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only real qualification was as a waitress, and she wasn’t much good at that. She’d been fired from four of her last six jobs.
    No, like it or not, she was homeward bound.
    Above the noise of the rain outside and the passengers inside, she heard Shania Twain’s voice on the terminal’s sound system. It was an older song, one Roxy had performed a few times.
    She leaned her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes, letting the melody flow through her. She pictured herself, strum- ming the guitar that had once been her mother’s, standing in the spacious living room of her first Nashville apartment, playing and singing for her new friends. Oh, she’d been on top of the world back then.
    There was a time when Roxy performed for others at the drop of a hat. She’d been known to hop onto a table in a bar, belt out the latest hit, and never hit a wrong note. Now she couldn’t remember the last time she sang.
    When did she lose it? When did the heart go out of her?
    But even as she asked herself that, she knew. Knew because she couldn’t get the memory out of her mind, no matter how hard she tried.
    The heart went out of her about the same time she hocked her mother’s guitar.
    F our

    Jonathan Burke’s office was located on the fourth floor of the downtown department-store headquarters. The large room had a bank of ceiling-to-floor, north-facing windows that afforded a fine view of the mountains.
    He often stood and stared out those windows, enjoying the changing colors of the seasons, thanking God for the beauty of nature that surrounded Boise. But the view brought him no plea- sure this morning. His spirit was too troubled to appreciate the pale blue of the sky or the splash of green on the foothills or the absence of snow near Schaeffer Butte.
    He’d dreamed of his younger daughter last night. She was in trouble, surrounded by a circling darkness that sought to suck her into its vortex. It was a familiar dream, but familiarity didn’t weaken its ability to disturb him.
    “Come home, Roxy. I don’t care how or why. Just come home.” He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head. “Send her home, Lord. Let her know I love her. Don’t let her stay away because of me.”
    Roxy didn’t understand unconditional love. Jonathan had faced that truth after she left for Nashville. The knowledge broke his heart. How had he failed to communicate the depths of his love? She was his wild child, his Roxy, blown by the wind, headstrong and willful. Almost from the cradle, she’d challenged authority. Father and daughter had butted heads at every turn. She’d frus- trated him beyond measure.
    But she was his daughter, and he loved her. His Roxy. Talented, beautiful, fearless, daring — and wounded.
    By her mother’s untimely death.
    By her father’s constant failure to understand her.
    If he had it all to do over ⎯
    “Dad? Have you got a minute?”
    At Elena’s voice, Jonathan turned. “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Come in.”
    “I received the reports from Barbara Canfield at the San Diego store, and I wanted to run some ideas by you.” She walked toward his desk, a thick file folder held in the curve of her left arm.
    Now this daughter . . . Elena he understood. She was so like him — confident, decisive, pragmatic. They often communicated without speaking a word.
    Perhaps that was one reason Roxy felt left out. She was differ- ent from both her father and sister. He should have told her how like her mother she was, how much they looked alike and sounded alike. Had he ever done that? Had he ever told her that when he saw her playing the guitar or heard her laughter or smelled her vanilla- scented cologne he was reminded of Carol?
    “Is something the matter, Dad?”
    He shook his head, then shrugged. “I was thinking about your sister.”
    “Oh.” Elena placed the folder on the desk and sank onto a nearby chair. “It’s not your fault, you know.”
    “Isn’t it? I could have been