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Daniel knew he was standing too close. He towered over her by at least a foot — this pretty lady with the riot of auburn curls. The lady who had given him angels.

Was it a sign? he asked himself. Or was his imagination working overtime? Nothing in Orchid House was simple, least of all the haunting.

Unable to stop himself, he moved closer. She had eyes as green as an Irish countryside, a nose dusted with freckles. He imagined lifting his hand and caressing her face, her smooth, ivory skin.

It was an odd time to feel an attraction. Up until this disturbing moment, he'd assumed his need for a woman had died with his wife. But here it was, unwelcome as sin, sliding through his blood, making him warm and wanting.

"Why did you bring me angels?" he repeated the question, his voice quiet, his gaze locked with hers.

"Because it's Christmastime."

Her answer conjured a painful image. He retreated from the memory, and in doing so realized he had probably frightened Traci with his question. And possibly the child, as well. The boy watched him much too closely. Daniel figured him to be about six, and that hurt most of all, considering six years had passed since the fire.

"I'm sorry," he managed, taking a step back. "I don't get many visitors." And he didn't celebrate Christmas anymore.

"That's 'cause you're new in town," the boy piped in, his easy manner returning. "But that's okay. We can tell you anything you wanna know about Wileyville. We've lived here forever. We know everybody." Cocking his head, he grinned, flashing a gap between two slightly crooked front teeth.

The child had such an earnest smile, Daniel thought as he struggled with the urge to laugh and cry at the same time, feeling charmed yet saddened by a kid he had just met. Battling the jumble of emotion, he glanced at the woman, then slid right back into that warm, sultry place — the unexpected sexual pull that made him want to touch her.

He curled his fingers around the cookie tin, finding it a cool, impersonal substitute. He hoped she wasn't married. The idea of lusting after another man's wife didn't sit well.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

Nowhere in particular, he almost said, since he had been drifting more often than not. "North Carolina."

"Ah, your accent," she acknowledged, as if the sound of it pleased her. "Do you mind if I ask what tribe you're from? We don't get many Native Americans around here."

Daniel blinked. "Eastern Band Cherokee." A heritage he had abandoned a long time ago. Being Cherokee didn't mean anything. He couldn't return to the reservation any more than he could return to the genteel Southern society his wife had been born into.

"And your name is Daniel Crow?"

"That's right."

"Well, It's nice to meet you. I'm Traci Calhoun, and this is my son, Parker."

Daniel tensed as if he'd been sucker-punched, gulping the air that rushed out of his lungs.

Parker.

The infant he'd buried had been named Parker. A twist of fate? Or a painful coincidence? Suddenly he couldn't move. He stood like a statue, the winter chill slicing into his bones with the force of a razor-edged knife.

"Are you all right?"

He heard Traci's voice, but he couldn't form the words to respond. Instead he nodded. Or thought he did. The haunting was pulling him under. He had bought Orchid House so he could brood with the ghosts, not be summoned by a pretty redhead and a kid with a crooked smile who answered to his son's name.

"I guess we better go," she told him. "You're out here without a coat, and you seem to have caught a shiver. Maybe you should go inside. The flu is going around." She nudged Parker ahead, who said something about chicken soup as they walked away.

Daniel snapped out of his trance and noticed her car didn't start right away. It coughed several times before the engine came to life. As she traveled down the hill, he opened the cookie tin. And when he saw sugarcoated wings and gilded halos, he wondered what in heaven's name he was supposed to do.

To be continued...



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