Startled, Jill Whelan froze. She had no idea how long her young visitor had been crouched in the shadows of the large boulders that separated her sunny meadow from the dark woods beyond, but she sensed that he'd been there quite a while. If he hadn't shifted position to keep her in sight as she moved across the field, she doubted whether his presence would ever have registered in her peripheral vision. Now that it had, however, the tense lines of his body warned her that he was poised to run at the slightest hint of detection.

Instead of making eye contact she resumed gathering wild-flowers, salvaging as many of the profuse July blooms as her large basket would hold before the angry clouds sweeping across the sea battered the island with a flattening torrent of rain and wind. So far, she'd gone about her task with the same singular focus and intensity she brought to her painting, which also helped explain why the solemn-eyed, brown-haired little boy hadn't caught her attention before. Now, she was acutely conscious of his scrutiny.

As she bent, reached and clipped, savoring the vivid colors of the perfect blossoms, he continued to stare. That didn't surprise her. She was used to people gawking. She was also used to people keeping their distance. Her appearance made adults uncomfortable and, on a couple of occasions, had even frightened small children.

This little boy, however, seemed more cautious than scared. As if he wanted to communicate with her. Yet something was holding him back. And for once she didn't think it was the disfiguring scars that covered most of the right side of her face.

But then, what did she know? After two years of self-imposed