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were the hardest times for her, these times of leisure when, alone and admittedly lonely, she inevitably looked back.
    Warm images filled her head of the comfortable Lyons home on the outskirts of Omaha, of her parents standing arm in arm in the large front hall when her father returned from a day at the office, of her brothers’ lusty squeals coming from odd corners of the house. The boys had been rowdy by nature. Three of them, all close in age and strapping. When she’d come along, far from being the demure little girl her parents had expected, they found themselves with a tomboy who matched the boys round for round. Her brothers were grown now, each married and with children of his own. Only she had failed to find that niche.
    A tiny smile touched her lips as she thought back to the imp she’d once been. A child filled with laughter and joy. Until her mother had died. It had been hard on them all—on her father, on the boys. When a woman in her early forties died as suddenly as Charlene Lyons had, it was always hard on the survivors. But on Carly—then Robyn—it had been the hardest. She’d been twelve at the time, just entering adolescence. As suddenly as the mother she’d adored was gone, so was the mischievous child, leaving in her place a more serious teenager, industrious, responsible, ever pushing herself despite her father’s and brothers’ protests.
    She hadn’t been unhappy. Rather, she’d been busy, burying her private grief in a newfound existence. Much as she did now.
    Against her will, her thoughts returned to the present. She struggled with them, fought them, suffered with them, then bolted from the window. With the quickest glance at her watch, she ran to the kitchen, picked up the phone and punched out her father’s number. Her throat was tight, her gaze desperate. She needed him, needed to hear that familiar voice just now.
    After five long rings, she was rewarded.
    “Hello?”
    To her ears, the sound of John Lyons’s deep voice, seeming immune to both age and a fragile heart, was golden. “Dad! You are home!”
    “Of course I’m home!” His words were shaped by an audible smile. “You know what my orders are.”
    Carly breathed deeply, savoring this contact that had the power to defer the darker thoughts that plagued her. “Oh, yes, I know what your orders are,” she countered smartly. “I also know that you’ve been regularly resisting them.” Her tone lightened as her own smile flowed across the miles. “How are you, dad?”
    “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just sitting here relaxing with my feet up and my daily allotment of wine in hand. How are you ?”
    “Not bad.” The last thing she wanted to do was to burden her father with her woes. It was enough to talk with him, to draw from his indomitable strength. “What did the doctor say? You saw him yesterday, didn’t you?”
    “I certainly did.”
    “And…?”
    “And he says that for a man who had a major heart attack six months ago, I’m a wonder.”
    Carly gave a teasing guffaw. “We all knew that, even without William Drummond’s medical wizardry. So he says you’re doing well?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been given the go-ahead to play golf. The proof of the pudding.”
    “No kidding? That’s great!”
    “ I think so.” He gave a dry laugh. “Too bad the season’s just about gone. It’s been bad enough having to stop smoking cold turkey, and Chablis isn’t quite the Scotch I’d like, but it’s my golf that’s been most sorely missed.”
    “By whom?” Carly teased. “You or Uncle Tim? I half suspect that his fun is in being able to trounce you on the course.”
    Her father came readily to his brother’s defense. “He’s damn good at it. I’m lucky he’ll play with me. Besides, I’ve been that much more fortunate in business. It’s the least I can do, letting him win once in a while.” Carly’s Uncle Timothy was as different from his fraternal twin as night was from day. He had shunned the