Hudson shoved the bottle of white wine he’d just purchased into the refrigerator. It was Chardonnay. Medium-priced. Should be right, but there was no way in hell he would know because if he drank, it was beer. Maybe scotch. Wine was outside his interest level, and his knowledge of the subject could be summed up in two words: red and white.

But he’d watched Becca sip white wine at Blue Note, and he’d figured that was what she’d like to drink.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Good God,” he berated himself. He’d fought the urge to call her for over a week and had just about given in when he’d heard her voice on the answering machine. He’d told himself to back off, keep his distance, that now that Jessie’s body might have been discovered, this was the worst time, the absolute worst, to start trying to rekindle old flames-flames that just didn’t seem to die despite all the years that had passed.

Becca…Lord, she was beautiful.

As had been Jessie.

Sometimes, in his dreams, those kind of sexy, almost kinky dreams when he woke with a hard-on, he’d be making love to one of them, usually Jessie. Always her long brown-blond hair spilled around her, her hazel eyes were wide with excitement, pupils dilated as he touched her between her legs. “More,” she whispered in his ear, and as he rolled atop her, spreading her legs with his knees, she grinned devilishly, as if she knew something he didn’t before she faded, her image bleeding into Becca’s. The scene would shift suddenly. Instead of lying atop the pool table or in his bed, more likely than not, he and Becca were entwined beneath the old timbers of the barn or under the swaying branches of the willow tree. In the distance, where the long branches and vibrant leaves shifted, he would catch a glimpse, an ashen, ethereal image of Jessie watching them. A ghost. Dead, yet existing.

And smiling.

Knowing.

Accusing him silently, sarcastically, of his betrayal.

As if she’d known that even in high school he’d been attracted to Rebecca.

Jesus, it was chilling. He’d wake up in a sweat, his cock shriveling, his head pounding with a lust that was forever split between two women.

No wonder he’d never had a wet dream; Jessie’s wide-eyed voyeurism took care of that.

Grabbing himself a beer, he snapped off the cap and took several long swallows. His thoughts turned to Becca. She’d run hot and cold with him. Wanting him, then backing off, just as he had with her.

With Rebecca Ryan, no, Becca Sutcliff, he didn’t know what to expect.

But he was about to find out, he thought, opening the window a bit to let in a little of the cool night air. The kitchen tended to get stuffy with the wood stove burning, the scent of charred oak sometimes overpowering. He had to check the pipe, clean it out or rip the damned thing out altogether. It was part of the plan, but tonight he’d settle for a bit of cold winter air. He noticed a spiderweb, swatted it down, then thought to hell with it. If Becca didn’t like the way he lived, she could bloody well lump it.

He heard the sound of an engine and, through the window, caught the splash of headlight beams against the old garage as he drained the rest of his beer.

“Showtime,” he said to himself, leaving the emptied longneck on the chipped counter.

Hands damp on the wheel, Becca turned her Jetta off the two-lane road that wound through shaggy fields of brush and headed toward the gravel drive that led first through a copse of trees, then split a tended field, and ended at the gray two-story farmhouse with various and sundry outbuildings behind it.

Lights were on and the front porch was lit from inside lamps. Becca parked her car to one side, took a deep breath, and stripping the keys from the ignition, told herself it was now or never. Out of the Jetta, she walked across a patch of gravel and up three wide wooden steps to the porch. Memories assailed her, though she found the old swing where she’d sat with Hudson was missing. She glanced toward the fields and the solitary willow tree with its drooping branches.

She felt an ache in her heart, a shifting deep inside. How many times had they made love there? Ten? Twenty? More? She remembered kissing Hudson, his lips hot, his hands, pressed against her spine, strong and large.

“Oh, Lord,” she whispered, shaking the image.

The front door was inset with a rectangle of beveled glass, and she could see right down the hall. She rang the bell, which tolled somberly inside the house.

Hudson came into view, striding toward the door, his long legs eating up the length of oak planks that led from the rear. In a moment he was opening the door to her.

“You made it.”

“Like riding a bike.”

“Doesn’t seem that long, does it?”

“Nope,” she admitted as he stepped out of the way, and she crossed the old threshold, looking around. Some changes she noticed right away: the aroma of Hudson’s father’s beloved cigars was gone. But his mother’s furniture remained in all its floral glory.

Becca found herself smiling.

“What?” he asked.

“Just remembering,” she said with a gesture around the room as she shrugged out of her coat.

He hung it over a curved arm of the hall tree that stood at the base of the stairs, then glanced around, seeing the room through her eyes before leading her to the kitchen where the wood stove and television shouted that this was clearly the heart of the home. “One of these days I’ll change things,” he said.

“Why?”

He laughed. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe it’s time to jettison out of the seventies. Would you like some wine?” he asked, heading toward the kitchen while Becca cruised slowly behind him, taking in the house.

“How about one of those,” she said, hitching her chin toward the empty bottle resting near the sink.

“Huh.” A girl after his own heart. Always…

He reached into the refrigerator, popped open a longneck for each of them, then returned to the table, turning the chair around to straddle it backward. Becca smiled to herself. Just like he had in his teens. It was as if sixteen years slipped away as their conversation drifted into small talk. He asked her about her job and she told him a bit about the kind of work she did, then inquired about the ranch. He mentioned that he’d just hired a new foreman and that he’d given up what sounded like a successful real estate career to enjoy the fruits of his labor on these sprawling acres located near the foothills of the Coast Range.

When there was a lull, Hudson rolled his nearly empty bottle between his palms, then looked up and said, “Okay, now that that’s out of the way, tell me what you’re really thinking.”

“About?” Becca asked cautiously.

“Jessie. The bones. The meeting with our longtime…friends…”

“Do I have to?”

He shot her an indulgent look, then she watched the amusement fall from his face. “I think she died right there. In the maze. And I think someone killed her. It’s not like whoever it was had a heart attack, happened to fall into a hole at St. Lizzie’s, then was somehow inexplicably buried.”

“But it doesn’t have to be Jessie.”

“Seems the most likely answer.”

“I don’t know…”

“You think she’s alive.”

Becca took a swallow from her Budweiser. “No. I guess I’m assuming she’s dead like everyone else, except Tamara, though she might be waffling a bit. I guess I just don’t really want it to be, though I can’t think of another explanation why Jessie would leave her parents wondering what happened to her, worrying about her, if she were still alive. Twenty years is a long time to be missing. Renee definitely believes those are Jessie’s bones.”

Hudson’s eyebrows slammed together. “You talked to Renee?”

“We had a drink together.”

“Really?” Obviously this was out of left field for him. “Because you’re such good buds?”