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  Ash tipped her head to indicate that she was ready.

  “If you could do last night all over again,” the headmistress said, “would you leave campus to go to town?”

  “Yes,” Ash replied. “I would.”

  The headmistress looked bewildered. Had Ash been the first of the five to answer this way? “Even after all the hassle of losing sleep, and your punishment . . . and of course having to take time out of your afternoon to have this chat?”

  Ash shrugged. “If we hadn’t gone to Orick, our little sleepwalking friend might not have made it back to campus safely.”

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  The headmistress deflated with relief. “Well, that’s an acceptable answer. I thought for a moment you were going to say that it was because you really needed a cocktail.”

  Ash managed a smile over her shoulder as she crossed the room to the door. “That was just an added bonus.”

  There was just something about having a fuzzy green ball hurtle toward her at ninety miles an hour that ignited Ashline’s senses. Sure, she’d been out of it all day at school, brought low by a high-strung French teacher and a failed exam. Stepping onto the clay tennis courts was like a cold shower. The fatigue dissipated, probably to be revisited at dinnertime. For now she was alert and ready, her fingers wrapped firmly around the grip of her racket as if it were her last tether to life.

  If Coach Devlin had heard of Ashline’s foray the previous night—a high probability, given the headmistress’s close relationship with her faculty—she certainly didn’t show it. Instead her shrewd little owl eyes sparked with delight when she observed the ferocity with which Ash was playing. Her teammate, Alyssa Gillespie, sent a bullet toward the opposite corner of the court, well out of Ash’s reach.

  But suddenly Ash was there in a sharp dive across the boundary line, firing the ball back over the net. Alyssa, who had celebrated the point prematurely, didn’t even have time to react as the ball firmly sunk its teeth into her own corner before skittering over to the fence.

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  “Christ, Wilde,” Coach Devlin said, helping her star player to her feet. “Guess we made the right decision bringing you up from doubles. You been pounding pro-tein shakes or something?”

  Ash laughed as she brushed the dust off her tennis shorts. “Just really wanted that break point, I guess,”

  she said, and glanced over at the other side of the court.

  Alyssa threw her racket against the fence and brushed angrily past Delia Cooney, who was offering her a water bottle. The door to the locker room slammed closed.

  “Apparently Alyssa wanted that last point as well.”

  “Forget about her,” Coach Devlin said, running a hand through her spiky hair. “Just promise me you’ll play like that when we take on Southbound next week.”

  Ash remembered the crushing blow they’d suffered earlier in the season when they’d visited the Napa Valley prep school. She had left several dented lockers in her wake after the game—and had no intention of letting that happen again. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Maybe you should bring your good luck charm to the match,” Coach Devlin suggested. Ash raised her eyebrow quizzically, but the coach just pointed up into the bleachers and wandered away, probably to defuse Alyssa after her loss.

  Sitting alone close to the top of the otherwise empty metal bleachers, decked out in full park ranger greens, was Colt Halliday. Two of Ash’s teammates—JV freshman—were dawdling at the base of the bleachers, giggling and clearly waiting to be noticed by the handsome park 95

  ranger. But their amorous glances were unrequited; Colt was either oblivious of or indifferent to them and was patting the metal bench next to him, his stare monoga-mously devoted to Ash.

  Ash scooped a tennis ball off the clay and side-armed it at Colt. He caught it between his open legs, robbing Ash of her intended target.

  “Hello to you, too.” Colt lobbed the ball back at her.

  She swatted it away with a casual sweep of her racket, letting it bounce off toward the locker room. The two freshman girls, who must have sensed that the battle for Colt’s affections had been won long before they’d even shown up, scurried over to the empty court to volley back and forth.

  “Wow.” Ash climbed the steps two at a time. “So you’re a park ranger, a college student, and a die-hard fan of prep school athletics. You wear many hats, Colt Halliday.”

  He opened his hands humbly. “My cable box is on the fritz back in my apartment, and since I’m missing Wimbledon, I thought I’d get my tennis fix here.”

  “Wimbledon isn’t until June,” she corrected him, but applauded lightly. “That was a really original and valiant attempt at a good excuse, though.”

  “I knew I should have done my research.” He laughed. “I came by to see how Raja was doing. She just sent me some cryptic text last night about finding her own ride home, and disappeared. And after I confirmed 96

  that she was all right, I asked her where I might find you on a misty Friday afternoon. She pointed me in this direction.”

  Ash growled and rapped him on the back of the head with her tennis racket. It was supposed to be a light tap, but she must have put a little too much oomph into it, because Colt winced and rubbed his prickly buzz cut.

  “Are you trying to make enemies for me, Colt?” she asked. “I came to Blackwood to get away from the ang-sty teenage love drama. You’re really not doing me any favors in the ‘starting over’ department.”

  Colt groaned impatiently. “You’re going to have to trust me on this one. There is nothing going on between Raja and me. From either side. If you ask me, she’s got her sights set elsewhere.”

  Ash only stood there, with her hands fixed on her hips, studying the park ranger. He was certainly beautiful, though more of a “wolf,” as opposed to the puppies she was used to. But beautiful had never done her right in the past. Rich Lesley, Bobby Jones—her track record certainly wasn’t impressive. Of course, she was only passively at fault for “choosing” Rich and Bobby, as they had been the ones to seek her out. In both cases her only sin had been that she’d succumbed to beauty.

  So how was this any different? Here was a guy who by all standards should be too old and too cool for her, and he had a winning smile that could probably thaw an ice age—or at least melt an ice cube tray or two. And 97

  rather than ransacking his campus for tail on a Friday afternoon, he’d taken time off from patrolling the forest to visit a couple of teenagers. It was flattering and creepy at the same time.

  Even after earning the attention of Raja, who had an exterior modeled on Aphrodite herself, he was dodging her to visit Ash. She dug for any thread of logic in all of this, but whatever Colt Halliday’s intentions were, reason was not what had compelled him to make the drive north to watch a high school tennis practice.

  “Listen, you can throw as many tennis balls as you want at me, or threaten to hit me with the racket again,”

  he said, and rubbed the metal bench next to him. “But when you get all of that out of your system, would you mind pulling up a seat for a few minutes?”

  Perhaps it was the whisper of the dew against her skin. Perhaps she was exhausted from her match against Alyssa. Or perhaps it was just hormones winning out and she was tired of fighting his charm. Regardless, she caved and dropped down heavily onto the bleacher seat next to him.

  “Okay, Halliday,” she said. “You’ve just won a few minutes of my valuable time. I’ll make you a deal. You get to ask me any three questions you want. After I’ve finished answering them, I’m going to shower and take a much needed nap.”

  Colt whistled. “Only three questions. Guess I better choose ones that count, then, huh?”

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  Ash nodded. “Guess so.”

  “Well,” he said. “I suppose I wouldn’t be any sort of gentleman if I didn’t ask how your head is feeling today?”

  Ash gave him a look. “My head?”

  He peered at her. “Last night you grabbe
d your head, mumbled something about a migraine, and then ran for the door like your dress was on fire. Unless it was all just a ruse, and you were just so flustered from talking to such a handsome and astonishingly single park ranger that you needed fresh air.”

  Ash coughed in disbelief and held up a warning finger. “First of all, don’t flatter yourself. Second of all, you want to waste one of your questions on whether or not I took an aspirin when I got home?”

  He smiled. “Pardon me for devoting one question to your well-being. It’s my question to ask. Now you have to answer it.”

  She laughed. “I skipped dinner last night, and the cocktail just went straight to my head. The headache went away as soon as I got some fresh air, and I called it a night. Happy?” She felt bad lying to him on his first question, but in fairness her statements were at least half-truths.

  “I guess that wasn’t as fulfilling an answer as I thought it would be,” Colt said with mock disappointment. He looked out to the court at the two freshmen who were flopping about; Ash gave them an A for passion but a D- for form. They were probably hoping the coach would 99

  come out and take notice. For their sake Ash hoped Devlin had closed the blinds in her office.

  “Two more,” Ash taunted him in a singsong voice.

  He opened his mouth to ask a question, and then immediately shut it and racked his brain for a new one.

  Ash tapped her wrist.

  Colt massaged his five o’clock shadow, as if the whiskers themselves would impart some kind of ancient wisdom. “So . . . how long have you been playing tennis?”

  Ash giggled. “You are really bad at this game. No

  ‘Where are you from?’ No ‘Why did you send yourself to a prep school in the middle of nothingness?’”

  “Well, first of all, you’ve got a slight but noticeable New York accent, and the attitude to match, so the first question is unnecessary. And as for the second, you clearly had dreams of falling for a rough-and-tumble nature-loving tree-climbing wilderness kind of guy.” He winked at her. “Which brought you to Blackwood.”

  “Rough-and-tumble?” Ash plucked at his shirt. “You rock the lumberjack vibe fairly well, but let’s not pretend that your ranger-issue button-down isn’t purposely one size too small, to show off your guns.”

  “Mom taught me to look stylish, even when I’m chasing bears out of campgrounds. Now, how about that answer?”

  He was sharp, Ash had to give him that. “Four months,” she answered. “Every student is required to 100

  have some sort of activity here at Blackwood. I can’t draw even the simplest of stick figures; I can’t act to save my life; and I write on a second-grade level, so the newspaper was out. Then one day Coach put a racket in my hand, and I discovered that I was actually good at something.

  And the best part? I’m even better at it than my loser ex-boyfriend.”

  “Damn, girl,” Colt said, earnestly impressed. “You had me fooled. For someone who just picked up a racket for the first time, you look like you could give Pete Sampras a run for his money.”

  “I’m a long way from Wimbledon,” Ash said. “But I have a grudge match next week against this girl, Patricia Orleans, who goes to our rival school. . . . Apparently fate decided that it would somehow be politically correct and hilarious to match up the two islander girls in the Northern California prep school scene for a tennis match to the death.”

  “So I take it you two are friends?” Colt asked.

  “Tricia and I? Hell, no. She beat me last time,” Ash replied. “That bitch is going down.”

  “I guess I don’t need to ask if you’ve got a competitive streak.”

  “You want to pick up a racket and find out?” Ash pointed to the court. “I’ll even let you serve . . . if you can get the ball over the net.”

  “Enticing as that invite sounds,” Colt said, “I have a feeling I’m the one who would get served in the end.”

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  Colt laughed at himself after a pause. “Wow, that didn’t sound quite so lame in my head.”

  “If you’re not going to take me up on my challenge, then I guess that means you have one question left, Ranger Halliday.”

  “The one thing I’m dying to know”—the smile died from his lips and settled into something serious without being solemn—“is how long am I going to have to wait until I find out what’s underneath the sarcasm and wit?

  Until I get to know the real Ashline Wilde from New York?” He reached out and touched the small of her back. “Not that I don’t enjoy the banter.”

  Ash shifted in her seat. She was enjoying the electricity of his fingers against her spine, but this talk of defense mechanisms unnerved her. “Maybe what you see is what you get.”

  “I hope you take it as a compliment when I say, that’s the biggest crock of bullshit I’ve heard in my life.”

  “Compliment half-taken,” she said. “I guess the answer to your question is, when I feel like you can handle me.” She stood up, mildly regretful to part from the sensation of his touch, longing to feel it against her bare back instead.

  He stood too, his eyes ablaze with curiosity. “When do I get to see you again?”

  “That would be question number four. But you seem like a resourceful guy, so I’m going to do you a favor. If you can find a way to set it up, I will be there.”

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  Colt made a throwing motion. “Rocks to your dorm room window?”

  “If that’s how you throw, then you’d better hope I don’t live any higher than the first floor.” Ash punched him playfully in the arm. “See you around, Colt.”

  He said nothing as she scooped up her racket and descended the bleachers, but she could sense his eyes on her, reaching out to her, drinking in her silhouette. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she lingered on the last step and looked back at him. “And by the way . . . if we had played tennis, I would have gone easy on you.”

  He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Don’t ever go easy on me. When I win, I want to feel like I’ve really earned it. Victory tastes greater that way.”

  She smirked. “We still talking about tennis?”

  “Of course,” he replied innocently.

  She turned and didn’t look back at him but gave him a friendly wave with the racket as she disappeared off behind the bleachers.

  He wasn’t the only one left wondering when they’d meet again.

  Ash was counting on her after-practice nap, but by the time she’d gotten out of the shower, toweled off, and slipped into sweats, there was a knock at her door—

  Darren and Jackie, ready for dinner. In the end the growls of her stomach won out against her heavy eyelids, and she trudged across the quad to the dining hall.

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  The students buzzed from a combination of relief that the week’s classes were over and of excitement for the coming night’s festivities. The campus activity board sometimes organized optional Friday night events—mock casinos, bingo with food-oriented prizes—but these were so poorly attended that Ash wouldn’t have been surprised if they were eventually shucked from the school budget altogether.

  No, the students of Blackwood had other, more illicit activities on their mind. One of the perks (or disadvan-tages, rather, depending on whether you asked students or faculty) of attending a school in complete isolation was the sense of independence cultivated among the student body. Sure, the arrival of Headmistress Riley on campus had injected a little fear into the teenagers at Blackwood. But hormones, adolescent rebellion, and seclusion were a powerful recipe for trouble, and in this regard the students were master chefs. With each return from vacations, students smuggled in liquor supplies in their duffel bags, bottles swaddled in sweaters and polos to prevent any rattling or breakage while they were being trafficked onto campus. The students had perfected the art of holding “soirees” in their dormitory rooms. They had memorized the foot patterns of patrolling faculty on weekend evenings, identified which prefects were
more lenient than others, which professors were the most careless. Curfew and separation of the sexes were mere formalities.

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  And then there were the more adventurous students who rendezvoused in the woods. It was hard to resist the seductive pull of the forest, an open canvas for trouble.

  The forest was Ash’s favorite off-limits nocturnal activity, even beyond cocktails and people-watching at the Bent Horseshoe. For her there was nothing better than frolick-ing through the towering redwoods with nothing but a few friends and a couple of electric lanterns. The vague sense of fear, the imperceptibly sinister intentions of the night . . . Maybe it was her tribal ancestry speaking to her, but the thought of the earth under her bare feet as she darted between trees and over roots brought her an unbridled sense of tranquility.

  However, tonight the only evening plans Ash had were with two aspirin and her pillow. Ordinarily she lived for the buzz of the dining hall and the endless opportunities for mayhem that Friday night offered. But in her exhaustion the din of the cafeteria echoed in her ears until she developed a throbbing migraine.

  “Are you in?” Jackie was asking her, and Ash faded back to reality from her daydream. “Or do you want to just stir your macaroni and cheese for the rest of this fine spring evening?”

  Ash looked down at her bowl, suddenly aware of the spoon clutched in a vise grip between her thumb and pointer finger. She’d been stirring so much that she’d traced a spiral trail through the bread crumb coating. Even the macaroni looked ragged from the abuse. “Could you 105

  repeat the question?” Ash asked tiredly. “And maybe sum up the essay leading up to it in a few succinct key points.”

  Jackie sighed. “Darren managed to hook his hot plate up to a big portable battery so we can take it out into the woods. He’s got s’mores makings, although he’s not quite sure if the marshmallows are going to melt or just stick to the hot plate. Either way, he invited the guys from his hall. Should be a hoot.”

  “Upperclassmen?” Ash asked, half-intrigued.