Crabapple Farm kitchen…

"You're going about this all wrong," Bobby Belden said, ignoring the fact that he was addressing a man more than twice his age.

Matthew Wheeler leaned back and steepled his hands under his chin. "How do you figure?"

"Confronting Brian with proof might change his mind, but it won't change his heart," Bobby continued.

"It won't?" It made no sense to Matthew. Weren't facts always the determining factor for decisions for everyone? "Surely when Brian realizes that he's been tricked—"

"Oh, he'll be embarrassed, all right," Bobby agreed. "But he'll still remember how much it hurt to think of Honey with another man. What he needs to remember is what life is like without Honey. More specifically, he needs to think about what life would be like if she were taken away from him."

Matthew sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bobby. I've just spent fifty-three hours at the hospital and I'm going on three hours sleep. You're going to have to explain that a little."

Bobby glanced up at the ceiling toward the second floor of Crabapple Farm where Honey Wheeler was resting on one of the twin beds in Trixie's room. "You and I both know that Honey is here, recovering."

Matthew nodded. "Of course. Honey always comes here to recover when she's been sick. Not that asthma is contagious, but with Mrs. Wheeler's delicate immune system, Honey has always come here for any illness."

Bobby nodded. "Right. But Brian doesn't know that Honey has been released from Presbyterian."

"Okay…" Matthew waited for further explanation but Bobby, normally the most talkative even in the verbose Belden clan, hesitated.

"Out with it," Matthew sighed, knowing that he'd have no peace, and more importantly, no chance to nap, until Bobby revealed his plan.

"Well, what if Brian happened to think that Honey hadn't been released?"

Matthew closed his eyes and wondered if he was having auditory hallucinations. He'd heard those were common when someone was sleep-deprived. "But she has been released," he pointed out in what he considered a reasonable tone. "She's right here, in your house."

"Well, yeah," Bobby said, his tone implying that Matthew was missing something. Something critical, if the young man's excitement was any indication.

""What if Brian thought she didn't leave the hospital?" Bobby repeated.

Was déjà vu also a symptom of sleep deprivation? Hadn't Bobby just said that?

"You want Brian to try to visit Honey in the hospital?" he asked, taking a stab at what he considered the most logical interpretation of Bobby's question. "Because I don't see that happening." He didn't add that while Honey had been at the hospital, he'd left strict instructions that Brian Belden wasn't to be admitted to her room under any circumstances.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "No!"

The conversation was more painful than a meeting with the elderly society shareholders that comprised entirely too much of Wheeler International's board, Matthew decided. And it was less lucrative to boot. "Spit it out, Bobby," he commanded.

"What if Brian thought Honey was dead?" Bobby blurted, and then flinched not only from his own words but from the thunderous expression on Matthew's face.

"What?" he bellowed, and then glanced apologetically at the ceiling. Honey wasn't necessarily sleeping but he hoped she was. Loud noises weren't going to help achieve that particular goal, and he was all about achieving goals, both in his business and in his personal life.

"Think about it," Bobby urged, unperturbed by Matthew's outburst. The boy had spine, Matthew admitted grudgingly to himself. Most would have cowered and backtracked by this point.

"Think about what?" he demanded. "I'm hardly going to circulate a story that my own daughter is dead!" Even though they weren't true, the words felt like acid on his tongue and seemed to echo long after he'd spoken them. He hadn't recovered from the feelings of helplessness and terror he'd felt in the hospital while they waited to see if Honey would recover from the stress-induced asthma attack.

"No, no," Bobby assured him, and Matthew relaxed. Until Bobby said, "We'd have someone else start that rumour."

Before he could yell at the boy a second time, Bobby held up his hand. "It's easy. All you have to do is not make a press release. A few well-placed words in the ears of some of Sleepyside's finest gossips, and you're good to go. Easy!"

Maybe Bobby hadn't had enough sleep, Matthew thought dimly. Because if he thought that Matthew would sanction rumours of his worst nightmare come to life, he was sorely mistaken.

"Follow along," Bobby instructed, and Matthew gritted his teeth and fleetingly wished that he could fire him. Or at least force him to get to the point. But Honey wanted to be at Crabapple Farm and Matthew wanted to be near Honey, so that meant putting up with Bobby Belden.

"If Brian thinks Honey is dead, he'll be overcome with guilt," Bobby said simply. "And that's the worst punishment you can give him."

Matthew stared at the boy thoughtfully. Scratch "boy", he told himself. Genius. That's what Bobby Belden was.

Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Sleepyside…

Senator Winthrop Frayne tapped his watch and angled his wrist so that the dull glow from the streetlight fell on the face of the watch. Half past eight. Precisely. Pressing his lips together he forced himself to take the stairs leading to the ornate double doors at a good clip. It wouldn't do to show hesitation, after all. He'd made his decision and all that remained was to act on it. As he'd told himself countless times in the past, it was the making of the decision that was the hard part, not the implementing of it.

And twenty years ago he'd made the decision to go to confession on a daily basis.

Today was not going to be an exception.

No matter how little he wanted to be here.

Oh, it wasn't that he had anything particularly heinous to confess. Not today, at least. After all, it wasn't as if Sleepyside had much to offer in the way of temptation. There had been a woman or two who'd have been worth an awkward confession, he supposed, but his heart hadn't been in it. More and more often, he found, a clandestine rendezvous simply wasn't worth the effort.

But none of that absolved him from his daily confession.

More importantly, none of those were the reason that he had a persistent niggling twinge of… something. It wasn't guilt. No, he'd made the decision to support Brian Belden because he honestly felt that it was the right thing to do. But something about the situation still rankled. No matter how he looked at the facts and evidence, something was still off.

And he was damned if he knew how to confess that.

His pace slowed automatically as he entered the quiet stillness of the sanctuary. He knew that cool, quiet interior of the church was due to the thick stone foundation and walls, but the sensation of walking into a completely other place never failed to strike him. The more cynical side of him wondered if church architects had been designing them this way deliberately for years, but in the end he knew that it didn't matter.

What mattered was that entering a sanctuary felt like entering the presence of God. The confessional, with its ornately carved wood, even more so, even if it was in a completely different way. The sanctuary was only about God, he realized. The confessional was where it became about him, too.

Whether he wanted it to or not.

The stillness of the sanctuary was broken by the fall of heavy feet. And though he'd been on his mind almost constantly, Win was surprised to see Matthew Wheeler and Father Tom exiting the Father's small office.

"She's in a better place," Father Tom comforted, patting Matthew's arm. "You must trust in God's infinite wisdom."

"I'd sooner have my daughter with me," Matthew retorted, but his tone lacked the carefully controlled anger Win expected. Instead, Matthew sounded… hollow. As if he'd given up.

Win hastily concealed himself in a hollowed niche beside a life-size statue of Saint Patrick and watched as the two men walked slowly down the centre aisle. Something, he realized, was horribly wrong. Matthew wasn't the type to be overly dramatic or to go running to a priest for comfort. Oh, Matthew had a good enough relationship with the Father, Win knew, but it wasn't a relationship based on daily confession the way his own was.

For Matthew to seek out the priest…

Was it possible that Honey had died?

No.

Yes, she'd been pale when Brian had confronted her.

And yes, she'd seemed to have some difficulty breathing.

But that didn't mean—

He'd never seen Honey have an asthma attack, but with sudden clarity he remembered Matthew telling him about the hours and days she'd spent in the hospital when she was a child.

But surely—

"Just… one more candle?"

Father Tom nodded, his hand on Matthew's back. They were past Win now, but the senator couldn't take his eyes off his friend as he knelt at the altar and dropped his head to his hands, his shoulders shaking.

He watched as Matthew lit candle after candle and then Win slipped, unnoticed, into the confessional.

It wasn't a comfort to realize that he had more to confess than he'd realized.

Outside Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Sleepyside…

Bobby Belden shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his navy hoodie and wondered if he looked as gangsta as he felt. It wasn't as if he could really disguise himself; not in a town the size of Sleepyside where everybody knew everybody. But no one, not even nosy Mrs. Bolton, had given him a second glance when he'd flipped up his hood and slipped between the church and the neighbouring building to slouch against the cool stone exterior.

He was one with the shadows, he thought smugly.

"Bobby! What are you doing? Does Moms know you're in town this late?"

Typical, Bobby thought, and stepped out from the shadows to glare at his oldest brother. "I'm not six anymore," he muttered, his sulky tone suggesting otherwise.

"Right." Brian rubbed his face, and Bobby wondered if he'd gotten any sleep lately. Was a guilty conscience keeping him up at night? He hoped so, he thought, as he viciously kicked at a pebble on the well-maintained sidewalk.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Bobby demanded, returning to a slouched position against the wall of the church. Meeting up with Brian hadn't been part of his plan, but he was pretty sure he could use this to his advantage. If he was careful. And subtle. And—

"What are you up to?" Brian asked suspiciously. "And what's with the hood? It's not even cold out!" He took a step toward Bobby and flicked the hood back.

"Geez!" Bobby cursed and stepped out of his brother's reach. "What's wrong with you?" He tugged the hood back onto his head.

"You're up to something," Brian repeated. "What is it?"

"Well, I'm almost up to 6'1"," Bobby quipped, enjoying the fact that he was catching up to his oldest brother in height.

"Seriously. What. Are.—"

"You!"

Brian and Bobby's heads swivelled toward the door of the church where Matthew Wheeler stood, lit from behind by the lights from the sanctuary. The door swung closed behind him and the image of the red-haired angel was replaced with that of an avenging warrior.

"Probably you should go," Bobby warned Brian hastily, his eyes fixed on the furious man on the steps. Maybe Brian showing up hadn't been a good thing, Bobby reconsidered. Matthew Wheeler had just finished putting on a show for Win where he'd had to pretend that he was grieving the death of his daughter, and it looked to Bobby as if he were still firmly entrenched in the role.

And as angry as Bobby was with his brother, he was pretty sure that bloodshed in front of the church wasn't going to help matters.

"Look," he said desperately. "Why don't we—"

Whatever he was going to say, and Bobby really had no idea what had been about to come out of his own mouth, was forestalled by the double doors opening again to reveal a second red-haired man. Win Frayne, however, appeared not as an angel or warrior but as a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"You." Matthew pointed at his one-time friend as they stood at the top of the steps. "You did this to her."

Win paled, his face ashen under the light of the streetlamp.

"Matthew," he pled. "You have to believe me. I never meant for—"

"Meant for what?" Brian interrupted, frowning. "Never meant to support me in exposing my girlfriend's cheating?"

Win's eyes remained fixed on Matthew's. "I never meant for Honey to— I had no idea her asthma—"

Brian frowned. "Honey had an asthma attack? That's hardly your fault and it's certainly not the end of the world."

Matthew strode down the steps so quickly that Brian didn't have time to move out the way before he was shouldered aside and nearly toppled into a bush.

"You're right," Matthew seethed, flinging the words over his shoulder as Bobby scrambled to catch up to him. "It's your fault, Brian. And there's nothing you can do to bring her back."

Bobby risked a glance back and saw that Matthew's words had hit home. Neither Win nor Brian would sleep easy that night, Bobby knew, and smiled.

"Well, that turned out okay," Bobby said when he and Matthew were both safely in the black BMW Matthew used when he chose to drive himself.

Matthew paused, his hand on the key in the ignition. "Don't ever ask me to do that again," he said, his voice shaking.

Bobby wasn't generally one for suffering from guilt, but watching the older man struggle to compose himself made him feel distinctly… uncomfortable. Not guilty. Definitely not guilty. They hadn't actually lied to anyone, after all. Matthew had disclosed his plan to Father Tom, who had agreed to help Win and Brian see the error of their ways. And he certainly didn't feel guilty for allowing Win and Brian to believe that Honey had died. They'd believed the worst of her with only the flimsiest of proof and Win had supported Brian when he had chosen to publicly humiliate her. They deserved a little comeuppance.

But the look on Matthew Wheeler's face made Bobby wonder if maybe they would both benefit from an honest visit to the confessional.

Glen Road Inn…

Jim sat in the dark hotel room, waiting. Everyone knew that his father attended confession every night at eight-thirty. There wasn't enough light to read his watch by, but he could feel that it was nearing nine o'clock. Perhaps his father had more than usual to confess?

No.

Winthrop Frayne was nothing if not predictable, and Jim knew that if he felt he had wronged anyone, he would do everything in his power to make it right before attending confession.

And Trixie would have called him if Win had apologized to Honey.

No, Jim realized, drumming his fingers on the lone table the hotel room boasted, Win had most likely made his confession as usual and then been waylaid by a constituent.

Business as usual.

Except that it wasn't business as usual for Honey Wheeler. Or Matthew Wheeler. Or Trixie Belden.

No, those people had spent some of the worst days of their lives while his dad and Brian Belden had carried on as if nothing had happened.

The silence was broken by the creak of a key in the lock. Glen Road Inn, Jim had discovered when the clerk let him into his father's room, had not yet upgraded to key cards. Or any other common security features. The inn had many charms, but keeping up with the times was not among them.

"It's about time," Jim said, and the figure in the doorway froze.

"Jim," Win said, shoulders sagging. "I'm glad you're here." He stepped further into the room, but stopped when Jim stood. "Are you leaving already?" he asked in surprise.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Jim snapped. "And I really don't know what you're doing." Running his hand through his short red hair, he asked, "Dad, what are you doing?"

Win laughed bitterly and took the chair across from the one that Jim had vacated. The invitation was obvious, but Jim didn't take it, choosing instead to stand at the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I have no idea," Win said, planting his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands. "No idea." After a moment of silence, he raised his head. "And I don't know what to do to make it right."

Jim pressed his lips together. "Dad, I'm not sure that you can make this right."

And then he did something that he'd never done before. He turned his back on his father and left. He let the door swing closed behind him and took a deep breath. He'd never, not even during his modest teenage rebellion, walked away from his father. He'd never even been tempted to. He'd always respected his opinion, even when it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

But he didn't regret walking away. Not this time.

He started down the inn's wide wooden staircase, only to be on the receiving end of a strong shoulder check. "Watch it!" he said curtly, the stress of his conversation with his father making him less polite than was his norm.

"You watch it," the other party shot back.

Jim looked up from rubbing his tender shoulder and scowled. "It figures," he muttered. It wasn't enough that he'd felt the need to confront his father, apparently. Now he was face to face with the man who was the real cause of all the recent conflicts.

"Sorry, Jim." Brian's stormy expression belied his polite words, but Jim had the impression that the other man’s anger was directed toward the world in general, and not to Jim in particular.

Jim, however, could not say the same of his own anger.

"You have a lot of nerve, showing your face in Sleepyside," he accused, and watched as Brian's expression changed from tired and disgruntled to confused and wary.

"Not you, too," Brian groaned. "Look. I'm sorry that Honey had an asthma attack. Really sorry. But it's not my fault. She triggered it with her own stress. Stress she caused by sleeping around with another man while pretending to love me." Pressing his lips together, he looked away. "It's her own fault."

Jim stared at him for a long moment while Brian's jaw twitched. "You say the words, but I don't think you believe them," he finally decided.

"Right," Brian replied. "Whatever." Sending a clear message of "leave me alone", he brushed past Jim a second time, though he refrained from using actual force.

Improvement, Jim decided as he stared after him thoughtfully. Brian wasn't nearly as hard-hearted as he seemed to think himself. Arrogant and stubborn, yes. But not hard-hearted.

He could work with that.

Still at the Glen Road Inn…

Dan Mangan stood to the side and let Sergeant Belden work his magic at the reception desk. It was amazing, really, what you could get away with in a small town when your family had lived there for generations.

"Senator Frayne?" the middle-aged receptionist asked. "Oh, he's in room 214." Blushing, she looked down at the old-fashioned ledger book the inn still prided itself on using, and Dan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Did every woman find the red-haired senator attractive? He just didn't get it. Probably it was the man's power and influence she was attracted to. Because it certainly couldn't be the ginger hair.

As if to prove him wrong, Jim Frayne, the senator's son, strode down the staircase, drawing the attention of every female in the lobby.

Sleepyside was weird.

"Are you sure?"

Dan turned back to the reception desk and saw that the sergeant was frowning at the receptionist.

"I'm afraid so," she replied. In a whisper she added, "He hasn't settled his bill, either."

Dan didn't need to hear names to know who she was talking about. Jonesy had skipped town, leaving a trail of trouble behind him.

"I'll deal with it," the sergeant promised her grimly, and Dan had no doubt that he would. Sergeant Belden's goal in life seemed to be making things right, as evidenced by Dan's presence at the inn.

"This way," he instructed, and Dan dutifully followed him up the staircase. "Remember, you're not on trial. You're here to provide information."

Dan nodded, but had to wipe clammy hands on his jeans anyway. Senator Frayne wasn't going to like what he had to say. And if Brian Belden was in the room… Well, he'd like it even less.

"Just tell the truth," the sergeant advised him.

Easy for him to say, Dan thought. Sleepyside was one of those strange places he'd thought didn't exist. A place where Mart Belden had grown up actually being rewarded for telling the truth.

Dan hadn't grown up in a place like that.

But you're here now, a voice in his head whispered.

He straightened his back and when they entered the room, he met Senator Frayne's eyes. This was Sleepyside, he reminded himself. Where anything seemed to be possible.

Up to and including the senator and his doctor sitting at the room's lone table, a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses between them.

Senator Frayne squinted at his guests. "Sergeant Belden," he said, his words still clear though his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.

"Senator Frayne. Mind if we sit down?"

If the sergeant was dismayed at finding the senator and his own brother well into their cups, he didn't show it.

"Please," the senator said, "Call me Win." Pouring himself another shot of whiskey he said, "It's my lucky name, you know."

Lucky name. Dan grimaced, knowing that there was nothing terribly lucky in the story he was about to share.

"Have you met Dan Mangan?" Mart asked. "He's been… working with your brother."

Could he have worded that any poorer? Dan wondered, and braced himself for the senator's legendary temper.

"Half-brother," Win corrected automatically. He turned his attention to Dan and narrowed his eyes, suddenly appearing not nearly so intoxicated.

"Dan's not in any trouble," Mart assured him hastily. "In fact, he's here to tell you what Jonesy's been up to."

Win started to reach for the bottle again but stopped halfway. Letting his hand drop heavily to the table, he said, "Am I going to want to be sober for this?"

Mart shook his head and topped up Win's glass himself. "Drink up," he advised. "I'll leave a written report for you to read tomorrow morning, too."

Brian, who had not spoken, reached to refill his own glass, but Mart swept the bottle away before he could.

"You," Mart said, pointing at his brother. "You get to do this sober."

Again, Dan reflected, Mart wasn't doing him any favours.

But it wasn't about him.

"Go ahead," Mart said, and motioned for Dan to sit on the bed. He couldn't, though. Something about the hand-quilted bedspread threw him. It was so… domestic. And homey. Comforting. And if he sat on it, he'd be sucked fully into the vortex of happy, peaceful, Sleepyside.

Which wouldn't be so bad.

Not so bad at all.

But not until after he'd done what he came here for.

"Honey didn't cheat on you," he said, suddenly tired and longing to sit on the bed.

Brian raised bleary, alcohol-heavy eyes to him. "Sure she did. I saw her. In real life and in the video. Heard her, too." He shuddered at the remembrance.

Dan pressed his lips together. "You saw me. And Jane Morgan."

Brian made a face. "Eww. Everyone's seen Jane Morgan." He paused, and Dan could practically see the information fighting its way past the alcohol to reach his brain. "Wait," he said. "That was you?"

Dan nodded.

"And it wasn't Honey?"

Dan shook his head.

Brian's dark complexion turned a sickly shade of green and he bolted for the bathroom, leaving an upended chair in his wake. The sound of retching filtered through the door.

"I think you can go now," Win said, freckles standing out in relief against pale skin.

Dan turned to obey, but stopped when Mart shook his head.

"There's more," the sergeant said.

"More?" Win questioned, dropping his head to rest in his hands. "How could there possibly be more? I've thrown away a thirty-year friendship and— Oh, god. Honey." He looked up, his eyes pleading with Mart to spare him from further bad news. "Jonesy," he groaned, answering his own question.

Mart nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"He's behind this?" Win questioned.

Dan hesitated, and then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. He wasn't making himself at home, he told himself. It was just easier to talk to the senator when they were at eye level. That was all.

"He was looking for a way to hurt you and Brian," he explained. "But it was my idea." Unable to look the senator in the eye, he dropped his eyes to the busy pattern of the quilt. Stars? he wondered. When he was little, before he'd even started school, his mom had taken him along to the church to her quilting group. It was the Ozark Star pattern, he remembered, tracing the straight lines of the pattern with his finger.

"I figured it would hurt everyone the most without actually breaking any laws." Dan looked up, expecting to see condemnation in the older man's eyes. Instead, all he saw was grief.

"I'm sorry," he said, and found that he meant it. He'd done plenty of awful things in his life, but none of them had stayed with him the way this one had.

Probably because he could see how long it would stay with the people in the room.

"Well, I can't say that I'm surprised." Pushing his chair away from the table, Win rose to his feet heavily. "I suppose I'd better go talk to him and straighten this out," he said, his lips pressed in a thin line.

Mart shook his head. "That's the other bad news," he said.

Win blinked owlishly at him.

"Jonesy's left town."

Win sank back to his chair, landing with enough force to make the antique creak and complain. "Probably just as well," he muttered. "I've gotten this far in life without murdering him. It would be a shame to start now."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Mart's face, and Dan blinked, suddenly certain that the man's goofy demeanour hid a complex personality. "Let's not be hasty," the sergeant said. For the life of him, Dan wasn't sure if Mart was saying that Win shouldn't bring Jonesy to his own brand of justice, or if he was telling him not to give up on the idea of fratricide.

"We'll find him and bring him in," Mart promised. Dan didn't know how he could be so certain, but his tone left no room for doubt.

Mart turned to leave, gesturing for Dan to follow him. When he reached the door, however, he turned back and stared at the bathroom where the faint sound of retching continued.

"Probably you should keep Brian here tonight," Mart advised. "He might not last the night if he comes back to Crabapple Farm and Trixie hears about it."

Win nodded. Gripping the edge of the table, he pulled himself to his feet again. "I appreciate the information," he told Mart. "And I know it wasn't easy for you to come here," he continued, addressing Dan. "You did the right thing."

"After the fact," Dan pointed out, suddenly weary of himself and the entire situation.

Win shrugged and sat back down again, pulling the bottle closer to him. "Better after the fact than never."

Maybe, Dan thought, turning his back on the room with the simple Ozark Star quilt and two devastated men. Maybe. And maybe it didn't matter one way or the other.

Still, he left the room with fewer regrets than he'd had when he entered it.

Wimpy's Diner, later that same evening…

Trixie Belden sucked noisily on the straw of her chocolate malt, the effort hollowing her cheeks and making her eyes pop. "Ah," she sighed. "Now that's what I'm talking about."

Jim smiled indulgently and wrapped his hands around his own drink, playing with the condensation running down the sides. "If I'd known that a chocolate malt was all it took to turn you to putty in my hands I'd have brought you here years ago."

Trixie snorted and paused in her quest to drain the thick treat. Stabbing a French fry in ketchup, she popped it into her mouth. "Whatever. You didn't care one whit about me until, what? A few days ago? A week?"

Jim shrugged. "I didn't know I cared about you until recently," he corrected her. "There's a difference."

Trixie smiled goofily and licked the ketchup from her fingers. "Good save."

He startled her, catching her hand and holding it.

"No," he said. "You were the one doing the saving." His smile turned sad. "Confronting my dad about what happened was the right thing to do," he explained. "I took a stand and it felt good. Well," he amended, "maybe not good. But right. And I have you to thank for that."

"You have no one to thank but yourself!" she cried, and scooted from her side of the booth to his. Looking up at him with round blue eyes she said, "I still can't believe you did that. I know how close you and your father are. And I know that Honey would never cheat on Brian, but you didn't know that. Well, you know it now because my imbecile brother finally texted me about some guy confessing to staging the whole kissy-kissy incident, but you didn't know it then. You took a real risk," she finished, biting her bottom lip and looking up at him. "And don't think I'm not grateful."

Suddenly aware that her hand was resting on his thigh and that she was pressed awfully close to him, she flushed crimson and scooted backward, nearly falling off the bench of the booth.

"Not so fast," Jim murmured, catching her by the waist and tugging until she was snug against him. She froze, startled into a rare moment of silence. It was almost like they were back in the waiting room of Presbyterian Hospital. Only this time she wasn't sick with worry for her best friend's life. And Jim had proven his strength of character and loyalty to her.

And maybe Wimpy's Diner wasn't the most romantic place in the world for their first kiss, but when Jim brushed his lips against her, she decided that it would work just fine.

Our Lady of Mount Carmel cemetery…

Brian Belden gripped the cold wrought iron of the gate and stared into the dark cemetery. Growing up attending the Presbyterian church, he'd never actually been in the Catholic cemetery attached to the grounds of the church. Some of his schoolmates had, he remembered. Donny Vanderveen had gone through a Goth spell their sophomore year, dressing in black and spending every moonless evening he could in the cemetery.

But Brian hadn't gone through that phase. Hadn't gone through any phase, really. Unless studying hard, to the exclusion of everything else, was a phase. A phase that had never really ended.

He had never dated much, and had gone out even less after he'd graduated medical school. There was always something more important. Like graduating high school early and gaining admission to a top-rated medical school. Like having the highest marks in his college courses and still finding time to volunteer and take extra courses in the summer months. Like living through the hell that his internship had been. Like giving up any semblance of a normal life to be the personal physician of one of the most respected politicians in America.

Maybe that single-minded focus was why he was taking this so hard, he thought. Honey had been his first real relationship, the first girl he hadn't dated simply because it was convenient. Maybe if he'd been dumped or cheated on a bunch of times already her betrayal wouldn't have been a big deal. If he'd been secure in his ability to keep a girl, maybe he wouldn't have been so quick to believe what had obviously been a faked scenario.

And maybe Honey, the sweetest girl he'd ever known, would still be alive.

A sob caught in his throat and he had to blink rapidly to keep his vision from clouding. Raising the bottle of whiskey he'd brought from the hotel room, he took a long swallow. He'd lost most of what he had drunk earlier when he'd been ill, and it was high time he replenished the alcohol level in his bloodstream, he decided.

He gave the gate a solid, angry push, relishing the noisy complaint of rusted iron as it opened. If he was miserable, everyone and everything else might as well be, too.

He stumbled into the graveyard, lurching to avoid stepping on the graves. It was bad luck, he recalled through his drunken haze. Or maybe it was just disrespectful. He couldn't quite remember. Weaving uncertainly, he stopped for a rest when his shins smacked into Old Man Carter's monument. He'd been a town founder, Brian recalled. One of the first settlers in the area. He'd done something with his life. Something other than believing lies about the woman he loved and inadvertently sending her to her death.

He clung to the cold stone of the monument, his eyes riveted on a freshly dug grave.

His feet followed his eyes until he knelt at the side of the grave, staring into the yawning mouth of death. "Honey," he whispered, "I never meant for it to end like this."

His confession was met with silence. The grave couldn't give him absolution, but, then again, neither could Father Tom. God might forgive him, he supposed, but he knew that he would never forgive himself.

"I'd do anything to fix this," he swore. It was ridiculous and pointless to talk to a grave. Even through his drunken haze, he knew that. Still, once he started talking he couldn't stop.

"If you were here, I'd tell you that I believe you. That I'll never doubt you again. That I was an idiot for even entertaining the idea that you would—" He broke off, unable to complete the sentence and remind himself of what he'd been foolish enough to believe.

"I'd trust you, Honey. For the rest of my life, if you'd let me. And I'd make up for this. Somehow."

But the words were hollow. He'd never be able to prove his faith in her. And he'd certainly never be able to make up for what he'd done.

He ran out of words as quickly as they'd come to him. Staring into the depths of the grave, the blackness drew him in. The silence, he decided, was no longer accusing. Not quite accepting, either. That would be asking too much. But maybe it would be okay if he rested in that darkness for a while.

The ground was closer than he realized, as his cheek made contact with the well-tended grass. His eyes were still open as the bottle slipped from his hand, whiskey soaking the cold dirt.

Crabapple Farm…

Trixie Belden hummed happily as she cracked eggs into the batter, not even grimacing when egg white slithered over her fingers before landing in the bowl with a plop. Nothing, not even having to make breakfast, could put a damper on her spirits. After all, Honey wasn't really dead. She was upstairs sleeping, and she was well enough that she planned to come down to the kitchen for breakfast. And she and Jim were… well, she didn't know exactly what they were, but she knew that she was happier than she could remember ever feeling before.

Wrestling the heavy cast-iron skillet onto the stovetop, she turned on the element and heated enough oil to coat the bottom of the pan. Her pancakes wouldn't be as good as Moms', of course, but she could probably manage to not burn them. Probably. If she didn't get distracted thinking about the fact that Jim had promised to stop by to see her. Or wondering if her oldest brother was ever going to show his face at Crabapple Farm again. Or if Jim's creepy half-uncle had finally left town. She didn't like to think ill of people, but Jonesy made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Something wasn't right with that man…

She jumped back from the stove as the oil spattered. Definitely hot enough, she thought, and turned down the heat. Using Great Grandma Belden's ladle, she scooped a generous dollop of batter into the frying pan and listened to the sound of sizzling increase. She bit her lip, hoping that the pancake wasn't burning. She knew better, though. The first pancake always burned, no matter how careful she was. Sure enough, when she flipped it over, the underside was completely black and the acrid smell of burning filled the room.

"If I wanted burnt," she said to the frying pan, "I'd have made toast."

"Or bacon," her brother Mart suggested cheerfully as he entered the kitchen. The back door slammed closed behind him, and Trixie glanced anxiously at the staircase, hoping that her oaf of a sibling hadn't woken Honey.

"That was a hint," he continued, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. "The bacon, I mean. It's perfect for you. It's the one food that tastes better burnt."

Trixie sniffed and placed a perfectly browned pancake on a plate. "Uh, uh, uh," she chided, shaking her finger at him when he tried to take the plate from her. "You know how it works here. If you want to be fed, you have to help. We need butter, syrup, and jam on the table. And don't forget the milk and orange juice.”

"You're just lucky I'm a bottomless pit," Mart informed her cheerfully as he raided the fridge. "And a fount of knowledge." He paused. "Or is that a pit of knowledge?"

Trixie rolled her eyes and set a plate with a stack of perfectly browned pancakes in the centre of the table. "Don't forget to set the table, Mr. Bottom of the Pit."

"Hey," he objected mildly. "I'm pretty sure that isn't right."

"You're the one who's not right," she said, watching as he layered Nutella, marshmallows, and crab apple jelly on his pancake and then upended half a bottle of maple syrup on it. "You're lucky Moms isn't here to see this."

Mart shrugged, unable to speak around the food in his mouth.

"I only wish I weren't here to see this," a voice from the doorway grouched, and Trixie whirled to find her oldest brother standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and sending batter flying from the spatula she still held.

"I wish I knew," he retorted, striding into the kitchen and sliding into his customary place at the table. Winthrop Frayne entered after him, followed by his son, Jim. Trixie stared at them, speechless.

"I invited them," Mart informed her, and then shoved more pancakes in his mouth to avoid answering further questions.

"Coffee," Brian muttered, propping his head on his hands. "Please tell me there's coffee."

Trixie's lips twitched as she motioned for the Fraynes to find spots at the table before filling three mugs with fresh coffee. Jim had called her when he'd spotted Brian in the cemetery the previous evening, so Trixie knew that Brian had spent a rough night. What she hadn't expected was for him to look so terrible. He'd made it through residency and exam crunches without looking as pale and defeated as he did this morning.

And instead of inducing sympathy, she found that she felt only a sense of satisfaction that Brian was at last feeling a measure of guilt for his actions. Fixing a plate of pancakes for each of the guests, she slipped the burnt one onto Brian’s plate and covered it with a golden brown one to hide it. Was it petty? Probably. Did she care? Not even a little.

Win, Jim, and Brian took seats at the kitchen table when Mart brandished his fork in an insistent invitation. “Make yourselves at home,” he said, and pushed the maple syrup closer to the guests. Brian stared down at his plate, but Trixie was certain that her subpar culinary skills could only account for a small portion of his air of dejection. A slave to habit, he methodically sliced the pancakes into precise squares and evenly distributed a moderate amount of syrup over them. His composure faltered, however, when he couldn’t seem to bring the fork to his mouth.

“I don’t know why we’re here,” he said, allowing his fork to clatter against his plate. Syrup dripped to the polished surface of the table and dribbled toward a crack where the leaves connected. Instead of replying, Mart tossed a dishcloth onto the mess and observed the slow progress of the syrup soaking into the cloth. Kind of like a fly trapped in ointment, Trixie thought, and realized why Mart was so successful in his chosen career. He definitely knew how to read people and no one was better at getting a reaction out of someone.

“Well?” Brian demanded, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes were bloodshot and pinched, but he held his younger brother’s gaze with a grip of iron.

Mart patted his mouth, set the napkin to the side, and poured himself a glass of orange juice. “I just thought you might need a little cheering up. You know. After finding out that you humiliated Honey, very publicly, I might add, for no good reason.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Brian growled and shoved his chair back. The grate of the feet of the chair against the hardwood floor made him wince, but Trixie couldn’t decide if it was because it exacerbated his headache or because Helen Belden had instilled in each of her children a deep-seated respect for the antique flooring and furnishings that filled Crabapple Farm. “If this is just to make a point and to make me feel even worse—" He swiped his hand over his eyes. “Well, I’ve got news for you. I couldn’t feel worse if I tried.”

“Good,” Mart said, the brevity of his response emphasizing his vehemence. “But it would be rude to leave before our last guests even arrive.”

“Are you serious?” Brian demanded. “I’m hardly in the mood to—“

“Oh, you’ll be in the mood to see this guest,” Mart assured his brother.

Trixie fidgeted silently, for once content to be part of the background to the action. If she’d been in charge of this meeting, it would have involved a lot more yelling. And possibly a few well-placed hits. She didn’t care if Brian had spent the night in the cemetery drinking and crying. She still just couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea that he’d been so quick to believe the worst about Honey. Honey, of all people! Sweet, kind, generous, forgiving, loyal—

“Honey!” Mart exclaimed, his gaze on the doorway at Brian’s back. “Good to see you! Pancakes?”

Later, Trixie could never decide if the next moments were in slow motion or fast forward. It all happened at once, but every detail was permanently etched in her memory.

Honey, in the doorway, pale and frail but standing on her own two feet.

Brian, scrambling backward and knocking his chair over as he twisted to face the doorway.

Win, his coffee cup shattering as it slipped from his hand and clattered against his plate.

Jim, ignoring everything around him to watch her. Not Honey, but her. And instead of flushing at the unexpected attention, she felt a tingle of assurance that somehow, against all odds, everything was going to be just fine.

“Come sit down,” she invited. “And you, too, Mr. Wheeler, Dad.”

Honey, her father, and Trixie’s father entered the room and found seats at the table. Brian, his eyes round and fixed on his formerly dead girlfriend, tried to pull out Honey’s chair for her, but tripped over the legs of his own chair as it lay with its’ legs pointed to the ceiling. Smoothly, Win Frayne pulled out her chair, though his knuckles turned white from his convulsive grip. He hesitated after he’d pushed the chair to the table, as if he didn’t want to let go. Matthew coughed faintly and Win flexed his hands before finding his own seat.

“Honey,” Brian breathed, still standing in a tangle with the legs of his chair. “I… I thought…”

“You shouldn’t be so quick to listen to rumours,” Trixie informed him crisply, and righted his chair. Brian sank into it, one trembling hand clutching the table.

“I didn’t die,” Honey said quietly, “but I was very sick for a while.”

Brian’s head jerked in what could have been a nod of acknowledgement or merely a nervous twitch.

“Honey,” Win whispered. “I can’t believe… We thought…” Passing his hand over his eyes, he said, “We thought you were dead. And we know that you didn’t—" He stopped abruptly when Matthew cleared his throat a second time. “Matthew, I—"

“Don’t,” Matthew interrupted, holding up his hand. Win nodded, and Trixie wondered how long it would take the two fiery redheads to repair their friendship. She suspected that they would, eventually, but what that new relationship would look like… Well, it couldn’t be any stranger than watching her best friend and her oldest brother navigate their way through the current minefield of a conversation.

“Pancakes!” she said brightly, and set a plate in front of Honey. “And bacon,” she added, taking a plate from where it had been warming in the oven. When Mart’s face lit up, she smacked his hand with a spatula before he could snitch a piece. “The bacon is for the recovering invalid. It’s hard work being dead.” She added three slices of the charred meat to Honey’s plate, and then offered the rest to the others.

“Burnt to a crisp. Just the way I like it!” Mart sighed happily and helped himself to a fistful.

Trixie grimaced and gave Honey an apologetic look. “Sorry, Hon,” she said. “I know you like it still oinking.”

Honey blinked and looked down at her plate, where she’d crumbled the crisp bacon to a pile of ashes. “Sorry,” she whispered, her throat raw from the trauma of breathing tubes.

“Don’t be sorry,” Brian said roughly. “Not you. Not ever. You never have to be sorry for anything ever again,” he vowed. “At least, not with me. You’re perfect,” he continued, ignoring everyone else in the room. “You’re sweet and loving and trustworthy and far too good for the likes of me.”

“You got that right,” Trixie muttered under her breath, earning grunts of approval from every male in the room except Brian.

“But I hope you’ll give me another chance. I don’t deserve it—I know that—but I can promise you that I’ll never doubt you again.” He knelt beside her chair, his dark eyes beseeching her to take him back. Honey hesitated. She was pale, Trixie realized. More pale than when she’d come down to breakfast. She wasn’t completely better yet, and Brian was pressuring her, and Trixie knew that her best friend would take him back too soon if she didn’t have a little breathing space.

“What about Jonesy?” she blurted, asking the first question she could come up with that was guaranteed to distract everyone.

“Yes, what about him?” Matthew demanded, turning his glare from the elder Belden brother and fixing it on the younger.

“That’s a good question,” Mart said, unruffled by the tension in the room. “And I believe I can give you some answers in…” He made a show of checking his cereal box variety watch. “3…2…1…”

A knock at the backdoor sounded, causing Mart to smile broadly. “He’s going to fit in here just fine,” he said under his breath. “Come on in, Mangan,” he called in a louder voice. “And bring your guest with you.”

Daniel Mangan pushed open the screen door and gave a rough nudge to the man with him. “In you go,” Dan instructed, leaving no choice but for the man to obey.

“Jonesy,” Win said, the name sounding like a curse.

“Win the Wonderful,” Jonesy sneered back. “Guess you’re not so wonderful now, are you? What with believing the worst about sweet little girls.”

Win and Brian both leapt to their feet, Brian toppling his chair a second time. Instead of righting the chair, Trixie kept her eyes on the young man who’d led Jonesy to them.

“Good work, Dan,” was all that Mart said, but it was enough to let Trixie know that he approved of the stranger. Or maybe not quite a stranger… “Hey!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t I see you at the Wheelers’? You were doing some sort of…” She waved her hands as she tried to think of the right word. “Work? You know, something electrical. Maybe?”

Dan met her eyes briefly, and then looked away.

“I didn’t hire anyone to do electrical work,” Matthew said, frowning.

“Yes. Well. We’ll get into that later,” Mart said hastily, delivering a swift kick to Trixie’s ankle under the table. She scowled at him as she reached to massage the aching limb. “The important thing is that Dan found Jonesy after he skipped town and brought him to us. And that Dan’s testimony against him will put him back behind bars and keep him out of your hair,” he told Win.

Win sighed, visibly relieved.

“You’re a fool,” Jonesy spat at Dan. “We could have made it big cleaning out the Wheelers and everyone else on Glen Road.”

“Not us,” Trixie snorted. “All you’d get from cleaning us out is a sore back from hauling solid wood antiques.”

Jonesy laughed scornfully. “That’s what you think. By cleaning you out I’d be hurting the Wheelers, which would hurt Win the Ridiculously Loyal. See? Win-win!”

Brian raised his chin. “Is that what this is about?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “Was what happened with Honey just an attempt to hurt your brother through us?”

Jonesy’s lips parted in a cruel sneer, displaying his tobacco-stained teeth. “Can you think of a better way to hurt so many people at the same time? And it’s half-brother,” he reminded him.

“I don’t care if you’re the long lost daughter of a Russian Czar!” Win burst out. “What you did was so—“

“Wrong,” Honey interrupted, turning to face Jonesy straight on. “What you did was wrong. You used and hurt people you didn’t know to prove something or to make some sort of point.” She stood, two bright spots of colour blooming in stark relief on her otherwise pale face. “Was it worth it?” she wondered, straightening her back and relaxing her grip on the table. She studied the sullen, stoop-shouldered man thoughtfully. “Well. You may not be able to answer that yet. But I imagine you’ll have plenty of time to think about it when your parole is revoked.”

Trixie’s eyes widened at her best friend’s words. She hadn’t been overtly rude, but the matter-of-fact tone and almost callous indifference… It was possible that almost dying had changed Honey Wheeler more than any of them had realized. Certainly she had changed more than Brian had realized, Trixie thought with a grin, when Honey sailed from the room without a backward glance. And maybe, just maybe, that change was for the better. Matthew Wheeler certainly seemed to think so as he smiled at his daughter’s retreating form and refrained from following her up to the second floor.

“Well, Win,” he said, standing, “I could do with a long hard ride through the preserve. Care to join me?”

Win blinked at the unexpected gesture of goodwill.

“Go on,” Mart said, stealing another piece of bacon and popping the entire slice in his mouth before standing. “I’ve got the situation under control,” he assured him, using his greasy hands to pat the handcuffs looped to his belt.

“Then, yes,” Win said, his eyes sliding over his half-brother before dismissing him so resolutely that Trixie knew that Jonesy would never again be given any sort of access to the politician’s life.

“I’m off to work,” Peter said, stopping to kiss his daughter on the top of her head.

The kitchen emptied itself so quickly that the sudden silence put Trixie off-kilter. “My cooking wasn’t that bad,” she muttered. “Was it?”

“Nah,” Jim said, stacking the plates on the table and bringing them to the counter. “But you could use a lesson in cooking eggs.”

“I didn’t even make eggs!” Trixie exclaimed.

“Exactly,” Jim agreed. “And that’s your problem right there. Every breakfast needs eggs. It’s okay, though. If nothing else, I’m a problem solver.” And without so much as a by your leave, he rummaged through the fridge, pulling out not only eggs but vegetables, cheese, and milk as well. Twenty minutes later, he slid two perfect omelettes onto plates and carried them to the kitchen table.

“And don’t let Mart try to tell you that omelettes need hot sauce,” Jim said, gesturing for her to join him at the table. “They don’t. Not if you make them right.”

Trixie sat down across from him and stared at the perfect, golden omelette in front of her. “You can cook?” she wondered.

Jim shrugged and took a bite. “I can do a lot of things,” he said, his innocent words belied by his faintly suggestive tone.

“And so humbly,” she teased, grinning in delight when he flushed. They might be friends now, she reflected, even more than friends if she were being honest with herself, but she suspected that she would never tire of teasing him and sparking just a little bit of his tightly controlled temper. To stop herself from pushing too hard, she popped a bite of omelette in her mouth and promptly forgot her train of thought.

“So good.”

Jim smiled smugly, and Trixie realized that she really wasn’t helping with the humility issue. Or the sexual innuendo. Taking another bite, she said, “I almost forgot you were here—you didn’t say a word while everyone was here!”

“I didn’t need to,” he said with a shrug. “And I didn’t notice you saying a whole lot, either.” He raised his eyebrow.

“Mart told me he’d have to arrest me if I killed Brian in front of him,” Trixie muttered. “So I figured it was safer to keep my mouth shut.”

“Mart did a good job,” Jim acknowledged. “Finding Jonesy and bringing him in, that is. Jonesy can be plenty slippery when he wants to be.”

“Oh, please,” Trixie scoffed, “that Mangan did all the heavy lifting and you know it. There’s no way Mart could have found Jonesy on his own.”

“Maybe,” Jim agreed, “but it takes a certain skill set to gain the cooperation of a man like Mangan.”

Trixie nodded thoughtfully, remembering the self-contained posture and demeanour of Jonesey’s former henchman. “I’m just glad we got everything straightened out before Jonesy could get too far away. The nerve of that man, trying to ruin everyone’s lives!”

“Don’t start,” Jim warned. “If I start thinking about him again…” He shook his head. “I just can’t. It has to be enough that he’s back in custody and that no one was permanently harmed.”

Trixie nodded soberly. “Honey was a close call.”

“Too close,” Jim agreed, and Trixie shivered. The situation might be cleared up, but it would be a long time before any of them would forget how close Honey had come to dying.

“Come here,” Jim urged, his voice low. He tugged her chair until it butted against his own and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She relaxed into him, exhausted by the events of the last week.

“Admit it,” he said, his mouth close to her ear.

“Admit what?” she asked breathlessly, trying to pretend that she was unaffected by warm tickle of his breath.

“That you liked having me around the last while.” He nipped at the lobe of her ear, his teeth barely grazing it.

She tilted her neck back to give him better access to her ear and the slope of her neck. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she whispered, and shifted closer to him.

He laughed, a low, throaty chuckle that vibrated against her ear, her neck, her heart. “Whatever, Belden.”

She laughed with him, suddenly filled with so much happiness she could barely contain it. “Whatever,” she agreed, and kissed him back with every ounce of that joy.