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an appropriate response. The custodian was looking down at his hands, as if he were reliving the moment he had held a wailing newborn in his arms.
    The man seemed to collect himself after a second, but when he looked at Patrick, his eyes were softer, a little damp. “Yessir, a mighty sad story. But I’ll tell you this much. That night changed my life.”
    â€œIt did?”
    The man nodded. “My Anita was getting ready to have our own baby, our first, and I wasn’t any too happy about it. I was thirty-two years old, but I’m sorry to say I wasn’t much of a man yet. I wasn’t ready to give up my drinking, my nights out with the boys. But when I saw that pitiful little baby on the floor, all that blood, and nobody to help him stop crying…”
    He cleared his throat. “Well, I went home, and I kissed Anita, and I told her how our baby wasn’t evergoing to cry himself to sleep. I told her I wasn’t going to leave her alone, not ever again. We were going to have the happiest family in all of New Mexico.”
    Patrick smiled. “And did you?”
    â€œYessir, we did.” The man stood a little taller. “We have eight, all boys, all grown now, and not a one of them ever cried himself to sleep.”
    In spite of himself, Patrick thought of the long nights he’d spent, straining to hear whether Julian Torrance’s footsteps were coming toward his room. Patrick hadn’t cried, either. He hadn’t dared to. Crying infuriated Julian, and it only made things worse.
    â€œGood for you,” he said to the custodian, his voice sounding thick to his own ears. “Not many people can say that.”
    The man looked pleased and nodded his humble acceptance of the compliment.
    As if to return the favor, he pointed one of his callused hands toward the bathrooms. “Want to have a look? It might set your mind at ease. The kids say sometimes they can hear a baby crying in there, but it’s not true. Maybe it’s the old pipes, maybe pure imagination. That baby’s long gone. Mrs. Lydia found it a good home. But, still, I’ll show you if you’d like.”
    Patrick shook his head.
    â€œNo, thanks,” he said, suddenly eager to get out of this cavernous place, away from that closed door. Away from this man who had once had Patrick’s blood on his large, gentle hands.
    â€œAs you said, it’s ancient history. There’s absolutely nothing left for anyone to see.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    C ELIA LOVED M ITCH D IXON’S restaurant, The Silver Eagle. Everyone in Enchantment loved it. Except Mitch himself.
    The whole town knew the story. Mitch hadn’t ever wanted to own a restaurant. At forty-nine, he had built up a good business as a photographer. But his restless wife Marcy had whined until he let her buy this empty property on the town square and decorate it with turquoise tablecloths, black marble floors and a huge silver sculpture of an eagle.
    She’d whined some more, and he’d let her hire a well-known chef. And then she’d covered the walls in expensive Native American paintings.
    She’d spent a fortune, and then she’d grown bored. Two years ago she’d left Mitch and the restaurant. He’d been struggling to keep it afloat ever since.
    The silver eagle was still there, but the paintings had been auctioned off, replaced by Mitch’s own photographs, the cheapest things he could find to hang in the empty spots.
    The chef was still there, too, creative and cantankerous as ever, but because of the man’s cranky personality Mitch found it impossible to keep help onthe floor. Celia had pitched in running the cash register or busing tables more times than she could count.
    She was sweeping crumbs from one of those turquoise tablecloths right now—into one of the sterling silver crumb catchers Mitch’s ex-wife had found so quaint.
    â€œThanks, Celia,” Mitch said as he passed her after