"What? Oh, no. No, there isn't." She smiled hesitantly in his direction, praying their friendship was returning to normal. Or if not, that he would hold her again because she'd never felt as safe and warm as she had in his arms.

They turned left and began walking the northern border. "This ridge marks the edge of the property," Henry explained. "It runs the entire length. The northern border is actually fairly short, less than a half mile, I think."

Dunford looked out on the land—his land, he thought proudly. It was beautiful, rolling and green. "Where do the tenants live?"

"On the other side of the house. They're all to the southwest. We'll see their houses toward the end of our hike."

"Then what is that?" He pointed toward a small thatched cottage.

"Oh, it's abandoned. Has been as long as I've lived here."

"Shall we explore?" He smiled at her, and Henry was almost able to convince herself that the scene by the tree had never happened.

"I'm game," she said brightly. "I've never been inside."

"I find it hard to believe there is an inch of Stannage Park you haven't explored, inspected, appraised, and mended."

She smiled sheepishly. "I never went inside as a child because Simpy told me it was haunted."

"And you believed her?"

"I was very small. And then... I don't know. It's difficult to break old habits, I suppose. There was never any reason to go in."

"You mean you're still afraid," he said, his eyes twinkling.

"Of course not. I said I'd go in, didn't I?"

"Lead on, then, my lady."

"I will!" She marched across the open field and stopped when she reached the cottage door.

"Aren't you going to go in?"

"Aren't you?" she shot back.

"I thought you were leading the way."

"Perhaps you're afraid," she challenged.

"Terrified," he said, his smile so lopsided there was no way she could believe he was serious.

She turned to face him, her hands on her hips. "We all must learn to face our fears."

"Exactly," he said softly. "Open the door, Henry."

She took a deep breath, wondering why this was so difficult. She supposed that childhood fears stayed with a person long into adulthood. Finally she pushed open the door and looked inside. "Why, look!" she exclaimed in wonder. "Someone must have loved this cottage very much."

Dunford followed her in and looked around. The interior was musty, a testament to long years of disuse, but the cottage still managed to retain a certain homey quality. On the bed was a brightly colored quilt, faded a bit with age but still cheerful. Sentimental knickknacks adorned a set of shelves, and tacked to a wall was a drawing that only a child could have made.

"I wonder what happened to them," Henry whispered. "There was obviously a family here."

"Illness perhaps," Dunford suggested. "It isn't uncommon for a single disease to take away an entire village, much less a family."

She kneeled in front of a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. "I wonder what is in here." She lifted the lid.

"What did you find?"

"Baby clothes." She picked up a tiny smock, tears unaccountably pricking her eyes. "It's full of baby clothes. Nothing but."

Dunford got down on his hands and knees next to her and peered under the bed. "There is a cradle down here, too."

Henry felt crushed by an overwhelming melancholy. "Their baby must have died," she whispered. "It's so sad."

"There now, Hen," Dunford said, obviously touched by her grief. "It happened years ago."

"I know." She tried to smile at her foolishness, but it came out wobbly. "It's just...Well, I know what it is like to lose one's parents. It must be a hundred times worse to lose one's child."

He stood up, took her hand, and led her to the bed. "Sit down."

She perched on the edge of the bed and then, unable to get comfortable, scrambled on top and leaned her back against the pillows resting against the headboard. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You must think I'm very foolish."

What Dunford was thinking was that she was very, very special. He'd seen her brisk, efficient side and he'd seen her joking, teasing side. But he'd never guessed she had such a sentimental streak. It was buried deep within her, to be sure, underneath layers of men's clothes and cheeky attitude, but it was there nonetheless. And there was something so utterly feminine about it. He'd seen a glimpse of it the day before in the dress shop, when she had gazed at the yellow dress with such a deep and unconcealed longing. But now... It quite unmanned him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and touched the side of her cheek with his hand. "You will make a superb mother someday."

She smiled gratefully at him. "You're so kind, Dunford, but I probably will never have children."

"Why not?"

She giggled even beneath her tears. "Oh, Dunford, one's got to have a husband to have children, and who is going to want me?"

In any other woman he would have thought that statement an obvious lure for compliments, but he knew Henry didn't have a devious, conniving bone in her body. He could see in her clear, gray eyes that she truly didn't believe any man would ever want to marry her. He wanted to wipe away the resigned pain he saw on her face. He wanted to shake her and say that she was foolish, utterly foolish. But most of all he wanted to make her feel better.

And he told himself that that was the only reason he swayed toward her, his face drawing ever nearer to hers. "Don't be silly, Henry," he whispered. "A man would have to be a fool not to want you."