice to have it. Pulling the carved figure from his pocket, he put the finishing touches on it, and stood up.

"Ready to go for a short walk?" he asked the older man.

Brom nodded, and the two of them headed toward the path leading from the clearing. As they stepped into the thickly wooded area, Jim glanced back into the clearing and saw Peter Belden standing just inside the trees, not far from where he and Brom had been talking. From the thoughtful expression on his face, Jim had to assume that he'd overheard at least part of the conversation. Since Mr. Belden didn't seem to be coming after him with the old shotgun he kept in the shack, Jim heaved a sigh of relief and slipped farther into the trees, ignoring the hot flush of his own face.

The two men walked only a short distance into the preserve, and Jim watched Brom carefully for any signs of fatigue or hard breathing, but the elderly man appeared hale and hearty. When they ventured a little farther from the cabin, Jim was pleased to discover a small clearing he hadn't come across before. Though the area was wild and untended, an unexpected patch of vibrant flowers told him that they had discovered what had once been a flower garden. The muted shades of blue, pink, and purple blended with the tall grass, creating subtle pastel palette. Eyes fixed on the blue flowers, which he was certain were the exact colour of Trixie's eyes, Jim reached into his pocket and fingered the small wooden carving. Ignoring the fact that Brom was watching his every move, he carefully placed the figure in the middle of the patch of flowers and backed away, noting that the figure was almost entirely hidden from view. It really did seem like he was sharing his life with Trixie, just a little, even though they weren't together. And maybe someday... He shook his head. Best not to get his hopes up. The odds that he would meet her again and that she would share his affections were slim to none.

With one last look at the clump of flowers and the carving it hid, he walked away from the small clearing, Brom at his side.

Moments later, two different men entered the clearing from the opposite direction that Jim and Brom had left it.

"So," Maypenny inquired, pausing for a short rest, "How are you enjoying living in the preserve?"

Mart flopped to the ground, lying down in the lush grass and tucking his hands behind his head. Sighing in approval at the comfort, he closed his eyes. "It's great living a simpler life," he said. "Except that it doesn't seem to mean anything. And all the solitude is fine for having time to think, but it's kind of boring, too. What with the fact that there's nothing to think about. Living in the country is fantastic, but I sort of miss being able to go into town whenever I want. And catching and cooking my own food is all well and good, except that I'm hungry all the time."

Maypenny eyed the young man with something akin to confusion. "So what you're saying is..."

He shrugged. "It's okay."

"Right." The older man shook his head, still trying to sort through everything Mart had said. "You sure do use a lot of words to say nothing, don't you?"

Mart snorted. "You haven't ever had to write an essay for English, have you?"

He shrugged. "Not much call for lots of words here in the preserve. Just like there's not a lot of use for hunting and gardening at school." He leaned against a tree and looked deep into the preserve, as if seeing something that no one else could. "The preserve is something altogether different than any other place on earth," he finally said. "I catch my own food, and make my own home. I don't hate anyone, and I'm not jealous of anything another person has. I'm happy when good things happen to other people, and accepting when bad things happen to me. I take my pleasure in seeing the world around me bloom and grow." He plucked one of the wild flowers growing in the clearing. "Don't need big words for that."

Seeing that Mart didn't quite know how to respond to this philosophy, Maypenny settled for sitting down and enjoying the unexpected treat of wildflowers. Before Mart could organize his thoughts to begin another assault of words, Maypenny lifted his head and stared back down the path they had come. Within moments, a figure stumbled into the clearing, almost tripping over his own feet.

"Watch it!" Mart protested, moving so that his sister wouldn't accidentally trample him.

Trixie looked up, startled to find that she was not alone. "Oh!" she exclaimed, nearly dropping the object she clutched in her hand. "I didn't see you," she said, hastily tucking the trinket into a pocket.

"What do you have there?" Mart asked curiously, desperate for a diversion from the monotony of spending hours without purpose in the preserve.

"Nothing!" she protested, taking a step backward. Her guilty expression belied her words.

"Come now, sibling of mine," Mart cajoled. "What are you hiding?"

With a sigh, Trixie withdrew the small wooden figure and reluctantly handed it over. "I found it a ways back," she explained. "I had stopped by a huge birch tree and found it resting against the stump."

Mart took the wooden carving and examined it, his eyes widening as he took in the familiar form. "It looks like you!" he exclaimed, looking back and forth between Trixie and the wooden carving. "Right down to the curls!"

Maypenny shook his head. "You need glasses, boy? The figure has long hair. The young man here has much less hair. And last time I checked, the lad didn't have all the parts the carving does, either!" he argued.

Mart glanced quickly at his sister, remembering belatedly that she was presenting herself as a boy. "Of course," he said smoothly, trying to cover up his slip. "I guess it just looks like a female version of Ross." He sighed with relief; he'd managed to use Trixie's pseudonym without flinching.

Maypenny studied the figure again. "Maybe," he said doubtfully.

"Of course, I could do a better job," Mart said cheerfully, determined to draw Maypenny's attention away from studying Trixie's body to compare it to the figure. He sat up and walked the few feet to the edge of the clearing, stepping just far enough into the preserve to pluck a small-ish piece of wood from the ground.. Pulling out an old folding knife from his pocket, he proceeded to whittle a poor imitation of the figure Trixie had discovered.

When he was finished, he presented it to his sister with a flourish. She took the piece of wood and examined the roughly hewn object, barely suppressing a snort at the chopped hair and board-straight body. "Nice," she said drily, tossing the piece of wood aside.

"Hey!" Mart protested, scrabbling through the flowers and tall grass to find the figure she'd discarded. "That was a work of art! You can't just throw it away."

Trixie raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure I just did. And it was not a work of art."

"Found it!" Mart exclaimed, holding up a piece of wood. Maypenny frowned, his sharp eyes fixed on the figure.

"Take another look," he suggested. "That's not the one young Ross tossed aside."

"Of course it is," Mart started to say, but stopped when he, too, studied the object more closely. "Hey! You're right!" He turned it over, examining it from every angle. When he flipped it over to examine the bottom of the feet, his curious expression turned suspicious. "There are initials carved on the bottom," he said slowly, his eyes meeting Trixie's. "T.B."

Her eyes widened and she scrambled to inspect the figure she'd found. It, too, had the letters etched on its underside. "How very... mysterious," she finally said, mindful of Maypenny's presence.

"Yes," Mart agreed, clearing his throat. "I wonder who this T.B. person is."

"Well, as it's not either one of you," Maypenny said shrewdly, his eyes narrow, "I don't suppose it can concern you overly much."

Trixie swallowed hard. "Of course." With a nervous laugh, she tucked the two handsomely carved figures into her pocket. "I'll just hang on to them," she said, her voice trailing off.

"There you are!"

Trixie, Mart, and Maypenny whirled around to see Honey entering the clearing. "I was looking for berries, but look what I found instead!" She held up a familiar-looking figure.

"Another one!" Trixie exclaimed, her eyes wide.

Honey frowned in confusion. "Another one? What are you—"

Trixie rounded on her brother, forestalling Honey's question. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be?" she demanded. "Wood to gather? Traps to check?"

Maypenny nodded. "I could use the lad's help. Especially if you three expect to share my dinner."

Giving his sister an arch look, Mart followed the elderly man out of the clearing. "Yes. Let's let the ladies talk," he said, causing Trixie to glare at him.

"Ladies?" Maypenny questioned, glancing back at Trixie, who was clearly dressed in boys' clothes.

Mart shrugged. "Getting all goofy over a ridiculous wood carving? If the shoe fits..."

They disappeared into the forest, none too soon in Trixie's estimation. As soon as the two were out of sight, Trixie yanked Honey's arm and drew her to the patch of flowers. "Let's see it!" she demanded. Without further preamble, she snatched the figure out of Honey's grasp, and quickly turned it over to inspect the bottom of the feet.

"See? It's here, too!" she said excitedly.

"What's here?" Honey demanded. "A sliver? I wouldn't be surprised at all."

Trixie thrust the figure, feet first, toward her best friend. "No! Look at the letters!" she said, stabbing at the initials.

Honey's reaction was perhaps less dramatic than Trixie had anticipated. "Well, would you look at that," she said complacently, her eyes twinkling.

"That's all you have to say?" Trixie screeched. "Really? You find a carved figure that looks exactly like me, with my initials on it, and that's all you can say?" She planted her hands on her hips. "What aren't you telling me?"

Honey's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," she protested mildly.

Trixie stared her down, hands on her hips. "Try again."

Honey slipped the figures from Trixie's hands and plopped down beside the patch of flowers, arranging herself in a comfortable position. "They really are lovely," she said.

Trixie towered above her, still glaring.

"I mean, look at the workmanship," she continued, pretending to be oblivious to Trixie's impatience. "This is no run of the mill, ordinary figure. Not something a child does to pass the time." Running a finger over the smooth wood, she took her time, admiring the craft.

"Honey..." Trixie warned.

"Celia," Honey corrected her with a telling look. "You should call me by my name, remember?"

Trixie winced, embarrassed at having slipped up in calling Honey by her real name. "It's a dumb name," she muttered. "You sound like an upstairs maid."

Honey glared at her in mock outrage. "It's a lovely name!" she protested. "It's pretty! And simple! And not a sickly sweet food!" she exclaimed in a light-hearted jab at her real name.

Trixie grinned, her good humour restored. "And it's not a stripper name, either," she commented, remembering how relieved she'd been to leave her name behind. Trixie was preferable to Beatrix, but it still wasn't exactly a classy name, designed to instill respect. Not that Ross was particularly manly. But it was still a good deal better than being mistaken for someone whose work uniform included g-strings.

"Okay, Celia," she said, emphasizing the name. "Spill. Now."

"What if I don't have anything to tell you?" she asked, widening her eyes.

"We've been best friends for years," Trixie reminded her. "I know you. I know you have something that you're dying to tell me. Do you think I'm actually a guy, and that this whole cute and coy thing is going to work on me?" She threw up her hands in disgust. "You usually can't quit talking! Why won't you tell me what you know? Wait!" she exclaimed, grabbing Honey's arm in excitement. "You saw who left the figure!"

Honey shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe. Maybe not," she said, hiding a smile.

"Honey!" she exclaimed. "I mean, Celia! Tell me! What did he look like? Do I know him?"

"Well, he might have had a beard," Honey said, tilting her head to the side as if trying to remember.

"A beard?" Trixie said blankly, a vision of ZZ Top causing her to grimace.

"Well, maybe not a beard," Honey amended. "Maybe just a little stubble. You know, just the right amount."

Trixie paused. She did know. She wasn't a fan of facial hair in general, but somehow, just the right amount of stubble was curiously compelling, and always gave her the urge to cup the man's chin in her palm and rub gently, feeling the stiff yet soft bristles against her.

"Ross?" Honey asked. "Ross?"

Trixie blushed and turned her attention back to Honey. "Sorry."

She grinned. "No explanation necessary."

"Wait!" Trixie cried. "You didn't answer the question! And no more distracting me with facial hair!"

"Okay," she agreed. "Should I distract you with broad shoulders?"

Trixie groaned, knowing that Honey was playing on one of her other ideal qualities in a man. "Really broad?" she asked, subconsciously licking her lips.

"Oh, yes," she agreed, demonstrating the girth with her hands. "And is now a good time to tell you that he had really large feet?"

Trixie gaped, and then glared at her. "Now you're just being mean."

"I thought you wanted to know who he was!" Honey protested. "I'm giving you plenty of clues. Maybe I should tell you about his freckles?"

Her heart leaped. The only freckles she had seen recently had belonged to James Winthrop Frayne, II. Could it be...? The blood rushed to her head and she felt slightly warm. "Red hair?" she asked in a whisper.

Eyes twinkling with mirth, Honey nodded. "And I'll tell you right now, it was not Regan."

"Who was it?" Trixie demanded, tugging on Honey's arm. "You have to tell me! He's going around the preserve, leaving little figures of me behind!"

"You silly goose!" Honey exclaimed, taking pity on her friend. "Of course it's Jim!"

Her eyes widened. "You saw Jim? In the preserve?"

"Yes. Looking as fine as ever, I might add." Honey waggled her eyebrows.

"Looking as fine—" Trixie's voice dropped off abruptly as she tugged at her boyish haircut and masculine clothing. In contrast to the casual but flattering clothes she had been wearing the day of the race, she was now attired in baggy jeans, a loose tee shirt, and a plaid shirt, all designed to mask her femininity. "Honey!" she groaned. "Look at me!"

"It's not that bad," her friend insisted. However, the fact that Honey was nibbling on her lower lip told Trixie that her best friend was merely making the best of a bad situation.

"Yes, it is! I couldn't look any worse if I tried!"

"Well, there was that time you fell off Susie and landed in a creek," Honey reminded her.

Trixie glared.

"Okay, okay!" Honey held up her hands in defeat. "Look on the bright side! If we happen to run into him, you can really get to know him, without worrying if he's just trying to impress you."

"Impress me?" Trixie snorted. "You're assuming that he's interested in me!"

She shrugged. "Well, yes."

Trixie stared at her in disbelief.

"Aren't people always saying that the best couples are friends first?" Honey pressed. "Here's your chance! You can befriend him, get to know him, fall in love..." she finished dreamily.

"Right. I'm sure that he won't mind at all that not only am I lying about my name, I'm also pretending to be a guy!"

Honey shrugged. "The course of true love, and all."

"Celia," she warned, for once remembering to use the name Honey had adopted. "I hardly think that pretending I'm a guy and making friends with Jim is going to build his trust in me."

Honey shrugged. "You never know. And you also never know what else it might build." She stared at Trixie expectantly. "Friendship!" she exclaimed, giving her a mock tap on the head. "Didn't we just go over this?"

"Oh," Trixie said. "Right."

Honey's lips twitched. "But I guess friendship wasn't really what you had in mind for Jim, was it?"

She gasped in outrage, then grinned sheepishly. "Friendship could be good," she admitted.

"And probably a whole lot smarter than starting anything else," Honey told her, reminding her of their endless conversations about how they'd never allow their friendship to be harmed by a relationship with a man.

"Did you talk to him?" Trixie asked. "Did he recognize you? What did you say?"

Honey glanced down at her old, faded jeans and worn shirt. Her hair was gathered into a braid, but there were also twigs and leaves incorporated into the braid. "I think it's safe to say he didn't recognize me," she said wryly. "To tell the truth, he was asleep."

"Asleep?" Trixie repeated, trying to visualize the virile young man in a state of rest. Would his features soften? Would he lose the tension he had carried with him? Would he be still enough for her to count his freckles?

"Asleep. Snoring, even," Honey asserted. "And he looks as if he's spent as much time in the preserve as we have."

Trixie blinked. "I bet he looked good, even asleep," she muttered, picturing the redhead in slumber.

"Focus, Ross!" Honey exclaimed, her exasperation evident. "Instead of picturing him in bed," she teased, "think about why he's here!"

She reluctantly cleared her mind of the image of Jim and tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. "Really? You think Jim's living out here, too?"

"Anything's possible," she said with a shrug. "And I imagine that he'd be better off the farther he is from Regan. And from his horrid stepfather," she added, grimacing.

Trixie shivered, remembering the stoop-shouldered man she'd only seen in glimpses. There was just something about the man that exuded pure evil, even from a distance. No wonder Jim had run away.

"Do you hear that?" Honey whispered suddenly, looking down the path that led out of the clearing.

"Hear what?" Trixie started to ask, but stopped when she, too, caught the sound of more than one person coming toward them.

"That's Jim!" Honey hissed.

Without thinking, Trixie drew her friend aside, pushing just far enough into the trees that they wouldn't be seen.

"I appreciate the help, but you didn't need to come with me," a young man was saying, and Trixie had to cover her mouth in surprise when she recognized her brother. "I'd have been just as happy to be alone."

Trixie watched, eyes wide, as her oldest brother walked and scowled. It was obvious that he wasn't happy. She blinked, trying to remember what he had been like. Mr. Wheeler had sent him away to a private boarding school in England years ago, and he hadn't returned home until it was time for his residency. Still, she knew her own brother. At least, she thought she did. Brian had always looked out for her and protected her. He'd been quiet, but usually good natured, at least until either she or Mart did something stupid. Which was quite often, if she were being honest. Even when he'd been frustrated with them, she'd never known him to have such a surly attitude. She watched as he kicked at a rock, sending it skittering down the path. It bounced off into the trees, immediately swallowed up by the thick carpet of fallen leaves.

And then Jim came into view, and Trixie forgot all about her brother. Honey had described him accurately, down to the reddish gold stubble covering his upper lip and chin. For a moment she forgot to breathe, forgot to listen, forgot to think. All she could do was watch his easy, confident stride and relaxed expression.

When she finally was able to focus on more than drinking in his rugged appearance, she heard him saying, "I hear you. If you don't want to talk, that's fine. I know what it's like to need a little silence."

Brian's shoulders sagged in relief at the easy acknowledgement of his feelings. "I just—" he shook his head, unable to articulate his thoughts. "I'm going to go ahead and gather those herbs. I'll see you back at the shack?"

Jim nodded, and Brian started off down the path. Before he'd gone far, however, he turned around, and it was evident to Trixie that some of his good humour had returned. "You're not going to spend the day carving those figures again, are you?" he asked, his expression a mixture of amusement and gentle derision.

Jim bristled under the light attack. "So what if I do?"

Brian shook his head. "You know that no woman is as perfect as you make her to be in your imagination, right? They're not flawless works of art."

Jim shrugged, subconsciously slipping his hand into the pocket that held the next piece of wood that he planned to carve. "Maybe not. But she's still beautiful. And perfect in my eyes, if no one else's."

He shook his head. "You're a fool," he said, but his voice didn't hold any real heat. Jim, however, was not in the mood to listen to criticism.

"Maybe I am," he admitted. "Maybe I am. But better a fool who loves than a wise man who keeps his heart guarded against everyone."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Brian demanded, affronted.

Jim shrugged, his face flushing from a combination of both frustration and embarrassment. "Forget I said anything."

Brian's dark eyes flashed. "My pleasure." With a huff, he strode away from the clearing, and this time, he didn't look back.

Before Trixie could take time to digest what it meant that her older brother was also in the preserve, and apparently on familiar terms with Jim, she heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping. Jim, too, heard the sound, and frowned, peering into the dense foliage. Trixie darted a glance at Honey, and, out of the corner of her eye, saw her wince.

"Sorry," she mouthed.

"Who's there?" Jim called, stepping toward them.

Honey, always cautious, tried to move further into the trees, but bumped into a tree root instead. Jim was upon them immediately, investigating the source of the sound.

"Who are you?" he demanded suspiciously. "And what are you doing in the preserve?"

Trixie bristled. "Who am I? Who are you?" she demanded, though she knew his identity full well. "I can guarantee that we have just as much right to be here as you do," she added, poking a finger at his chest.

Jim's temper dissipated almost immediately. "I imagine you do, at that," he said, and she nearly faltered under the force of his charming grin. "Now," he continued, "why don't you tell me what a young man and girl are doing this far into the preserve?"

Trixie started, having momentarily forgotten that she was supposed to be a boy of no more than sixteen. Honey stepped forward and offered her hand to Jim, who took it, though his eyebrows arched in surprise at the formal manner.

"My... brother and I are out for a walk," Honey said. "We've been staying with someone who lives close by."

If Jim noticed her faltering over the word "brother", he didn't mention it. "The preserve is lovely this time of year," he said, his gaze flickering back and forth between the two.

Trixie's lips twitched as she slapped at a mosquito. "Yes," she agreed. "Lovely."

"It is!" Jim protested, grinning back at her. "All the sunshine, fresh air..." He slapped at his own mosquito. "Wildlife..."

"Spoken like a man in love," Honey teased.

When Jim turned to her in surprise, she lifted one elegant shoulder and let it drop again. "It's hot, muggy, and miserable. Only someone who is thinking about someone else would call this lovely!" To emphasize her point, she lifted her hair off her neck, allowing what small breeze that managed to penetrate the clearing to cool her. "Oh!" she said, watching as colour crept up the young man's face. "You are in love!"

Jim nodded stiffly, even though he was plainly uncomfortable, and Trixie was surprised by his candor. It appeared that Jim Frayne was honest, almost to a fault. After growing up in the Wheeler household, surrounded by deceit and half-truths, she couldn't help but feel just a tiny bit of awe as her respect for him grew. Her inquisitive nature, however, was also intrigued, and she knew that she couldn't let this opportunity pass. Honey had unwittingly given her an opening to get to know him better.

"Are you sure you're in love?" she asked, pretending to doubt him.

Jim frowned. "I said I was, didn't I?"

"Well, yes," she agreed. "But you don't look like it."

Jim raised a ginger brow. "And how, exactly, is a man in love supposed to look?" He leaned his lanky frame against a tree and regarded Trixie seriously, his eyes searching hers with frank curiosity.

"Well, for one thing, he wouldn't be nearly as modest as you are," Trixie said, sitting down in a patch of grass close to his feet. She clasped her arms around her short, sturdy legs and rested her chin on her knees. "He should be puffing and posturing, on the off chance that he'll run into the girl, or that one of her friends will see him."

Jim frowned for a moment, and then struck a much more provocative prose. Still leaning against the tree, he crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps bulged and strained against the thin cotton of his tee shirt.

Trixie swallowed audibly. "Yes," she said, her voice faint. "More like that." She let her eyes rove over his form, under the guise of assessing whether or not he was truly in love.

"Well, what else?" Jim asked, when the silence lengthened.

"Oh! What else!" Trixie turned to Honey, but her best friend merely shrugged, letting Trixie know that she was on her own. "Well," she said slowly, "most men seem to start using way too much cologne when they're trying to impress a girl."

Hooting with laughter, Jim gave up on his contrived pose and chose a more natural stance. "Good luck with that!" he exclaimed. "In case you haven't noticed, we're kind of in the middle of nowhere. I'm not exactly carrying a bottle of cologne in my pocket."

"Okay..." Trixie scrambled to continue the conversation, desperate to keep Jim talking to her. Maybe Honey had been right, and maybe she hadn't. It was entirely possible that she was ruining any chances she had with him, but she found the lure of getting to know him, even through dishonest means, irresistible. "You shouldn't be able to eat," she said triumphantly. "Loss of appetite is a sure sign of love."

Jim cocked his head to the side. "I thought that was just for girls. Aren't they supposed to get all distracted and swoony?"

Trixie's stomach lurched, and, though she would never admit to it, her own body seemed to be proving Jim correct. And probably the fact that she was having trouble concentrating on anything other than his voice, and the intent look in his eye, was irrelevant. "Well, maybe," she admitted reluctantly. "But you do look as if you've lost a little weight," she observed.

"I've been living off the land," Jim told her, amused. "And I'm afraid that chocolate cake doesn't often grow on trees." He frowned, though, as he considered her words. "But what do you mean, I look as if I've lost weight? How would you know? We haven't met before, have we?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

"No, no," Honey said, laughing nervously. "I'm certain we'd remember if we had."

"Hmm..." he said, one hand tugging at the ginger stubble covering his chin while Trixie shifted uncomfortably. "And why do you talk as if you know so much about being in love?" he pressed. "You don't look old enough to have experienced it yourself."

She flushed under his scrutiny, but didn't back down. "You'd be surprised," she said, sending Honey into a coughing fit.

Jim shrugged, his natural affability returned. "Well, whether or not I flex my muscles, drown myself in cologne, or starve myself, I can assure you that I certainly do feel something, and if she were here, I would tell her so."

Ignoring the rush of pleasure caused by his words, Trixie adopted an indifferent expression. "If you can't convince me you're in love, I highly doubt that you're going to convince this girl of yours. And if you can't convince her, she's certainly never going to admit that she has feelings for you." Unable to resist, she asked, "Are you the one who has been leaving carvings all over the preserve?" The action hidden by her legs, she ran a finger over the smooth surface of the carved figure she held.

"I am," he admitted.

"And you think that this girl you like deserves so much of your hard work and skill?" she pressed.

"I don't know that it's a matter of her deserving it," Jim said thoughtfully. "It's more a matter of me needing to do something—anything—to show how I feel."

When Trixie could only blink in surprise, Honey graced Jim with a brilliant smile. "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," she said, patting his arm. "She's a lucky girl, whoever she is."

Trixie held back a bubble of hysterical laughter. This could only happen to her! Her family was living in hiding, she was on the run from her best friend's father, and she was having a conversation with a man who obviously had deep feelings for her, only he didn't know who she was!

"You think she won't believe that I like her?" Jim asked with a frown, and Trixie forced herself to pay attention.

Holding up one of the carved figures, she said, "You're going to need help."

"And you have a solution?" Jim asked, smiling indulgently.

Trixie hesitated only a moment, wondering if he would ever forgive her for this deception, but unable to resist the opportunity to spend more time with him. Especially the kind of time that she had in mind. "Of course I have a solution," she said cheekily, throwing caution to the wind. "You can practice on me!"

Jim blinked. "Practice on you? Practice what?"

"Why, convincing this girl that you love her, of course," she said, her tone indicating that she couldn't believe he even had to ask. "I'll pretend to be the girl, and you'll practice talking to me and getting me to date you."

"Huh," Jim said, studying her thoughtfully. "And you think this will work?"

"It has before," she replied, thinking of all the drama she and Honey had experienced in previous years at The Lefferts Academy for Young Ladies.

"And the guy got the girl?" he pressed.

"Well..."

"Well what?" Jim demanded. "Did he, or didn't he?"

"By the time he'd finished practicing with me, he'd decided he didn't want the girl," Trixie admitted.

Jim's eyebrows shot up. "He changed his mind?"

"It was for the best," Trixie said. "She really wasn't right for him."

"But how could spending time practicing with you make him forget about her?" he questioned.

Trixie shrugged. "All I did was make sure he knew about all of Heather's personality traits. You know, the ones not covered by her padded bra."

Jim nearly choked and Honey had to stifle her laughter by covering her mouth. "And that was enough to turn him away?" he asked.

"More than enough," Honey said, breaking her silence. "And Ross was perfectly honest. Heather really is a vicious shrew. With really good hair. But still a vicious shrew."

"So, are you up for the challenge?" Trixie pressed. "If you spend mornings for the next week with me, I can guarantee that by the end of the week, you'll either be completely sure of getting this girl, or you'll be happy to move on."

"I'm not going to move on," Jim said firmly. "Nothing you can say or do can convince me she's not the girl for me."

"So you'll meet me, then?" Her blue eyes challenged his green ones, and neither one faltered.

"Why not?" he finally said. "It's not going to do any harm. And it wouldn't hurt for me to have something other than carving to occupy my time."

"So you'll come every day," Trixie instructed. "We'll meet here, and you'll pretend that I'm—what was her name, again?"

"I didn't say," he retorted. "Trixie. Her name is Trixie."

"Okay," she said, swallowing the lump in her throat at the reverent way he spoke her name. "You'll meet me every morning, and you'll call me Trixie. I will imitate her character, and you'll do your best to get me to like you. Or find out that you really don't care for this Trixie person at all. One of the two."

"It won't be the latter," Jim asserted, his voice firm, but still amused. "Until tomorrow, then."

Trixie stared down the path long after he had disappeared down it, wondering if she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

In front of a humble shack in the preserve...

Mart Belden stared at the vision of loveliness before him and forgot how to breathe. She was beautiful. Long, dark hair. Violet eyes. Curves that made his mouth water. He'd had no idea that girls so beautiful existed outside of photo-shopped magazine pictures. And he was bound and determined that he would not waste this opportunity to get to know her.

"Hello," he called, stepping into the clearing that housed a dilapidated structure. The girl must live there, he realized, as she was sweeping the front stoop with an old broom.

She startled, dropping the broom and taking a step backwards.

"I'm sorry," Mart apologized, taking another step toward her. "I didn't realize anyone was living out here. I'm Mart Belden." He looked at her expectantly, hoping that she would introduce herself. Instead, she surveyed him narrowly, even picking up the discarded broom and gripping it tightly, as if giving herself a weapon against him.

"We don't get many visitors out this way," she acknowledged, and Mart couldn't help thinking that her voice was the most melodious sound he had ever heard, even though she was still standing and speaking defensively.

"We're new to the area," Mart continued, desperate to keep the conversation going. "We're staying with a man named Maypenny. Maybe you know him?"

She maintained eye contact for a moment longer, and then seemed to come to a decision. Relaxing her grip on the broom, she transferred it to her left hand and extended her right. "I'm Diana Lynch," she said, and he scrambled to move close enough to shake her hand. "My family and I live here," she said, indicating the cabin behind her.

"Your family?" he questioned, eager to know more about her. "You have siblings?"

When she looked at him blankly, he explained, "Brothers and sisters?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. "Two of each."

He blinked rapidly, wondering how on earth the five children and two adults managed to fit inside the cabin, much less sleep, eat, and live there.

"One set of twins is out helping Daddy," she said. "And the girl twins are helping Mummy with the baking. I'm supposed to be cleaning the yard."

Still close from shaking her hand, Mart took the broom from her and began sweeping away the dirt, dust, and twigs that had settled on the landing. She stared at him in surprise.

"That's not necessary," she said stiffly.

"Oh, I don't mind at all," Mart said cheerfully. And it was true. Growing up at Crabapple Farm had taught him the value, if not love, of hard work. If sweeping helped him to spend more time with the beautiful girl, it was a price he was willing to pay. It barely even felt like a chore, as long as he had her to occupy his attention.

"I don't need help," she repeated, a little more forcefully.

Mart stepped back in surprise. "Um, okay. Maybe I could just keep you company, then?"

Even as she frowned, Mart thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met.

"I suppose," she said, in a tone that was anything but gracious.

So, against his better judgement, Mart gave back the broom and watched as she swept away every last trace of dirt. When she was finished, the stoop was cleaner than he would have believed possible. Unfortunately, when the task was complete, Diana seemed intent on ending their visit. She moved toward the door, her movements just as brisk as when she'd been sweeping.

"Wait! Don't go!" Mart protested, reaching her in three long strides.

She stared pointedly at the hand he had placed on her arm, and he removed it reluctantly.

"Why shouldn't I?" she asked, her tone a cross between curious and irritated.

"Because we've just met, and we haven't gotten to know each other at all!" Mart said.

She tilted her head to one side. "And here I thought you'd already looked your fill."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, frowning.

She shrugged a shoulder that, despite her plain clothing, was elegant. "You know exactly what it means. The only reason you're still standing here, trying to get my attention, is that you like the way I look."

Mart flushed, unable to deny that he was attracted to her. But weren't girls supposed to like that? It was better than thinking they were ugly, wasn't it? Somehow, he knew that whatever he would say next would determine if he had any chance with her. "You are beautiful," he told her, and watched her shoulders droop in disgust. "But I'd like to get to know you. Find out what you're like on the inside." He paused, and then took a risky step toward her. "Because I'm pretty sure that you're just as beautiful on the inside as you are on the outside. But I won't know unless we spend time together, right?"

She surveyed him through narrowed eyes. "I guess..." she finally admitted.

"And hey!" Mart said, regaining some of his natural joviality. "You might discover that even though I'm not much to look at on the outside, I'm pretty fantastic on the inside."

She snorted delicately, and then giggled. "Well, if nothing else, you're gutsy. I guess we could maybe go for a walk," she ended doubtfully.

Mart beamed. "That would be perfect." Before she could change her mind, he linked arms with her and led her from the cabin to the path leading out of the clearing. She called a hasty goodbye to her mother and laughed as she struggled to keep up with him, her dark hair bouncing and flowing behind her.

"I'm warning you," she said, when Mart finally slowed. They remained linked at their elbows, walking close next to each other on the narrow path. "Don't get your hopes up. I'm really not interested in being pursued," she said. "Been there, done that."

Mart shrugged, even though he felt a momentary flash of confusion. Didn't all girls like to be pursued? Maybe not. Apparently Diana was cut from different cloth. And perhaps she'd had too many young men try to gain her affections? He'd have to approach her with caution, he realized. No overt flirting or complimenting. Perhaps he should engage her mentally? He wracked his brain, trying to think of a safe topic.

"So, do you like Shakespeare?" he asked, and then winced. Could he be any less suave?

She shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "We did Romeo and Juliet in drama club last year," she admitted. "I like it. Even though I think they were both idiots. I mean, really, would a little communication have killed them?"

"Drama club?" He cocked his head to the side. "You played Juliet, didn't you?" It wasn't a question, but a statement, and he knew it had been a mistake when Diana stopped short and planted her hands on her hips, halting their progress on the path.

"What makes you say that?" she asked, her tone icy. "Do you think I was chosen just because people like to look at me?"

"No!" Mart protested hastily, wondering how he could possibly smooth the situation over. For someone who loved words, he certainly wasn't doing so well finding the right ones today. Every comment seemed to tick off Diana. "I just... you looked so happy talking about it. It seems like it was a big deal to you, and that usually doesn't happen unless you're really involved. Playing the lead role is about as involved as I can think of."

After her previous sharp words and defensive attitude, Mart was pleasantly surprised when she nodded shyly, her long, dark hair hiding her violet eyes.

"I played Juliet," she admitted. "But don't you dare start quoting lines at me! There's no light breaking through yonder windows, I assure you."

Mart smiled to himself. She was talking to him, and letting him get to know her. Surely that was a good thing?

"And don't think just because I'm walking with you that I have any interest in you," she continued, those violet eyes flashing with determination. "I have better things to do, you know."

Mart nodded. Diana Lynch might be fighting him tooth and nail, but he was determined to get to know her. There was something about her. Something beyond the obvious walls she had erected to shield her heart from swarms of appearance-driven boys. Was it the way she'd kept sweeping until the landing was completely clean, even though it was obvious she would have preferred to turn her back on him and escape into the cottage? Was it the way she wore her worn, outdated clothes without a trace of self-consciousness? It was too soon to tell, of course, he told himself. But that only made him more determined to get to know the beautiful, prickly girl living in the heart of the preserve.

But he knew better than to voice aloud the thought of, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

A clearing in the preserve...

"If I weren't trying to look like a guy, I'd throw a hissy fit right about now," Trixie muttered, taking a break from her pacing only long enough to kick at a loose stone.

"You're doing fine," Honey assured her. "Kicking things is manly enough. As long as you don't start crying, you're good."

"Maybe I want to cry," she said, resuming her agitated stalk around the perimeter of the clearing.

"Trixie Belden? Cry?" Honey scoffed. "I don't think so. Now, I can see you decking someone..."

She brightened at the mere prospect. "I like it! And it would reinforce my 'manly' image, too!"

"Well, don't look at me. I'm certainly not volunteering. And somehow, I don't think you'd get very far trying to hit Jim." Honey's tone was light, designed to help dissolve the tension.

Trixie grimaced. No, remembering the brawny build of the young man, she didn't think she'd get very far in a fist fight, either. Still, it would be awfully satisfying. Especially if it led to something else... Which, of course, it wouldn't. Because Jim still thought she was a boy. With a sigh of frustration, she plopped down in the thick grass beside her friend and savagely tore up a handful of the thick green blades, only to cast them away from her.

"He should have been here ages ago," Trixie said. "Where do you think he is?"

Honey shrugged and plucked one of the flowers at the tail end of its blooming cycle. She twirled it in her fingers, watching the vibrant colour spin and dance. "You're the 'guy'," she teased. "Shouldn't you be able to figure out what's keeping him?"

"Honey!" she wailed, too upset to use her assumed name.

"Oh, hush," Honey said, throwing her arm around her distraught friend and giving her shoulder a squeeze. "I'm sure he's fine. He probably just got caught up doing something else."

"But he said he would be here!" Trixie protested. "I thought he was the type of man who kept his word," she finished sadly.

"I'm sure he is," Honey said, her voice quiet. "When he really means what he says."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Trixie protested. "You don't think he wanted to agree to meet me?"

"I'm sure he did, at the time," Honey said. "But people change their minds. Not everyone makes up their mind and sticks to it."

Trixie sucked in a breath. "Are you saying that you don't think he's committed to this plan of getting me to like him?"

Honey frowned. "You mean, the plan of getting together with an adolescent boy who is going to help him with his relationship with you, even though he thinks you don't know you?"

Trixie groaned. "You're right. It's crazy!" She was silent for a few moments. The faint sound the a single blade of grass tearing was the only sound in the clearing as Trixie shredded it into tiny pieces.

"Maybe it's for the best," Honey said gently. "Isn't it better to know now that he doesn't keep his promises?"

She blinked. "What are you saying?"

Honey bit her bottom lip, obviously uncomfortable with what she was going to say next. "Yesterday he promised to meet you this morning. Today he doesn't show up. Yesterday he claimed to be in love with Trixie Belden. Today..." Her voice trailed off.

"You don't think he's really in love with me," Trixie said, her voice hollow. It wasn't as if she hadn't thought it herself. Still, it was a million times worse to hear someone else speak her thoughts aloud.

"I think that he thinks he's in love with you," Honey said, trying to lessen the blow that she knew her words would cause. "The idea of you, at least. But you, as a person?" She shook her head. "No, I don't. I think he doesn't know you well enough." What she left unsaid was that, in reality, Trixie didn't know Jim well enough to love him, either. At least, that was what conventional wisdom told her. Still, Honey had never seen Trixie react so strongly to any boy before. Not even Ben Riker when he'd escorted her to a charity function as a ruse to make another girl jealous.

"Then I guess he should have shown up, so he could fix that," Trixie groused.

"Enough about Jim!" Honey finally cried, exasperated at the conversation that seemed to lead nowhere. "I still think what we need to be talking about is the fact that Brian Belden, your brother, was in the preserve yesterday!"

"Do you really think it was him?" Trixie asked, her voice small. "I mean, I assumed it was him, but... It hardly seems possible. And I haven't seen him for so long!"

"It was him," Honey said decisively. "And if your brother is here, then don't you think it's possible that—"

"Don't say it!" she begged. "It would be just too, too terrible!"

"What would be terrible?" Honey asked, genuinely confused. "Seeing your father again? You've been dreaming of this since the day he disappeared!"

"Of course I want to see him!" Trixie cried. "Do you really think it's possible?" she asked, trying to stop herself from hoping and failing miserably.

Honey closed her eyes. "I don't know. I think it's a definite possibility. And I think, even if by some strange twist of fate they don't want to renew relationships with you, that you still have a family in Mart and me."

Trixie sniffled at the unexpected show of support, and then had to laugh. "You're not exactly helping with my big, tough masculine image," she said, nudging her with her shoulder.

Honey giggled. "I think someone once told me that real men aren't afraid to cry."

"Yeah. They probably also said that real men wear pink, too," Trixie retorted. "And it might be true. I guess. Somewhere..."

"Pink?" a familiar voice echoed. "Not here in the preserve, I'll tell you."

Trixie and Honey scrambled to their feet and hugged Maypenny. He accepted their effusive greeting with good grace, even if he didn't hug either of them back with the same force. Having Trixie, Honey, and Mart as close neighbours had smoothed over many of his rough edges, but he was not yet comfortable with physical affection.

"You asked about the young lad I was talking with a few days ago," he said gruffly, moving a few feet away from them.

Honey and Trixie both nodded, remembering the young man who had described how very much in love he was.

"Well, if either of you are in the mood to see him interact with his young lady..." He raised his eyebrows and pointed down a path leading out of the clearing.

"If nothing else," Trixie said, following Maypenny and Honey, "I'll feel better about my own love life!"

In a clearing a short distance away...

"Jane!" Tad Webster protested, reaching out and attempting to snag her arm as she turned away from him. "You're killing me!"

Jane shook off his arm and flounced away, arms crossed over her chest. Maypenny, Trixie, and Honey waited in the trees and watched, undetected by the much-occupied couple.

"I'm not trying to kill you!" she said, huffing in exasperation. "I'm trying to get away from you!" She rounded on him, eyes flashing in anger. "It's not my fault if you won't leave me alone! If you don't want to be miserable, stop following me and asking me out!" She advanced a step and poked his chest firmly. "Although, if looks could kill, I admit that you might be in some trouble. But looks don't kill, and I don't exactly see you suffering. Honestly, just stubbing your toe as you walk along the path hurts you more than me not falling in love with you. So put away your wounded little boy expression. You're fine!"

Honey gasped at the girl's cold tone, and Trixie had to work hard to repress a snort. Though she thought that Tad was a fool for showing his emotions so candidly with someone who obviously wasn't interested, she couldn't condone Jane's harshness. There was simply no need to be so cruel.

Tad shook his head and sighed heavily. "One of these days, you're going to fall in love with someone. And they're not going to give you the time of day." He smiled sadly. "And then you'll learn more than you ever wanted to about how much someone can hurt you without leaving a mark."

Jane tossed her plain brown hair over her shoulder and shrugged. "Maybe. But until that day comes, leave me alone! And, if it does ever happen," she said, after a moment of consideration, "you can feel free to mock me as much as you want. Until then, I don't want to hear it," she said firmly, her tone strident and sure.

Trixie had had enough. Sure, Tad was an idiot. That still wasn't a reason for Jane to treat him like something she found on the bottom of her shoe. "Were you raised by wolves?" she demanded, bursting into the clearing with eyes flashing. "Do you think the only way to communicate is to hurt someone? To enjoy hurting someone?" Because she was certain that, despite her expression of contempt, Jane had downright enjoyed the tète-a-tète with Tad.

"Why are you so cruel?" she demanded. "Do you honestly think that you're that much better than him?" Trixie planted herself directly in front of Jane. "I've got news for you. You're not that nice! You're darn lucky that he's willing to look past that!"

Jane huffed in outrage and flung back her hair.

"That's another thing!" Trixie exclaimed, well and truly into the tongue-lashing. "Your hair isn't even that great! Why do you keep flipping it? It looks stupid, and you're going to get whiplash!"

Jane's mouth gaped at the insult, but she didn't have time to retort before Trixie barrelled on.

"And you!" She rounded on Tad, not skipping a beat. "Why on earth are you even bothering? You could do so much better! And the more you follow after her, the more she thinks she's worthy of being chased! Ugh!"

Shaking her head, she leaned close to Jane and said, "If you're smart, you'd at least give him a chance. He still seems to like you, even though you've treated him like crap. Devotion like that doesn't come around every day, you know."

Jane blinked as the onslaught came to an end. Ignoring Tad, she stared wide-eyed at her. When Trixie turned to leave, Jane called her back, laying her hand on her arm. "Don't go," she said, staring intently at her. "I'd like to keep talking to you."

Trixie had never claimed to be astute in understanding the subtle and delicate nuances of relationships. As she had just proven, she was the type to go in head first, saying exactly what she thought and trusting others to do the same. Still, she couldn't help but recognize the look in Jane Morgan's eyes. At least, she thought wryly, she could be secure that her disguise was working. Because Jane Morgan was looking at her as if she were her very heart's desire come to life. Tad was, for some inexplicable reason, attracted to Jane's grumpiness, and now Jane was attracted to her anger! What was wrong with people?! Well, that certainly wouldn't last long. Not if she had anything to say about it.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Trixie snapped, determined to scare Jane off.

Jane flushed shyly and ducked her head.

"Oh, good grief!" Trixie cried. "You're not going to start liking me, are you? Because trust me, I'm not who you think I am. Besides, the little I've seen of you I didn't like. Come on, Celia. I think it's time we left."

Trixie turned her back on a flabbergasted Jane and linked arms with Honey. As she passed Tad, she whispered, "If you really like her, don't give up. I have a feeling she'll come around." Calling over her shoulder, she left a final word of advice for Jane. "Take a second look at Tad," she recommended. "I think he's the only one who'll put up with your bad temper."

Jane's face fell as Trixie, Honey, and Maypenny left the clearing.

"Jane..." Tad's voice broke the silence.

Jane spun back to face him. "What?" she snapped.

"Have a heart!" Tad pleaded.

"I do!" Jane exclaimed, before turning again to stare in the direction Trixie had taken. When she turned back to Tad, she was nibbling her bottom lip. "And I do feel a little bad for you," she admitted.

"You wouldn't have to feel bad if you just gave me a chance," Tad prompted.

"I do like you," she admitted. "As a friend."

He scowled, staring at his feet. "That's not exactly the type of relationship I was aiming for."

Sighing, Jane sat down and tugged on Tad's hand until he joined her. "Isn't friendship better than the hate I felt for you last week?" she asked. "I don't mind you so much now."

"Does that mean you'll stay and talk with me instead of ditching me?" he asked, his tone tinged with hope.

Jane shrugged. "It couldn't hurt, I guess."

They sat for a moment in silence.

"So, do you know that guy who was just here?" she asked suddenly.

Tad eyed her warily. "A little," he admitted. "Maypenny took them in a few days ago."

"Oh, I don't like him!" Jane protested, accurately reading Tad's expression. "He wasn't very nice. Not at all. But he was confident. Well, maybe more like arrogant. And I'm sure that I didn't like his haircut. Even though he had all those gorgeous curls. I'm sure when he gets a little older he'll look much better. I mean, it's not as if he has a lot of muscles right now. He's kind of skinny, actually. Not that I like that... And he wasn't very tall, was he? I never did like tall men. I'm not surprised that he said such mean things to me. He probably has girls falling at his feet all the time! Why should he bother being nice to me? No, I'm not curious about him at all. Even if he was a complete jerk." She jumped up and began pacing the length of the clearing. "I mean, really! He called me bad-tempered!" She frowned. "That wasn't very nice of him. Not very nice at all. In fact..." She reached into her purse and pulled out a small notebook. "I'm going to tell him so!" She turned toward Tad, her eyes burning with purpose. "You don't mind delivering a note for me, do you?"

"I guess not," Tad said, still trying to digest her tirade.

Jane grinned and started writing. Who did this Ross person think he was, telling her that she shouldn't like him! And that she should give Tad another chance! She'd show him...