Sadie hobbled to the kitchen area, pulled down the first aid kit, then hobbled back to the table. She cleaned each small cut and examined her feet for any hidden shards of glass.

Satisfied that there weren’t any and pleased that none of the cuts was deep enough to need stitches, she bandaged both feet and covered the bandages with heavy wool socks.

She stood up and tested her work.

The salve helped, as did the cushion of the bandages and socks. And once she put on her hiking boots for support, the small wounds wouldn’t even slow her down.

Sadie walked to the bathroom at the back of the cabin, stripping off her clothes and throwing them on the disheveled bed as she passed by. She checked the level of water in the overhead tank and decided there was just enough left for a lukewarm sponge bath.

Sadie turned to find a towel and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She almost screamed at the woman looking back at her. Her hair was a tangle of knots and actually had twigs and pine needles sticking out of it. There was dirt on her forehead and dried blood smeared on her cheek, and one of her little gold stud earrings was missing.

And then there were the scars. Always the scars, peeking over the top of her right shoulder, continuing down her back, and wrapping around the left side of her waist in a crazy quilt of raised patchwork.

Sadie lifted her right hand and turned it over to look at the ugly scars on her palm. The burning beam had nearly crushed her, and she had pushed at it frantically with her right hand, trying to free herself.

Frank Quill had died three years ago with both of his hands scarred—a testament to his strength and determination to leave the burning house with at least one of his daughters.

Sadie dropped her hand and turned away from the image that had been so much a part of her life for the last eight years.

She’d gone to bed that night eight years ago and left the lilac-scented candle burning in the study; her only thoughts had been of a long-dead trapper named Jedediah Plum, a camp cook named Jean Lavoie, and the obsessive dream of helping her father find Plum’

s gold.

Sadie soaked her washcloth in the basin of tepid water and scrubbed at her face, forcefully washing back her threatening tears. Eight years, and still the memories rose unbidden. Beautiful Caroline, teasing Sadie for locking herself in their dad’s study instead of going out on dates. Frank Quill, focused on the new piece of evidence that reinforced his belief that Plum’s gold really did exist. And Sadie herself, home for the summer between her second and third years of college, equally enthralled by the hunt for treasure.

Scrubbing would never wash the memories away. Regret would not bring her sister and her father back. And no amount of guilt would ever grant Sadie’s wish that Caroline Quill had been the daughter her father had reached first.

Sadie fought daily to keep the demons firmly tamped down in the back recesses of her mind. And now she put her energies instead into building a park in Frank and Caroline’

s memory. A small measure, certainly, compared with the days, months, and years of missing half her family. But she hoped that establishing the park would bring her some semblance of peace.

Sadie quickly washed up and dried off, then walked back into the main room of the cabin and rummaged around in the bureau. She put on a pair of well-worn jeans, slipped a finely woven silk camisole over her head, and tucked it into her pants. She smoothed the wrinkles from the soft body sock until it fit like a second skin to protect her scars, before she put her bra on over it, fastening the clasp between her breasts. Over the bra she put on a simple, long-sleeved, and colorful cotton T-shirt.

She picked out a supple leather glove for her right hand from the pile she’d amassed over the years. She had another pile just like it packed in a box in the attic at home, but all of those gloves were left-handed. Sadie intended to donate the pile of unused left-handed gloves to a charity for people who also had scars they wanted to hide from the world.

Sadie walked back to the bathroom and took a brush to her hair. She worked out the twigs and pine needles and finished the job with a baseball cap, pulling her ponytail through the opening at the back.

She inspected her work in the mirror.

Not bad for having ten years scared off her life yesterday—a bit of distress showing under plain blue eyes that were too big for her face, a small scratch on her chin, probably from the tussle, and a golden tan that had grown darker over the summer. Sadie lifted her bare left hand and wiped at her face, as if she could rub away the crinkle lines at the corners of her eyes.

She needed to pluck her eyebrows.

And she also needed a haircut.

She’d neglected these rituals while living like a nun in the woods. Why bother? Ping didn’t seem to mind that her roommate was beginning to look like a bag lady.

She’d get her hair trimmed when she went to visit her mom, and she’d have her eyebrows waxed while she was at it. Sadie sighed at her reflection. Heck, she’d even buy some makeup at the drugstore.

Sadie knew her mother would be telling her about the blind date she had already arranged the moment she stepped into the house.

Charlotte Quill did that a lot. Sadie visited her every week, and nearly every week there was another new man just dying to meet her. Sadie wondered where her mom kept finding them. Pine Creek had a population of sixteen hundred and twelve. Had Charlotte been placing ads in the county paper or something?

Upon returning to Pine Creek this spring, Sadie had resigned herself to humoring Charlotte’s motherly need to see her daughter happily married. So she went on the blind dates without complaint. Sometimes they bombed, and sometimes they turned out rather nicely—until it came time to dance.

Five dates in nine weeks, and Sadie had danced a grand total of once. And then it had been a fast dance, not a waltz, and she really hated those. She had always imagined she looked like a cow moose on roller skates, all legs and arms and not a clue what to do with any of them.

Not one of the guys had called her again, even though she had given several of them her cell phone number.

Sadie wasn’t surprised. She was taller than four of them, and the fifth guy, though taller than she was by a good inch, had been so shy it had been all he could do to shake her hand when he had left her at her front door.

Maybe this week would be different. Maybe when she went into town in two days, her mom would tell her that they’d spend a quiet evening at home instead. Just the two of them. She was even willing to spend the evening scrapbooking, if that’s what her mom wanted to do.

Charlotte Quill was a scrapbook junkie. Every picture ever taken of her family, every fingerpainting or tattered ribbon won, every newspaper list of honor-roll students that had Sadie’s or Caroline’s name on it, every birth certificate, death certificate, marriage license, and fishing license was forever immortalized in one of Charlotte’s scrapbooks.

Sadie turned when Ping gave a loud meow from the door. The cat was standing in the open doorway, her mouth full of feathers, grinning like a Cheshire.

“No,” Sadie said, rushing over and picking her up. “You let that bird go. Give it to me,”

she insisted, using her fingers to pry open Ping’s mouth. She squeezed the cat’s ribs.

“Spit it out.”

With a low growl in her throat, Ping dropped the small bird into Sadie’s hand. Sadie set the cat on the floor and carried the bird outside, rubbing its unmoving body. She set it up high on the old bird feeder and quietly stepped away to watch it. After a few minutes the tiny bird stirred, awkwardly sat up, and looked around in a daze. Ping rubbed against Sadie’s legs. She picked up the cat and carried her back to the cabin.