Tupper?” Through a dense fog of fatigue Lang could hear the sweet voice calling to him again. The sound had an almost musical quality to it, reminding him of the gentle coo of the mourning dove, or lullabies women sang to their children. “Mr. Tupper, can you hear me?” His eyelids flickered against a blinding light. Then a shadow appeared, and he was able to keep his eyes open. The shadow looming over him was the angel with the voice—a pretty woman, real respectable, too, if he wasn’t mistaken. His whole body hurt, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet, which felt as though they had walked six hundred miles. And maybe they had. He didn’t know where in tarnation he’d landed himself. “I’m Emma Colby.” And as if this Emma Colby had the uncanny ability to read his thoughts she added, “You’re in my home.” Tilting his head, he glanced away from Emma Colby’s wide, luminous green eyes to the room around him. A carved wood clock ticked on a mantel, and his head seemed to pound in time with it.
