Winter's Daughter

An Updated Edition of the Loveswept Classic

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Copyright ©2012 by Kathleen Creighton
Published in the United States by Blue Jay Media Group
ebook ISBN–13: 978–1–936724–10–9

Copyright ©1988 by Kathleen Creighton
ISBN–10: 053–21924–3

Cover design ©2012 Blue Jay Media Group

All rights reserved. No portion of this book, whether in print or electronic format, may be duplicated or transmitted without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Updated Loveswept Classics

WINTER’S DAUGHTER
Rita Winner, Best Short Contemporary Novel

THE SORCERER’S KEEPER

KATIE’S HERO

STILL WATERS
RITA Winner, Best Short Contemporary Romance

DELILAH’S WEAKNESS
PRINCE & THE PATRIOT

Novels for Silhouette

SHERIFF’S RUNAWAY WITNESS
MEMORY OF MURDER
KINCAID’S DANGEROUS GAME
LADY KILLER
DAREDEVIL’S RUN
DANGER SIGNALS
LAZLO’S LAST STAND—Mission Impassioned Continuity Series
THE REBEL KING—Capturing The Crown Continuity Series
THE SHERIFF OF HEARTBREAK COUNTY
SECRET AGENT SAM
UNDERCOVER MISTRESS
AN ORDER OF PROTECTION
THE TOP GUN’S RETURN
SHOOTING STARR
THE BLACK SHEEP’S BABY
VIRGIN SEDUCTION
THE SEDUCTION OF GOODY TWO–SHOES
THE AWAKENING OF DR. BROWN
THE COWBOY’S HIDDEN AGENDA
EVE’S WEDDING KNIGHT
ONE SUMMERS KNIGHT
ONE MORE KNIGHT
ONE CHRISTMAS KNIGHT
NEVER TRUST A LADY
MAN OF STEEL
ONE GOOD MAN
EYEWITNESS
A WANTED MAN
WOLF AND THE ANGEL
IN FROM THE COLD
THE HEARTMENDER
LOVE AND OTHER SURPRISES
TIGER DAWN
ROGUE’S VALLEY
IN DEFENSE OF LOVE
GYPSY DANCER
DOUBLE DEALINGS
DEMON LOVER

Harlequin Novels
, (Writing as Kathleen Carrol)

ANGEL’S WALK

For Laura,
in celebration of spring!

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Title
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Dedication
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Sorcerer's Keeper Excerpt

The January sunrise touched the derelict with gentle fingers, warming him. He stirred, scratched himself, then took a small flat bottle from inside his jacket. Painstakingly he unscrewed the cap and filled his mouth with amber liquid. While he was rolling it around on his tongue, he splashed some onto the lapels of his coat, and more onto the dirty sweatshirt underneath. Then, with a furtive glance around him, he leaned over and spat the whiskey from his mouth onto the grass.

As he was tucking the bottle into his coat, he noticed a bag lady coming along the concrete walkway, pushing her shopping cart. The early morning sun was at her back, glinting off the metal cart and throwing an elongated shadow ahead of her onto the path. Over wisps of nondescript hair she wore a purple knit cap. A ski cap, the kind with a big, fuzzy pompon on the top. The derelict settled his shoulders more comfortably against the side of a concrete planter filled with pungent pink, white, and purple stocks and watched the pompon’s shadow bob toward him. He wondered how long the woman had been on the streets; he hadn’t seen her around the park before.

"Good mornin’ to you." The shadow had draped itself across his legs and stopped there. The derelict thumbed back the brim of his filthy baseball cap and squinted up at the bag lady.

She was smiling at him. Her face was weathered and wrinkled, but her eyes were the clearest, bluest blue he’d ever seen, minute reflections of the winter sky. Something went clunk inside him; he felt an odd sense of recognition, as if he ought to know her, somehow. He could see that she had once been beautiful. He wondered if, in a younger, happier incarnation, her face might have graced his boyhood fantasies, those endless Saturday afternoons in darkened movie theaters…

Unexpectedly charmed, the derelict muttered, "Good morning," and lurched to his feet.

"My name’s Win," the bag lady said, leaning across her cart to offer him a hand clad in a ratty brown wool glove. As he took the hand, the derelict saw the blue eyes cloud over. Small wonder, he thought, she’d probably gotten a whiff of the booze.

But the look on the bag lady’s face was one of compassion, not disgust. From somewhere in the depths of her shopping cart she produced an orange, which she pressed into his hands. "Have some breakfast," she said. "You’ll feel better." She smiled at him and started on her way.

"Wait," the derelict said, reluctant to lose her company. He felt as if he’d spotted a precious jewel glittering in shifting sands; if he didn’t grasp it now, it would be lost forever.

The bag lady paused and turned, her brows raised expectantly. Impulsively the derelict leaned down and plucked a sprig of lavender stock from the flower bed. "Here," he said gruffly as he handed it to her. "For the breakfast."

Her smile became radiant. The derelict heard a little catch in her breathing as, murmuring thanks, she wove the flower’s stem into the knit cap, just above her left ear. And then, with a wave of her gloved hand, she went shuffling off down the path.

Dillon James watched her go, absently turning the orange over and over in his hand. Under the bill of his old Dodger cap his eyes were narrowed with the complexity of his thoughts. It had been a long time since he’d been on the streets, and his cop sense was pretty rusty. Rusty, but not dead. He’d been touched by the woman’s act of kindness and knocked out by her inherent charm, but now that she’d gone and taken that potent charisma with her, every instinct and sixth sense he’d ever had was screaming at him. His scalp was prickling. He had that old, familiar creepy feeling, as if something alive and probably carnivorous were crawling down his spine.

Whoever she was, that bag lady didn’t track.

Methodically, following half–forgotten procedures, he went over a mental checklist beginning with the woman’s appearance: Clothes—that purple knit cap, a long wool coat of some indeterminate tweed that looked as if it had once been expensive—probably from a charity box or thrift store. Run–down shoes a few sizes too big for her; she’d padded them with several pairs of socks but still walked with an awkward, sliding shuffle. Nothing out of the ordinary about any of that. The cap and gloves were a little warm for Southern California, maybe, but on the other hand, the nights could get chilly in January here on the edge of the Mojave Desert.

It bothered him that he couldn’t determine her age. The limp, graying hair meant nothing. Some people grayed early, and poverty had a way of speeding up the process. The lines in her face could be the result of exposure to sun and wind and the dry desert air, elements that wouldn’t affect the clear blue of her eyes or the whiteness of her teeth. There had been a certain puffiness in her cheeks, but it was hard to tell, with the coat buttoned to her chin, whether her bulkiness was fat or extra layers of clothing.

All in all, Dillon thought, her appearance, the aimless, shuffling walk, the overburdened cart, all seemed right on target. No different from any of the hundreds of homeless people he’d come in contact with during his years as a vice cop in downtown L.A. Her appearance was right. It was her manner that was wrong. She was too open, too friendly, too trusting. Everything about her looks indicated she’d been on the streets for a long time. So where was the defensive posture, the glare of suspicion and hostility? Without a good, healthy dose of paranoia, no one, man or woman, would survive long on the streets.

For the benefit of anyone who might have been watching, Dillon dropped the orange into his coat pocket and stood for a moment or two, swaying, blinking, absently scratching. Then, with one hand placed protectively over the bottle in his coat pocket, he shuffled off after the bag lady.