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breath, she made a decision. “I was wondering where I could buy a bus ticket.”

    F our hours later and ninety-nine dollars poorer, every joint sore from the long hike to the bus station in Ridgewood, Maggie stared out the window of a Greyhound bus headed for Columbus, Ohio. She would have been sunk without Mrs. Sanchez’s cash. As it was, she was lucky they’d let her on without a photo ID. She told them the truth—if not the whole truth and nothing but the truth—that she’d left herlicense in the glove compartment of her car.
    She stared at the telephone poles jutting up along the railroad running parallel to the highway. They had a hypnotic effect on her as they flashed past the windows of the bus.
    She had never been to Columbus. Never been farther west than Philadelphia. But Ohio was as far as she could go for less than one hundred dollars. It felt like leaping off a cliff to purchase that ticket.
    Now she only hoped she could fly.

Wren’s laughter drowned out the ghost of Amy’s voice. The relief of it eased Trevor’s pulse.

Chapter Four

    T revor Ashlock pulled the last sheet of paper off the press and punched the shutdown switch. The roar of the massive Heidelberg died to a whirr , then went silent. A dying fluorescent light buzzed above him, threatening to drown out the Vivaldi wafting from the CD changer in Trevor’s office.
    He doffed his filthy apron and hung it on a peg by the back door. On his way through to the front office, he switched off the CD player and the overhead lights. The Main Street door was locked, and beyond the plate-glass windows, the street was empty, as it was every night by five in Clayburn, Kansas, population 1,250. At the counter he leafed through the new orders Dana had put in the in-box. There were seven or eight job tickets. Nothing that would let him retire at thirty-five, like he’d once foolishly dreamed—especiallynow that thirty-five was less than three years away—but that advertisement they’d run in the Clayburn Courier had apparently done its job.
    Not that he had any desire to ever retire nowadays. No. Best to keep busy. To keep from having to go home too soon. He moved to the back of the office and cranked the thermostat up. It’d be hotter than blazes in here come morning, but the electric bill was eating up half his profits.
    After exiting the back door and locking it, Trevor headed toward his pickup. He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat, then trotted across the alley to the inn. The sign declaring the place Wren’s Nest hung at a cockeyed angle over the side entrance. He made a mental note to fix it first chance he got. But the electrical work in the kitchenette was top priority tonight. He’d promised Wren Johannsen he would have the electricity back on before he quit for the night, and it would take a good three hours to finish rewiring the tiny room. He also hoped to get a good start on the drywall. At least it would be nice and cool at the inn. And if he was lucky, Wren might have a slice of her famous peaches-and-cream cheesecake left over from the Tuesday-morning Bible study. Working on Tuesdays had its advantages.
    He walked through the long hallway to the lobby, noting that the doors to all the rooms were open, meaning there was, unfortunately, plenty of room in the inn. Business usually picked up on the weekends. But if they didn’t fill at least a couple of rooms on the weeknights too, Bart and Wren Johannsen couldn’t pay the regular bills, let alone afford the remodeling Trevor was doing for them.
    He admired the Johannsens for not giving up. But there came a point where they’d be better off cutting their losses and getting out while they could. He was afraid that point wasn’t far off. Bart was surely old enough to retire, but Trevor respected the man for not taking that step. He’d already decided he would never retire. It was hard enough filling that hour or two at home before he could finally crawl into bed and let sleep