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dough, folded it over and pounded it with her fist until her arm was worn-out from the effort. She took a deep breath, briefly enjoying the scent of yeast combined with that of the roses she’d brought in earlier from the garden. Then she picked up the dough and flung it down again. It landed with another satisfying thud.
    â€œThat man,” she muttered under her breath as she aimed another fierce blow at the soft center of the lump. “How dare he, after all this time? Who does he think he is? I have half a mind to go over there—”
    â€œWhat man, Aunt Lara?” Jennifer asked.
    Startled, Lara gazed blankly at her niece, who had crept into the room and was staring at her with those wide, solemn eyes that were so like Tommy’s. Jennifer had a disconcerting way of sneaking up on her. Lara had never seen a child who could move so quietly or remain so still. Nor had she ever met one at that age who was quite so astute.
    â€œHow long have you been standing there, little one?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, then with single-minded purpose repeated, “What man, Aunt Lara? Where are you going? Can Kelly and me go, too?”
    â€œKelly and I,” she corrected automatically.
    Jennifer apparently heard the unintentionally sharp note that lingered in her voice and regarded her wisely. “Are you mad at someone?”
    Lara sighed. “Not really,” she said, unable to think of a logical way to explain that she was always mad at one particular man. It didn’t take any overt act on Steven Drake’s part to infuriate her. His mere existence was irritation enough.
    His behavior yesterday had been infuriating enough, but today he’d fueled her ire by leaving a basket of strawberries on the back steps. She’d practically tripped over them when she’d gone out at dawn to milk the two cows she still kept in the barn. There had been no note in the basket, but she’d known at once who the luscious, ripe berries were from. When they’d first met, Steven had made a habit of making such unexpected, romantic little gestures. They’d had the desired effect on an impressionable eighteen-year-old, but now she was beyond such blatant attempts to charm.
    Back then in the summer, it was always strawberries or her favorite cherry tomatoes or a bouquet of wildflowers. In the fall it had been a pumpkin, a crooked smile and laughing eyes already carved on its broad orange face. In winter there had been fragrant pine boughs at Christmas, even a soft woolen scarf in a shade of blue he knew was her favorite. By spring he’d been gone, taking joy and hope and love with him. Today’s strawberries, no matter how sweet, had been a bitter reminder of the tender courtship that had led nowhere.
    â€œCan I help make the bread?” Jennifer asked now, interrupting the disturbing memories.
    Welcoming the prospect of her niece’s distracting companionship, she said, “Sure. Climb on up on this stool.”
    She broke off a chunk of dough and showed Jennifer what to do. Soon they were both pounding happily away, sending puffs of flour into the air. It would take her the rest of the afternoon to clean the floor, Lara thought, then dismissed her dismay. It was worth it. She was never more contented than she was in the kitchen. There was something about baking especially that soothed her. She might even make a strawberry pie, when the bread was finished. There was no point in letting those blasted berries go to waste.
    â€œSomething smells wonderful in here,” a deep, lazy voice drawled from just the other side of the screened door.
    Lara’s breath caught in her throat. To her regret, she’d heard the echoes of that voice a million times in her dreams. Now it was all too real. Why? Why after all this time would Steven come here? Yesterday she’d been on his land, their meeting accidental, but this was a blatant invasion of the sanctity of her home.