And Then There Were None

By Jonathan Clemmer

Headstones above empty graves litter Sarah Morgan's family tree.  No matter how they died: drowning, car wrecks, soldiers in war, few left enough behind to warrant a coffin.  In Sara's opinion this was an oddity, but nothing more.  And then a close relative disappears in a pool of blood, an old man, like a harbinger of doom, appears on her doorstep, and she is dragged into a world of terror--where reality--as she knew it--no longer exists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590883594

Book preview

Prologue

1825 Australia

Abigail Fuller silently mouthed the words, It be out there, somewhere in the dark, as she stared out the bedroom window at the pre-dawn coastline. Leaning forward, she placed her trembling fingers on the thick, wavy, hand toweled glass, and, with both fear and defiance showing in her eyes, moaned aloud, Shades of crawling evil. I know ye be out there watching, waiting...

She had awakened half an hour before, but chose to leave the candle un-lit. It was easier to see outside from a dark room.

Shuddering with dread, palms cold and wet, she unlatched the window and, with a recklessness born of despair, pushed it wide open. Now, without the glass barrier offering its feeble protection, she felt more vulnerable, if possible, than before.

Her knees beginning to weaken, she gripped the window frame for support. Soon the effort to stand was too much and she slowly lowered herself onto a three-legged stool. From there, she continued to stare frantically out into the vast darkness. Her eyes moved toward the east where hazy signs of daybreak were tinting the distant horizon a pale pinkish-blue. Next, she looked upward at the darker royal-blue sky where stars still twinkled like distant beacons of hope, and for one brief, irrational moment she felt comforted. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she had misjudged, misinterpreted the message. The sky grew lighter, the stars began to fade and reality rushed back, dispelling all hope. There had been no mistake.

To her right, the flat empty blackness that represented the ocean on a moonless night was also changing. Sparkles of brilliant red-gold now capped its swelling waves, creating a dazzling display of thousands of miniature suns dancing on its surface.

God’s vanity, she sneered and looked away, rejecting all such beauty as a cruel mockery of her earlier innocence. For her, there would be no golden sea, no taste of bliss, and no fulfillment of love.

A damp sea breeze, heavy with the mysterious, yet familiar, scents of dawn, blew through the open window and stirred strands of long brown hair about her pale face. The outside air penetrated her thin nightgown and sent a shiver over her slight frame. Still, a worse chill came from deeper within, a hand from the grave gripped her heart.

Abby? Rouse yourself, mutton-head!

Abigail flinched, startled, and then sighed with relief, recognizing her sister’s voice through the closed door. It hadn’t come yet.

Mary, Abigail’s younger sister, continued talking cheerfully, The sun’s rising and guests be coming long ‘fore mid-day. Ye want all the ol’ biddies saying poor Tom be taking a lazy bride to his hearth? And that Mrs. Blingly be the worst! She’ll be looking for any excuse to find fault.

Not turning from the window, Abigail felt a cold tear slide down her cheek.

Her reputation no longer mattered.

Nothing did.

The door swung open and Mary, smiling broadly, stood in the doorway. Framed by the warm glow of a handheld lantern, she was already dressed in a long, brown, wool day dress, having risen early. There was much to do, many small tasks, all last minute preparations for the coming celebration.

Tom O’Day, a local boat builder of modest means, had ardently courted Abigail for the last three years. Today they would wed.

Resting one hand on a hip, Mary raised the lantern with the other and frowned mockingly. No doubt ye will be doing naught in his wee, four room mansion, what with all the fancy servants and such. Ho, ho! But here ye must work! The morrow ye may loaf. As she crossed the room to stand beside Abigail, she kept chattering gaily. There be still a bit of baking needs doing. Glancing outside, she inhaled the sweet air and then smiled, What a fine day be breaking, clear and lovely. Ye know the rhyme, the bride the sun shines on, be the bride...the... Her words faltered and died away as she noticed Abigail’s red-rimmed eyes and deathly pallor. In a gentler tone, she asked, Tis not second thoughts ye be having now, is it?

Unable to speak, blinking back tears, Abigail merely shook her head.

Be ye ill?

Once again, Abigail shook her head.

Kneeling down to study her sister’s face closer, Mary set the lantern on the floor. Her frown deepened. Well, something be ailing ye.

I, I’m well an all, Abigail managed to whisper over the painful lump in her throat.

Oh aye, Mary snapped, if ye be well I have no eyes in me head! Pale as a banshee herself and—

Interrupting her, Abigail groaned, A critter. She pointed outside where a small, brown wallaby set upright in the far corner of the yard. It be watching me.

Turning to look, Mary shrugged, Sure, and what be odd with that? Harmless little bugger.

Suddenly, Abigail cried out, snatched Mary’s hand and held it tightly.

Too tightly.

With eyes squeezed shut, she hissed, I had me a dream in the night!

Not another devil-dream, Mary said with exasperation and pulled her hand from Abigail’s painful grasp. There be no truth in devil-dreams and ye know that as well as I!

Hearing her sister’s blind denial of what they both knew to be true, Abigail laughed bitterly. It was a harsh, ragged laugh that ended abruptly on a sob. More to herself than to her sister, she murmured, Oh, if it were only so.

Do ye no remember what Parson Ready told us both?

Aye.

Ye want everybody thinking we be touched in the head, or worse? Devil-dreams come... she dropped her voice to a warning whisper, come from Beelzebub, himself! Sure and all! We must no listen to his sinful lies.

Sinful? Aye. But lies? Nay!

Abigail Fuller! For shame! The good Parson is a man of holy learning, and he says—

He is wrong. This I know, Abigail cut her off. With a grim smile, she added, To the marrow of me bones, this I know.

Swallowing hard, Mary’s expression grew more stubborn and, for a few minutes, she said nothing. Finally she shrugged and muttered, The kettle’s bubbling. A bit of tea is what thee be needing. Leaving the lantern, she rose quickly and backed away, saying, I will fetch a cup.

Before Mary reached the door, Abigail said softly, Ye have been a dear, sweet sister. May thine and thy children’s children prosper in peace without fear. Tell Tom... her voice broke and her following words were almost inaudible, his love I shall miss more than life.

Chilled by the sound of farewell, confused and frightened, Mary stammered, Tea, a bit of tea. I will hurry and fetch it. Then she fled out the door.

In the tiny kitchen an iron kettle was steaming on the open hearth, and Mary’s nervous fingers fumbled with the precious china teapot and delicate cups their parents had brought all the way from England twenty-two years ago. They owned few such treasures and ordinarily used the plain crockery, but, with Abigail behaving so peculiarly, Mary hoped the beautiful china would lighten her mood, make her forget this nonsense of a devil-dream. It was probably brought on by nothing more than wedding day jitters.

Within moments the teapot was filled with a dark, steaming brew, and the heady aroma of spices added richness to the plain kitchen.

Placing the delicate pot alongside two cups on a round wooden tray, she said wistfully, Oh for a bit of honey to sweeten the pot. With a mournful glance at the empty honey-pot, she sighed and reached for the pail of fresh goat’s milk setting on the sideboard. Unlike cow’s milk, which would have contained a thick topcoat of yellow cream to skim off into a serving creamer, the fat of goat’s milk was naturally blended with the milk and, when added to tea, was far less satisfying. However, they were used to making do.

After the creamer was filled and placed beside the cups, Mary lifted the tray and headed back to her sister’s bedroom, hoping to find Abigail dressed and feeling better.

At the closed door, she stopped and called out, Me hands are full! Please open the door.

Silence.

Abby?

Again silence.

Carefully balancing the tray in one hand, Mary used the other to reach down and press the latch, grumbling at the awkward task, And the fine china I be using. The tray wobbled. Oooo, if I drop it, ye be to blame!

As the door creaked open, Mary quickly returned the tray to both hands and stepped into the bedroom. Once inside, she stood dumbly, unable to comprehend the meaning of the scene before her.

Then she did.

The tray slipped from her hands and fell, striking the wood plank floor with a resounding clatter as she stood, slack jawed and speechless with horror.

The room appeared empty, but on the floor was proof it was not. Splattered goat’s milk, steaming tea, and fresh, warm blood ran together in a macabre pattern and sank between the cracks of the wide planks.

Abby? she whispered, unaware she had spoken the name.

The window was no longer open. It had been latched shut and a sudden blast of wind howled, rattling the pane.

Abby? she repeated, wildly scanning the room for some sign of her sister. Abby?

The morning sun rose higher and a narrow beam poured through the windowpane, creating a patch of bright light on the floor. In the patch something sparkled.

Transfixed, Mary stared at the tiny flashes as if hypnotized. Only part of the object sparkled, another part oozed blood, and, as if controlled by an invisible force, she unwillingly moved toward it. She did not want to see what she was seeing, but her eyes refused to look away. Once she had reached the sun filled spot, she dropped to her knees and picked up the ominous object. Gently holding it in one hand, she lowered her head as a soft, keening wail came from her parted lips.

She knew what she held.

She knew what part glittered and what did not.

The fire radiated from the beautiful, opal ring Tom had given Abigail to seal their commitment.

Abigail always wore it.

Abigail was wearing it now.

Groaning deep in her throat, Mary looked down and reluctantly opened her quivering hand. In her palm, still faithfully adorned with the opal ring, lay the total physical remains of her sister.

Mary’s low, mournful cries rose to a hysterical series of mindless shrieks as she rocked back and forth, holding Abigail to her breast.

1863 VIRGINIA

We will join General Stuart’s brigade tomorrow afternoon, Captain Harris informed the small group of Confederate soldiers sitting around the still furnished parlor of an abandoned plantation house. It was discovered earlier that same day and seemed a perfect haven to men weary from war. Gentlemen, a difficult fight lies before us. Perhaps more arduous than any we have faced thus far. Therefore, may I suggest each of us locate a comfortable place to sleep and get as much rest as possible this night.

THE OWNERS OF THE PLANTATION, apparently frightened of the advancing Union troops, had deserted their home in such a hurry they left most of their belongings behind, including an ample storehouse of food; the latter being a welcomed blessing for Captain Harris’ men, who were half starved and near total exhaustion. Now, having eaten more and much better food than they had seen in two months, their spirits rose and their determination to chase the Union Army out of the South returned with renewed vigor.

Captain, upstairs I saw boots in one of the rear bedrooms, Private Tiller spoke hesitantly, Would it be proper if we just helped ourselves? He glanced down at his calloused bare feet. Lost mine last month.

Take anything of use, Harris nodded. And, do not consider it as stealing. No, whoever owns this place can simply consider themselves loyal contributors of the cause whose boots are warming Confederate feet and not Yankee scum. However, only take things truly needed, such as clothes, shoes, blankets and such. We are not northern raiders.

I’ll see our food packs are refilled, sir, a second man volunteered with a huge grin. After a loud belch, he rubbed a dirty hand over his swollen stomach and said, That purely was some fine vittles. Puts me right in mind of home.

A third soldier spoke up, May I ask what the plans for tomorrow are?

Picking up a folded piece of paper that lay on the small table to his left, Harris answered, Our orders are to join with General Stuart for a massive advance up through the Shenandoah Valley. That’s clear north of Harper’s Ferry.

Ain’t that Union held? Tiller asked.

Until we get there, Harris nodded. With God’s help we are going to run the craven cowards clean out of Virginia with their tails tucked between their—

Interrupting him, a faint wavering scream came from a distance, and, in unison, the entire group looked toward the night-blackened windows that faced the horse stables.

Merciful heavens, Captain Harris’ expression grew sorrowful as he asked, Is that Private Burman?

With a nod, Tiller answered, Fed him whiskey, like you said, but it’s done no good. Started him crying is all. Ain’t never saw a man that weren’t gut-shot or down with the fever, carry on like that.

A voice from the back of the room, muttered, He’s jist scared spitless is all.

Harris exhaled heavily and rose to his feet, saying, George Burman has always been a brave man, too brave to my way of thinking. Faces cannon fire as if he is invincible. Show’s nary a trace of fear. He paused and shook his head. Laughing and shouting, waving his saber overhead, and plodding that big mule of his straight into the worst of it. No, gentlemen no one who has ridden by his side, can call him coward.

A drone of agreeing voices and nodding heads confirmed the Captain’s opinion.

As the murmurs died down, the earlier voice from the back of the room contradicted the others. That there ain’t true no more. Been whimpering like a whipped dog all day long. Naw, Burman’s gone plum yeller.

With a deep frown, Harris shook his head and said, This war has broken many a fine man, but I believe that whatever is bothering Burman, he will regain his senses by morning. We cannot allow another good soldier to desert because of a momentarily loss of... His words trailed off, and then he added, He just needs rest.

He’ll not be deserting tonight. That’s for certain sure! Tiller shrugged. He’s tied to a side-beam in the barn, next to his mule.

Harris sighed and said, I assume you tied him in such a way he can sleep. And then, as if thinking of it for the first time, asked, Did anyone take him supper?

Wouldn’t take nothing but the whiskey, Captain, another man spoke up. Tossed the food on the ground like it was poisoned.

Once again a faint scream came from beyond the closed windows.

Harris crossed the room toward the windows and, after he raised one, the cries were much louder. Tarnation! It fairly makes my blood run cold to hear him.

Captain, Tiller asked quietly, if he ain’t no better by dawn, what will we do with him?

Before Harris could answer, high-pitched squeals and whinnies joined Burman’s screams.

He’s scaring the horses! Tiller half shouted.

Striding purposefully toward the door, Harris muttered, He must be kept quiet, if he has to be gagged. Once outside, followed by his men, the captain continued to grumble, Battle weary, losing his mind, this infernal war...

The moon had not risen and the overgrown yard was dark as the soldiers hurried toward the stables where the faint, yellow glow of a lantern shone through an open doorway.

As they reached the barnyard the screams stopped, and the frightened whinnies of the animals grew less shrill.

Stepping inside the hay-strewn room, Harris glanced about, and called, Private Burman? This carrying on will never do! You are panicking the animals. You must calm down before they injure themselves. Do you understand? Receiving no answer, he took two steps forward, and then stopped and squinted into the darker regions of the barn. Failing to visually locate Burman, he unhooked the kerosene lantern from a low overhead beam and handed it to one of his men, saying, Carry this. To no one in particular, he asked, Where did you leave him?

A voice behind answered, In the last stall.

Each enclosure contained a horse, which had been fed and watered earlier. Ordinarily, after several days of travel, they would be standing still, resting. Instead, they now neighed nervously and pawed the dirt floor as the men walked by.

Coming to the last stall, Harris looked inside and a confused expression passed over his face.

The small enclosure was empty.

The men, staying silent but curious, crowded behind Harris, each trying to see inside the stall.

Finally, Tiller stated the obvious. Private Burman’s not here, sir.

Confound it! Blast and be damned! He has deserted, Harris growled. I should have posted a guard.

Tiller leaned against a side-beam and pointed toward a rope with a frayed end. I swear he was tied good and proper.

Irritated, Harris demanded, Then pray tell, how did he escape? Left him a knife, did you?

No, sir! Tiller’s voice rose to a whine as he struggled to explain. He had no weapons and this here’s a strong rope. He could not have gotten loose.

Turning to speak directly to his men, Harris said, We heard him hollering right before we entered. He cannot have gotten far. Private Brooks, you and Private Smith saddle up. His mule is no match for your horses.

Left the mule, Tiller shrugged and nodded at the gray speckled animal in question. Looking back at the pallet of fresh hay they had made for Burman to sleep on, he cried out in surprise, Would you jist looky there! Why would he go off and leave this here behind? He bent down and picked up one of Burman’s leather boots. Ain’t much good no more, but... Suddenly, he collapsed against the side of the stall and slid down into the hay. Oh merciful Jesus, he moaned weakly, and held the boot up as if offering it to the captain.

Badly worn, scuffed about the heel and toe, stained with dried blood of past battles, it looked ready to fall apart in Tiller’s tremulous hands.

Startled by the man’s sudden collapse, Harris leaned down and took the offered boot, and then frowned at its unexpected weight. Puzzled, he hefted it in one hand just as the loose sole flapped open and something slippery, something seeping fresh blood, slid forward and rested warm against his palm.

Aghast, Harris dropped the boot and jerked back with an involuntary gasp hissing between his clinched teeth. Horrified, he stared at the blood dripping off his fingers, thinking, What in the name of God has happened here?

Some of the men crowded closer, still trying to see. Others began to glance about nervously, wondering if the owners of this deserted plantation had left to avoid the Union troops or for some more sinister reason. Some more unearthly reason. Was the place haunted?

A wild peal of hysterical laughter burst from Tiller, and he pounded the back of his head on the wooden wall. Unable to quit laughing, he tried to speak, finally managing to gasp, Captain, with all respect, Burman ain’t no deserter. He might run off without the mule. Might run without that rotten boot, but Captain... Tiller’s laughter died and his face turned grayish-green, there ain’t no way he could run without his foot.

Shaken, bewildered, Harris struggled to keep his expression calm and composed. He had little success. Swallowing back a choking rise of gall, he ordered, Bury it!

Bu...bury it? Tiller stammered.

Bury it, Harris repeated grimly. Turning away from Tiller, he cleared his throat, lifted his chin, straightened his shoulders, and then pushed through the rest of his dumbfounded soldiers, and left the stables.

It was a small grave with no marker.

1968 VIETNAM

Lieutenant William Fisher pushed through the dense undergrowth and tangled, insect infested jungle foliage, swearing quietly, Goddamn, slant-eyed sons of bitches. VC bastards and leeches breed in this piss-hole like flies in shit!

It was the monsoon season, and Fisher and his five man unit had been on long range patrol for a week hiking under a continuous, sweltering mist that soaked through their uniforms until they could no longer tell the difference between the drizzling rain and their own sweat.

Without warning, muted by thick, damp vegetation, the harsh rattle of machine-gun fire ahead sent Fisher to the ground, every sense alerted to the probability they had almost stumbled into an enemy stronghold.

Looking back, he saw his men laying flat, heaving chests hugging wet earth, and he signaled them to stay put. After each man had nodded their understanding, he crawled forward alone, his hands gripping an M-16 automatic rifle. His elbows dug into the mud like short legs as he moved to explore what lay ahead.

Within a matter of minutes he reached the edge of a cliff. Several more bursts of gunfire and a few explosions added an acrid smoke to the jungle haze, making visibility even more difficult. Still, he could make out a twisting mountain road about forty yards beneath him. Two six-by-six U.S. trucks and four jeeps had come to a complete stop on the narrow road, their progress halted by a primitive, yet effective, barricade of felled trees.

Shit, shit, shit! he cursed under his breath, his eyes mere slits as he watched the last of the convoy’s men disintegrate under a hailstorm of lead whistling out of the surrounding jungle. Poor bastards, they’re screwed, every last mother’s son of them!

The VC’s ambush was a total success.

Lieutenant Fisher could do nothing to save the dead and dying Americans scattered both around and in the burning vehicles below. Sickened and enraged, he choked back a strong urge to fire blindly into the dense jungle where the enemy was safely hidden. However, he was responsible for the lives of his own men and to expose them to unnecessary danger would not bring back the dead, so he took his finger off the trigger and, scooting backwards, left the ridge.

He had a mission to accomplish and, from what he had seen down on the road, his unit was vastly outnumbered and should retreat before their presents was discovered.

Suddenly, the hair began to rise on the back of his neck, his gut twisted, and he froze, afraid to turn around, more afraid then he had ever been in combat.

Something deadly was behind him.

He was sure of it.

Something evil moving his way.

Or was there?

Forcing himself to turn slowly, his palms wet against the rifle, he stared hard into the gloomy green haze, and saw...

Nothing.

Then, something moved.

Something hidden by broad jungle leaves.

Heavy perspiration ran down into his eyes, blurring his vision, and he frantically rubbed it away, desperate to see what was coming at him through the dense undergrowth.

It slithered.

No, it was too tall to slither.

It undulated, rippling and glistening, wet from steaming tropical rain and, crushing the greenery, moved forward.

Steadily forward.

Straight for Fisher.

Body paralyzed with terror, unable to run, mouth opening and closing in a hopeless, attempt to scream, Fisher heard his heartbeat pounding louder and louder.

The nearest vines parted, shredding like flimsy curtains in a violent storm, and...

There it was.

Close.

Too close.

Close enough to touch.

Losing control, his bladder emptied, and the rank stench of hot urine, cold sweat, and terror fouled the thick air between them.

In a frenzied rush, it attacked.

At last, Fisher found his voice in a long scream of excruciating agony.

Within less time than it took to destroy the convoy, only Fisher’s unfired rifle remained in the spot where he had been.

His men would have to return to base on their own.

One

2003 Dallas, Texas

The grounds of John Peterson Hospital covered almost two square city blocks. Located on the west side of Dallas, relatively new, it already had a growing reputation for excellence in vascular by-pass surgery. Among those in the medical profession, it was also well-known for its high salaries and good working conditions. These last two attributes were the main reason Sarah Morgan, RN, felt fortunate to be employed in its surgical intensive care unit. She enjoyed working as a nurse, and had worked for less pay in the past. However, now she was a single parent and needed the larger income to cover her and her daughter’s living expenses.

From the left side of the hospital’s main entrance, for the convenience of wheelchair patients, a cement ramp slanted down to a wide sidewalk. For those who could walk, a row of stairs led off to the right. Although quite able-bodied, Sarah never bothered with the stairs. The ramp pointed in the direction of the employee’s parking area, and she preferred the quicker route.

Her shift over, Sarah started to leave, but was reluctant to trade the cool, air-conditioned building for the outdoors. Late afternoon air waited to smother its victims in sweltering heat. Sarah paused at the large glass doors. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself and then hurried out into the glaring sunlight. It felt like a furnace. She knew it would. Hot air radiated up from the asphalt, rising in searing waves about her legs, and she walked faster.

In the distance, she could see her 1996 white, ram van parked in the last row against a tall chain-link fence. Employees parked much further from the hospital than did the patients. It was a long walk in the heat.

A small, gray cloud slowly teased its way across the blue expanse of open sky, mocking the parched earth below, but Sarah knew it only held an empty promise of rain. There had been no dark clouds for over a month; no summer storms to cleanse city pollution from the streets or turn dying lawns green.

It was a hot, miserable, Texas July. Even the occasional wind gave no relief, stirring dry dust into dryer air, leaving Dallas hotter than before.

One lone cloud was an insult of nature.

Finally reaching her car, not thinking, Sarah grabbed the metal handle and immediately jerked her hand away, swearing, Damn it! Hot-hot-hot!

As she blew desperately on her stinging palm, a high pitched male voice called from far behind, Hey, Sar, Sar! Wait up!

She did not have to turn around to recognize to whom the voice belonged. There was only one man she knew with the audacity to give her a nickname as irritating as Sar. Marven Gibbs, a scrub-tech, had for the past two years made no effort to hide his obvious infatuation. Instead, he constantly pointed out the tremendous amount they had in common. They were both thirty years old, divorced, single parents, and worked on the same shift. And they breathed the same air. To Marven, this smacked of destiny. To Sarah, it ranked somewhere between comical and tragic.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him jogging eagerly toward her and said, Sorry, Marven. No time to talk today. Gotta pick up Lydia and I’m already late.

Just hang on a minute, will ya? he panted, coming to a wheezing stop a few feet away. Whoa. You left in such a rush, I almost didn’t catch ya! Both hands placed dramatically over his chest, his breath ragged, he gasped, You’re gonna give me a MI making me run after you in this terrible heat. They say it’s a hundred and ten in the shade today. Whooee! Feels hotter!

Half irritated, half amused, Sarah grinned, If you fall over with a coronary don’t blame me or the heat. She glanced down, pointedly, at the front of his shirt. It stretched over a round, bulging stomach.

You could help me work it off, he said suggestively. How about you and me doing some—

I’ve gotta go, she cut him off and started searching inside her purse for something to protect against the searing heat of the handle. She was certain there were Kleenex in one of the pockets.

Just as she found them, Marven jumped forward, saying, Allow me.

Before she could warn him, he grabbed the handle, looked startled, inhaled loudly, but bravely opened the door anyway.

You didn’t have to do that. She waved the napkins in his face. See these? I was going to use them like potholders. Now your hand’s burnt. Sorry.

Ohhhh, you do care about me, he grinned, exposing short, blunt teeth. I see it in your sapphire eyes. My life’s complete! To be loved by one so beautiful, so golden haired, and—

Knock it off.

So gorgeous in mind, his eyebrows danced up and down several times before he continued, and in body! It’s worth a hundred blisters, no, a thousand, just to know you care!

Ignoring him, she climbed into the van. Mercy! It’s hotter in here than out there.

Don’t hurry off, Marven half pleaded as she shut the door in his face. You’re already late. What’s a few more minutes going to hurt? Come on. You’re too sweet and kind, too beautiful, to treat me like this.

After starting the engine, Sarah turned on the air-conditioner. A steady stream of hot air blew from the vents, and she pleaded, Come on, get cold.

Still standing beside the van, Marven continued praising her many beautiful features, both physical and spiritual.

Embarrassed by the thought of anyone passing by and overhearing such nonsense, Sarah roughly shoved the gearshift into reverse and began carefully backing out of the parking space. Marven was a terrible pest, but she had no desire to back over him, although the idea had crossed her mind on occasions.

Keeping up with the barely moving van, his round stomach jiggling, he knocked rapidly on the closed window, shouting, Wait! I never told you what I wanted!

Had he wanted something? Did, for once, he have a legitimate reason for following her? Something concerning hospital business?

Stopping, she rolled down the window and gave him a questioning stare. When he did not immediately explain, she asked, So? What is it?

His sweaty face breaking into a wide grin, he sighed, Just wanted to say, lovely lady, have a nice day!

Exhaling slowly and deliberately, Sarah shook her head. Suddenly, she found the situation more funny than irritating and began to laugh. You know, one of these days someone’s going to run over you. And it just might be me!

Turn me into road-kill? A tire waffle? Never! You’re too kind, too gentle, too—

Goodbye, Marven. She rolled up the window and turned her face to the vents, which were now blowing refreshing cold air out of the narrow slots.

Leaving the parking lot, Sarah saw her unwanted suitor in the rearview mirror. He was waving cheerfully.

Puzzled by his persistence, she thought, Why doesn’t he bother someone else? It’s not like I haven’t been blunt enough. I’m rude, downright hateful at times. Can’t he see I’m not interested? Good grief, after Dean, I’d be a fool to trust any man, even one as harmless as Marven.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, outside of Dallas, near Arlington, she pulled into Mother Goose Land. Leaving Lydia, her five-year-old daughter, in a day-care center while she worked was a necessary arrangement, but one Sarah did not care for. In her opinion, children belonged in their own loving home, not in a building, no matter how cutely decorated, where some other woman played surrogate mother to twenty, or more, tiny-tots. However, as much as she might believe mothers of small children belonged at home, it was an inescapable fact, Sarah had to earn a living. Therefore, Lydia must stay in day-care.

To ease the guilt, Sarah constantly reminded herself of the benefits Mother Goose Land offered: competent workers, art and music classes, a huge playground, and the company of other children. And Lydia, being an only child, needed friends. Surrounded by others her own age gave her the opportunity to practice social skills she would need all through life.

After climbing out of the van, Sarah walked toward the chain-link fence, which separated the playground from the busy street.

Mama! Mama! Lydia’s high, baby voice squealed with delight as she ran across the well-tended lawn.

A beautiful child, her face a miniature replica of her mother’s, Lydia was the one bright spot in Sarah’s world.

Ready to go home? Sarah asked as Lydia reached the locked gate.

Long, fluffy, blond