Lifting her onto the hood of the car, he let her feel the heat of his arousal. Towering above her, aching with passion, he was incredulous at her doubt, and put it off to her blindness. But even if he’d never told her, hadn’t she noticed how he could hardly keep his hands to himself?

Dear Reader,

It’s that time of year again—when every woman’s thoughts turn to love—and we have all kinds of romantic gifts for you! We begin with the latest from reader favorite Allison Leigh, Secretly Married, in which she concludes her popular TURNABOUT miniseries. A woman who was sure she was divorced finds out there’s the little matter of her not-so-ex-husband’s signing the papers, so off she goes to Turnabout—the island that can turn your life around—to get her divorce. Or does she?

Our gripping MERLYN COUNTY MIDWIVES miniseries continues with Gina Wilkins’s Countdown to Baby. A woman interested only in baby-making—or so she thinks—may be finding happily-ever-after and her little bundle of joy, with the town’s most eligible bachelor. LOGAN’S LEGACY, our new Silhouette continuity, is introduced in The Virgin’s Makeover by Judy Duarte, in which a plain-Jane adoptee is transformed in time to find her inner beauty…and, just possibly, her biological family. Look for the next installment in this series coming next month. Shirley Hailstock’s Love on Call tells the story of two secretive emergency-room doctors who find temptation—not to mention danger—in each other. In Down from the Mountain by Barbara Gale, two disabled people—a woman without sight, and a scarred man—nonetheless find each other a perfect match. And Arlene James continues THE RICHEST GALS IN TEXAS with Fortune Finds Florist. A sudden windfall turns complicated when a wealthy small-town florist forms a business relationship—for starters—with a younger man who has more than finance on his mind.

So Happy Valentine’s Day, and don’t forget to join us next month, for six special romances, all from Silhouette Special Edition.

Sincerely,

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

Down from the Mountain
Barbara Gale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Jonah, who sat beside me

during so much of the writing of this book.

BARBARA GALE

is a native New Yorker. Married for over thirty years, she, her husband and their three children divide their time between Brooklyn and Hobart, New York. Ms. Gale has always been fascinated by the implications of outside factors, including race, on relationships. She knows that love is as powerful as romance readers believe it is.

She loves to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 150792, Brooklyn, New York 11215-0792 or visit her Web site at www.barbaragale.com.

Dear Reader,

It is an honor to introduce two very special people blindsided by life.

Having lost her vision early on in childhood, Ellen Candler has lived most of her life sequestered on a Montana mountainside. Facially scarred in an auto accident, David Hartwell is a forest ranger who patrols the New York State Adirondack Park in solitary isolation. Feeling their differences keenly, they have each, in their own separate ways, withdrawn from the world. When circumstance obliges them to spend three months together, they are confronted with hard choices. They can remain sequestered in their comfortable but lonely worlds, or they can challenge themselves, confront their demons and struggle toward a greater happiness.

Perhaps Ellen and David will offer you the comfort of their own story, as you carve out your own destiny.

Much good fortune,

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

David softened his death grip on the steering wheel, wincing as he rubbed his pounding temple. He hoped the rental agency didn’t inspect its cars too closely because countless deep ruts had kept him bouncing as he careened up the rough Montana mountainside. Forced to reduce his speed to five miles an hour, it was all he could do to take it slow and not bottom out on the isolated dirt road, dusty with July heat. Peering through the windshield, he tried to recall where the potholes were, but he’d been gone too long, and the light was fading, getting on to twilight.

Still, the evergreens were as tall as he remembered, casting the same deep canopy of shade that had made him so uneasy as a child. Even now, twenty years later, and he a grown man, they seemed ominous and forbidding. Interesting how the lush evergreen forests of upstate New York, where he now lived, didn’t make him feel this way at all. Another mile up the mountain, a darting jackrabbit or two, and a house—a veritable mansion—finally came into view.

His childhood home.

David shivered, surprised that after all these years it could still affect him so, this dark pile of brick that belonged on some lonely moor in England, not sculpted into the side of an obscure mountain in the Midwest. Well, he thought as he sighed, no one ever denied that the law was a lucrative profession, and his father had certainly been a most successful lawyer. All this was history; now John Hartwell was dead. Hard to believe, that. John had thought he would go on forever, had warned everybody he would, joked about it all the time, although it had never seemed funny to David.

And leave it to dear old dad to have the last laugh, David thought wryly, the way he’d up and died during the first vacation David had allowed himself in years. A vacation that forestry headquarters had practically forced upon him, insisting that it wasn’t healthy for a lone man to take on so much. Finding himself scuba diving in Antigua, sipping margaritas, dozing on a hot, sandy beach—things he’d never done before—David had thought maybe they’d been right. So it was frustrating to get a telegram insisting he fly home, until he realized that it was for his father’s funeral. To settle John’s estate, as it turned out, because it had taken so long for headquarters to track him down that he’d missed the actual burial.

But he was home, now, staring up at the towering, grand house that John had built, homage to a beloved wife who hadn’t lived long enough to enjoy it. Mullioned windows, elaborate turrets, opulent gardens… David shrugged away memories that haunted him still. It was all so long ago, but now…

Now he was stalling, he realized ruefully. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to climb from the Jeep and, sailor-like, hoist his duffel bag over his shoulder. He was about to mount the wide slate steps when the great oak doors of the house swung wide and a reed-thin, red-haired woman appeared on the threshold.

Wine-red hair and long legs. A good combination, David decided. Young, but not so very. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Grief-stricken, if the deep lines around her mouth were any indication. But when she raised her head in welcome, it seemed to him that, through the haze of the late-day sun, a burnished halo surrounded her face, and he felt an odd stirring. She had touched something so long buried that he couldn’t put a name to it, but he must have sighed because although her glance fell on him, she took a quick step back.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he apologized as he reached the top stair, his dark eyes searching as they scanned her pale face. Black, sooty lashes made a natural frame for the young woman’s troubled eyes. Green eyes, very nearly luminescent. Uncanny how they almost looked right through you.

It was his face, of course, or rather, the road map it had become, compliments of a drunk driver twenty long years ago, that scared her. It always happened, and in just this way. One look at his scars, the little girls clammed up, and whoever this woman was, she was certainly no different, the way she looked every which way but. He watched her fidget, her flushed face an easy read as she searched for words. Embarrassment was a common response from strangers, though David had never understood it. Shock, yes, even horror and repulsion, he could fathom, but what the hell did people have to be embarrassed about? They were his scars, after all.

Her voice, when she found it, was almost convincing as she denied his accusation. “I’m not frightened,” she protested. “That is, unless you’re not who I think you are. But you are David Hartwell, aren’t you?”

He bowed his head in mock salute although he was careful to keep his voice polite. “Yes, ma’am. The prodigal son returned home.”

“I’m so glad. We’ve been expecting you every day since— Well, ever since your father passed away. Welcome home, Mr. Hartwell, though I am very sorry to greet you under the circumstance.”

David said nothing as she stood aside to let him pass, his face unreadable as he stepped past the threshold of his childhood home for the first time in more than a decade. Probably as big as his entire cabin back in New York, was his first thought as he surveyed the vestibule. But how John loved the finer things in life. Certainly it was reflected in the design of his home. Quiet colors, subtle lines, but everything realized in a way that could only be called palatial—the long refectory table, the gilt mirror above it, the fresh flowers gracing it. Why, the table was probably three hundred years old, the mirror was definitely Louis XIV, and the flowers were…orchids! What in heaven’s name had John meant, coming to live in Montana and building such a house?

“Not much changed that I can see,” David observed ruefully as he maneuvered his duffel bag past the young woman’s slight figure.

She was curious, but her mouth quirked with humor. “You don’t think so? John liked to shop but he hated change, so everything he bought stayed where it landed. Oh, now and then the odd piece was moved, but overall, I’d say you’re probably right,” she agreed brightly. “Of course, he had a very keen eye.”

“No disastrous purchases?” David asked, openly amused. “Not once? Never?”

The young woman laughed and he admired the sparkle in her eyes, even if it was fleeting. “If you only knew how he researched every purchase!”

“Like this was his private museum?”

“John Hartwell was downright obsessed! I teased him about it all the time and everyone told him that he should have been a curator, but he always said that if he’d have been a curator, he wouldn’t have been able to afford his expensive taste! He was an authority on Flemish art, you know. Museums from all over the world called him every day and they always deferred to his opinion! All yours, now,” she said with a vague sweep of her hand.

Amused but unmoved, David shook his head. “This stuff would be very out of place where I live. Best contact the local museum.”

“Oh! I thought— Well, that’s your decision, of course,” she said, the light leaving her eyes. “I’ll be glad to help you, whatever you decide.”

“Now, ma’am, please don’t let’s get all sentimental,” David frowned. “They’re just antiques. There’s no real buried treasure here.”

Although David spoke courteously, beneath his polite manners the young woman was sorry to hear an underlying tone of impatience. She had hoped… It would have been nice for John’s son to have shown an interest in preserving his father’s collection. No matter how small, it was a museum quality assemblage. But what she hoped didn’t matter. She couldn’t blame him for his lack of interest, even if it weighed heavily on her heart.

“You’re right,” she agreed softly, trying to hide her disappointment. “It’s just a bunch of antiques. But still, John would have wanted you to claim something for yourself. He has some beautiful figurines in the library that might interest you.”

“Look, ma’am, how about you pick something out for me? You seem to be pretty well-acquainted with his collection.”

“Me? Oh, no, I couldn’t do that!”

“Yes, you could.”

“No, I couldn’t, really,” she insisted firmly. “It’s too personal a decision.”

“You think I’m behaving boorishly.” David sighed, sensing that her strong conviction was a part of her character. “I had hoped my dad had made arrangements for his collection. He knew I wasn’t interested in antiques.”

“Maybe he had some idea that you’d think differently, once you returned to Montana. He loved Montana and he thought you did, too. He always believed you would return, on a permanent basis. Maybe that’s why he made no plans. Maybe he was waiting for you.”

David countered coldly, angry at the wave of guilt that flooded him. “He shouldn’t have been waiting, and well he knew it.”

Her face clouded with confusion. “But John said you had unfinished business here.”

“I did once, but that was a long time ago and things have changed since then. Once I left—once I made the break—I couldn’t bring myself to return. My dad knew that.”

“But you’re here now.”

“A little late, don’t you think, for whatever he intended?”

“Late for the funeral, perhaps,” she agreed softly. “But not too late to return home. Like I said, John always believed you would, one day.”

“As I said, I’m too late,” David reminded her, weary of their argument. But noting the shadow of sorrow in her eyes, he was sorry to have been so abrupt. Although they had no history to claim, it was nothing short of rude to behave so badly. It wasn’t her fault if she had no idea of the extent of his grief. And his regrets were legion.

“Look here, ma’am,” David said, his voice carefully neutral. “I don’t mean to come off coldhearted, but I’m not too good with words. I guess I’m still a little shell-shocked at how fast everything is happening, but I did love my father and I’d be grateful if you’d cut me some slack.”

The young woman turned away. It was clear that John’s son would not be consoled. “Of course, Mr. Hartwell, I can do that,” she said quietly.

“And please call me David, my friends call me David and— Oh, hey, don’t do that!” David begged, horrified to see a tear roll down her cheek. “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings!”

“He was good to me, you know,” she explained as she brushed away her tears.

“No, I don’t know, though I guessed as much. I don’t know who you are, remember?”

“We were friends, John and I.”

We were friends. Was that her idea of an introduction? Once again David was struck by the unreal quality of the situation, how changed everything seemed but was not, the presence of this stranger, how she refused to meet his eyes. Unless…

He stepped to one side. She didn’t stir.

He thrust his body the other way. No response.

Holding his breath, he placed his face in hers, but she didn’t flinch. Another inch and it would have been an interesting moment. Well, at least now he knew why his ravaged face didn’t offend her.

“How long have you been blind?”

“You noticed. I wondered. Or were you trying to be polite and not say anything?”

“Polite is not a word commonly associated with me,” David laughed matter-of-factly. “But were you seriously trying to hide your blindness?”

Her smile was lopsided but she said nothing.

“Oh, come on, did you honestly think I’d miss it?” he asked with heavy irony, trying to ignore the faint scent of gardenia that teased his nostrils now that they stood so close.

“Of course not!” the thin girl laughed lightly. “It’s just that I prefer my blindness to be observed as late as possible. When people realize I’m blind, it sort of complicates things.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” David said, disbelieving.

But she took him seriously, and David watched, fascinated by the way her mobile face registered the smile in his voice. She might be blind but her eyes were a myriad of emotions. He didn’t even know her name, but the weirdest feeling came over him, that he would never tire of watching the play of emotions on the face of this lovely, sad woman.

Generally she was resentful of this situation, of having to explain herself, but something told her that it was very important that this man understand her, from the first. So she steeled herself, took a deep breath and tried to speak patiently. “Look, people tend to build whole cloth out of the fact that I’m sightless. I hate when that happens. I’m just someone who had a run of bad luck, who, for a very short time, was very sick, as a child. My blindness was the result.”

“And how did you end up here on an isolated mountain in the middle of Montana, in a museum of a mansion, with a seventy-five-year-old man?”

“Oh, that was my good luck!”

David clasped her chin gently, the better to look into her eyes to measure the truth of her words.

“But it’s true!” she insisted proudly, and he believed her.

“Then what does that make me?”

“The prodigal son, didn’t you say?”

David dropped his hand at that dash of cold water. “Well, hell, just look what happened to him, wasting his inheritance, crawling home with his tail between his legs.”

“True,” she laughed softly as she shut the door behind them, “but then, it was never only about money, was it?”

David turned slowly on his heel as she fiddled with the locks, his eyes half slits as he circled the huge foyer and tried to absorb all the old feelings that came surging back. Half a lifetime’s worth, he thought absently as he remembered how many times he’d been scolded as a child for sliding down the banister’s irresistible, gleaming curve.

“You’ll be wanting your old room back, I expect,” he heard the young woman say. “I’ve had it aired—not that it needed doing, of course. Our housekeeper is a tyrant, you know.”

“No, ma’am, I have no idea how demanding your housekeeper is,” he said, surprised back to earth by a vague surge of territoriality. But, after all, it was his home.

With the acute hearing of the blind, she blushed to hear his irritation. Awkwardly she cleared her throat. “I guess you’re wondering who I am, since we’ve never met.”

She was brave, he gave her that. “Actually, I thought you were the housekeeper, but I have a hunch you’re going to tell me otherwise.”

“Yes, I guess I should explain. It’s like, well, your father sort of adopted me. Not legally,” she hurried to explain, “but he took me in, oh, it’s been quite a while, now. You could say that John was sort of my guardian. My name is Ellen Candler,” she announced, her hand thrust forward.

Staring down at her small hand, David hesitated, then clasped it in his own with casual politeness.

“Oh, you work outdoors!” Ellen cried, surprised by his calluses.

“Very good, Miss Candler,” David said with a faint smile. “I’m a forest ranger, back east.”

“Yes, I remember now. You live in New York and work up in the Adirondacks. John told me.”

Abruptly, David dropped her hand. “I daresay he did.” Her apparent intimacy with his father struck an uncomfortable chord. Honed to a cordial detachment with the rest of the world, David had long since learned to keep his own counsel. But that didn’t stop him from wondering about the exact definition of guardian.

Oblivious to David’s turmoil, Ellen chugged along. “You must be very tired after that drive, Mr. Hartwell, um, David, not to mention your long plane ride. Would you like to rest or would you prefer your dinner first?”

“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d just like to take my bag upstairs and maybe think about food a little later.”

“Of course, whatever you wish,” Ellen agreed softly, hearing his shoes tap the marble tile as he mounted the steps. “Oh, and Mr. Hartwell—David—”

Ellen heard him pause. “I really am so sorry for…that John…your father…I really am sorry for your loss.”

Half turning, David stared down at Ellen, her upturned face a delicate shadow in the early evening light. “Thank you, Miss Candler. I’m sorry for your loss, also.” He watched as her green eyes misted over with his quiet words.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “John was very good to me.”

“Yes, well…” David left off, unsure what to say. He was grateful when she walked away, disappearing through a side door. Taking the steps slowly, he studied the winding staircase, trailing a light hand along its polished banister. Reaching the upstairs landing, he fought an impulse to throw his leg over the handrail and hurtle back down to the ground floor. Older and wiser, his long stride guided him down the familiar hall to his bedroom. His hand on the doorknob, he entered cautiously, but Ellen Candler was right. It felt as though he’d been gone hours, instead of ten years, thanks to the vigilance of that efficient housekeeper. No doubt his father had given strict orders to have his room kept in readiness. Still, it was creepy to think that a stranger had been rooting among his possessions, lifting things, peeking into drawers, glancing through his books. But it was what he himself did now, feeling like an outsider as he discovered the treasures of his childhood. A battered copy of The Catcher in the Rye, his bottle top collection, pristine baseball cards still encased in their slender plastic cases.

Noticing his frowning reflection in a nearby mirror, David leaned in for a closer look. Silky, raven hair drooped across his forehead, skirting the long-lashed blue eyes his unruly hair tried to hide, balanced against a fine straight nose. The Black Irish lineage of his ancestors stared back beneath a thick and unforgiving brow, eclipsed by a violent network of lines that mapped the entire right side of his face.

He might have grown to be amazingly handsome, but he never thought about that anymore. Nearly fifteen years ago a cruel automobile accident had sent him flying through the windshield of a car and ended that possibility. The finest plastic surgeons in the country had done everything they could for the young teenager. The slim hope that modern medicine now offered with its newly developed techniques wasn’t remotely tempting to the man that child had become. David simply refused to endure any more skin grafting—and the excruciating pain that went with it—to effect only the slightest chance of change. Even now his right eye ached—nerve damage that no amount of surgery would ever repair. His raging headache he attributed to jet lag.

He hardly noticed his scars anymore, they had become such an integral part of him. On the other hand, rubbing his stubbly, hard jaw, he realized that he desperately needed a shave, and a shower wouldn’t hurt any, either. Stripping down to the buff, David soon had the bathroom steaming, his calloused hands lathering a hard, lean body toughened by eight years in forestry service. But he was tired, and the hot shower too soothing because, when he finished shaving, he collapsed on his bed, jet lag winning out.

Four hours later he woke to darkness outside his bedroom window. Switching on the low bedside light, he saw that someone had left a tall glass of orange juice, some hard cheese and a plate of biscuits. The redoubtable Miss Ellen, he guessed wryly as he gratefully devoured the cookies. Many thanks, ma’am, he silently saluted with the icy glass. And I do hope you enjoyed the view, he grinned as he glanced down at his naked body.

Oh, but she would not have, he reminded himself with a twinge of guilt for his foolish thoughts.

Half an hour later, dressed in chinos and a light summer sweater, David sauntered into the library. He frowned as he paused by the bar. Fortification? But before he could pour himself a drink, a faint rustle distracted him. He glanced in the direction of the fireplace, where a fire had been lit against the evening chill.

Nestled on the sofa, a book resting in her lap, Ellen Candler faced the fire. “David?”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s me,” he answered promptly.

She really was lovely, he thought, her pale skin glowing in the firelight, her red hair a golden waterfall burnished by the fire. How on earth had she managed to live here these past ten years, and he never heard a word of her existence? How careful the old man had been, to never mention her. How strange.

“Up kind of late, aren’t you? I was thinking of a drink. Care to join me?”

“I…um…” Ellen flushed, feeling foolish at her inexplicable attack of shyness. But David’s deep voice was so devoid of emotion, she wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Don’t feel obliged. I don’t mind drinking alone,” David said briskly as he splashed some bourbon into a glass and settled on the sofa. “By the way, thanks for that midnight snack I found beside my bed. I fell asleep, just as you predicted.”

“You had a very long day. When you didn’t show for dinner, I understood, but I thought you might want something when you woke.”

“You were right absolutely right. Those biscuits didn’t last a minute.” Tossing off half the bourbon, David rested an arm along the back of the sofa and stretched his feet toward the fire. Looking around the library, he could see that nothing much had changed here, either, aside from the presence of the young woman. Sitting beside her, David enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of perfume suddenly wafting to his nostrils. A flowery concoction, delicate and faint. Gardenias again. He hadn’t smelled perfume in years and discovered that he missed it. Wrapped in its elusive magic, he turned his head her way, wanting more.

“Is it hard to master Braille?” he asked, glancing at the spine of her book.

“Not if you want to read,” Ellen smiled, unaware of the captivating picture she made.

“What’s it called?” David teased, running his fingers over the dots and dashes. “I don’t know Braille.”

“The Return of the Native.”

“Never read it.”

“I love Thomas Hardy and— Oh, I never thought!”

David laughed even though it was something only half his face could do. Somehow, though, because Ellen could not see his distortions, he felt freer to emote. “Please, don’t apologize! There is an irony here that is irresistible! After all, I am a native returning home, too, in my own way.”

“Yes, well,” she said uncertainly, “as long as you understand that I meant nothing by it. I’m plowing my way through all Hardy’s books.”

“Jude the Obscure, too?”

“Jude the Obscure, too!” she admitted. “Hey, I thought you just said you’d never read Thomas Hardy.”

“I never said I hadn’t read old Thom Hardy, I just said I’d never read The Return of the Native.”

“Oh. Well, it’s my favorite.”

“Then I’ll put it on my list of books to read. Brilliant and beautiful! Seeing you now, I understand why my father kept you under wraps.” He was glad he could openly admire her, she certainly was a pretty little thing. More than pretty, quite beautiful, actually, even if she did look drawn and tired. John had shown good taste, but how on earth had he had the nerve to rob such a cradle? He watched as she played with her book, her face an easy read as she searched to uphold her end of conversation. Failing miserably, she gulped her silence like a fish and he supposed she was grieving, which would make conversation even more difficult. Theirs even more so. He wondered, too, how she felt about his father.

“Did you love my father?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Even David was shocked to hear the tactless question floating on the air. But he couldn’t bring himself to retract it. Something wicked in him wanted to know. No one who knew him would believe the way he was acting, behaving like a fool, barely in control of a conversation he’d never meant to begin.

“Sorry, Miss Candler. That was unkind, even for me. Maybe I’m more upset than I want to admit. I guess I’m not quite sure how to treat you, although I sure don’t wish to quarrel with you. As my father’s mistress, I know how much respect is due you.”

“His mistress?” Ellen gasped. “Oh, how could you think that? John Hartwell was the kindest, most generous man who ever lived, and he would have never…never— Oh, you dreadful man! How could you think such an awful thing?”

David’s face grew hot in the face of his mistake. “Hey, I just assumed…your living here all these years. You’re so beautiful, I just figured… Hell, why else would anyone who looked like you want to hide away on the top of a mountain?”

Ellen scrambled to her feet, fumbling for her cane. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. David Hartwell,” she exclaimed. “I was born here in Montana. My parents were attorneys down in Floweree and very good friends with your father. They were going about county business when they were killed in a plane crash, six years ago. I was seventeen—an only child of only children—about to be fostered when John heard and intervened.” How to explain the kindness of an old man to a young girl? Taking her in at an age when most men were planning their retirement, asking nothing in return except some decent dinner conversation. Surely he had given more than he received, but how to explain that to David? Her words sounded inadequate, even to her own ears.

“Took you in, you mean?” he asked uncertainly, amazed at his father’s generosity.

“Took me in,” she repeated proudly. “A grief-stricken teenager who also happened to be blind. Quite a handful for a man about to settle into his senior years, don’t you think? Young as I was, I knew that. I knew the generosity of his act. The day I walked through his front door, I vowed never to make him regret his decision, and he never did!”

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