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large hooked rug lay on the floor beside the feather bed, ready for the touch of bare feet.
    A blue glass bowl in the front windowsill was filled with yellow jonquils. And on the nightstand beside the newly made bed, a perfect pale pink rose rested in a sparkling bud vase.
    Tired, dirty, their clothes damp with perspiration, Helen and Kurt stood looking about, inspecting their handiwork.
    “Charlie, come in here,” called Kurt, “come look at our new home.”
    Turning, Helen waited expectantly, hoping Charlie would come inside. Maybe the sight of the clean, spacious room—so different-looking now with the luxurious sheets and the fresh window curtains—would cheer him. Would make him feel more at home.
    Her hopeful gaze resting on the narrow back of the little boy seated on the stoop, Helen coaxed too. “Your father’s right, Charlie. The place looks real nice now. Come inside and I’ll show you where to put your things. You can have the bottom drawer of the highboy. Charlie?”
    Charlie didn’t budge. Nor did he answer. Just stayed where he was, as he was. Seated on the stoop, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, unreachable. Helen looked worriedly at Kurt.
    Kurt smiled at Helen and said, “Well, it sure looks like a palace to me, Mrs. Courtney.”
    Helen didn’t reply. She moved forward and fussily straightened the stack of white towels lying beside a large china bowl and water pitcher atop the highboy. Then, giving the room one last sweeping glance, she crossed to the door.
    “Supper in an hour,” she announced.
    “We’ll be there,” replied Kurt, following.
    Helen nodded, stepped past the uncommunicative Charlie, and started up the footpath toward the house. A few yards away, she glanced back over her shoulder.
    Charlie still sat on the stoop, grimacing, appearing afraid and unhappy, his small, pale face screwed up in a terrible frown. His father stood behind him, smiling, appearing totally relaxed and in charge, his teeth gleaming white in the bronzed darkness of his face.
    Helen whipped her head around and picked up her pace.
    Lord, it was going to be one long, uncomfortable summer.

Chapter Five
    “D ominic! Dommmminiiiiic! Dom, get yourself in here if you’re coming!”
    At bedtime that night Helen, barefooted and in her white batiste nightgown, stood on the side gallery just outside her bedroom, calling impatiently to her wayward tom. If she couldn’t get him to come inside now, the inconsiderate Dominic would wake her in the middle of the night, scraping his sharp claws down the closed door and moaning pitifully.
    “Dom, this is your last chance. Either you come in this minute or not at all!”
    No sign of him.
    Helen padded across the wide balcony and put both hands on the railing. She leaned over the waist-high railing and searched for the missing cat. Her sweeping gaze moved over the far reaches of the untended yard to the fruit orchard and pecan grove beyond. She scanned the big tree-rimmed pasture north of the house. Squinting, she peered toward the farm’s thickly timbered wildwoods bordering the cleared fields.
    She saw no flashing animal eyes.
    No Dom.
    Not in any mood for the spoiled feline’s game playing, Helen turned away, started back inside, but paused. Suddenly she wondered, were her lodgers asleep? Was the dark Yankee sleeping peacefully? She started toward the back of the house.
    After only a few steps, she stopped and shrugged slender shoulders. What did she care? Let the Yankee captain stay up all night or go to bed with the chickens, it made no difference to her. Just as long as he was up before the sun, discharging his duties.
    Yawning, Helen returned to her bedroom.
    Dominic sat there before the open door, the unusual green eyes inherent to his breed fixed admonishingly on her. Accusing her. As if she had been the one out tomcatting around.
    “You green-eyed devil!” Helen scolded good-naturedly. “You’ll wind up sleeping in the barn with the Yankee if you’re not