Heart of the Raven by Susan Crosby Page A

you do. At parties you’re expected to entertain with tales of your derring-do.”
    â€œThe problem is, we can’t talk about our derring-do,” she said.
    â€œRight. Being a P.I. opens some doors, because people are fascinated, but closes others, for whatever reasons. We never know who to trust, do we, never knowwhether someone is interested in us or our jobs. I’ve been burned, too.”
    â€œBut you have stories to tell from your past, Jamey. Scars. I was a paper pusher until I came to work at ARC. A researcher.”
    â€œAnd it’s easy to be objective when you’re dealing with facts. But this time you’re dealing with a man and a baby. Give yourself a break, Cass. Relax. Do your job and see what happens from there.”
    She knew he was right, but it didn’t stop her from wishing she hadn’t left Heath’s house, even as she also knew she’d done the right thing, professionally, by leaving. “This is too much for my puny mind. Talk to me about something else.”
    â€œMy child turns eighteen this month.”
    She met his gaze. “You’re getting anxious.”
    He nodded.
    Cassie raised her bottle to him. “To the possibilities.”
    â€œThe possibilities.”
    She stayed a little longer then made her way home. The daisies she’d bought on Friday brought a smile as she put away her clothes. She opened the sleeper sofa, straightened the bedding, then stacked pillows so that she could watch television for a few minutes in bed. Too late for Letterman, she settled on headline news. She picked up a piece of wood from her end table, a carved turtle, and ran her fingers over the surface. It wasn’t smooth and polished, but primitive—and yet exquisite. At least to her.
    She tucked it under her chin and pictured her grandfather sitting on the front stoop of his run-down old house, carving the turtle with the knife he sharpenedwith a whetstone. She could still hear the raspy sound of the blade across the stone. She could see him test the blade against his thumb, smell the scent of the wood as he whittled and carved, all the while talking to her about his past, the lessons learned, her mother.
    Cassie had a box of small wooden carvings, her grandfather’s and hers. Pieces of her past, her way of staying sane and keeping memories alive when there was no one else to share that part of her life with. No blood relative that she knew of. No best friend for life because she’d moved so much.
    She wanted a family. She wanted ties that bound. Because of that she knew she was vulnerable to Heath and Danny in a way she never had been before.
    Now she just had to figure out what to do about it.

Ten
    H eath walked to the top of the driveway and eyed the long, bumpy road, now cleared of brush. Danny slept in his arms, having fallen asleep during their fifteen-minute walk around the property. Four men with chainsaws had spent the better part of the day getting rid of the overgrowth and hauling it away. The silence now soothed Heath, especially since his talkative mother was gone, too.
    Which sounded harsh, he realized, when he’d actually enjoyed her more this time than ever before. He’d appreciated her spirit, her zest for life, her dive-right-in attitude. And his father had spoken up more. He and Heath had taken walks around the property, identifying what should be trimmed. He’d forgotten how much his father knew about such things.
    But now Heath was waiting for Cassie. Although she’d come twice to visit during the week his parents had been there, he hadn’t spoken to her alone, although he’d tried and she’d resisted, kindly but firmly. He’d started to push her a little until he saw something in her eyes that made him stop. She seemed nervous—or scared, he wasn’t sure which.
    So he made up reasons to call her at work, and she kept each conversation short and businesslike, except for a softening in