I've often been asked how Blake Trahern came to live with Brenna Nichols and her father, the judge. I actually wrote the following passage years before I came to write Blake's story. It was one of those scenes that occassionally pop into my head and won't leave me alone until I get them down on paper. Sometimes such a scene develops into a complete book, but often it's simply a scene. However, when I tried to imagine the beginning of Trahern's relationship with Brenna, I knew this was exactly how their story really began. Although bits and pieces of this passage did end up in the final book and will seem familiar, I thought maybe my readers would like to see the full version. I hope you enjoy this glimpse of a young Blake Trahern-- Alexis

“Who is he, Daddy? Is he my age? Can he play chess?”

Judge Ron Nichols chuckled and tugged on his daughter's braid. “Let's see now, in the order you asked, he's an associate of sorts, no, and maybe.”

Brenna frowned. She was used to grown-ups not taking her seriously, but that didn't mean she liked it. Especially when the grown-up in question was her father. With her best no-nonsense expression on her face, she tried again. “I'm just trying to be a good hostess. Will he be staying for dinner? Maisy will need to know.”

There was a suspicious twinkle in his eye, but at least this time he answered her question. “Actually, Puffin, Maisy has already prepared the rooms downstairs for him. He will be with us for some time, I should think. Now, off with you, young lady. I have some work to do before our guest arrives.”

Brenna waited until she closed the door to her father's study behind her before giving into the excitement her father's news had created. Someone--a boy!--was moving in with them.

Her imagination, always active, ran wild. He would be close to her age and not only play chess, but he'd like it as much as she did. They could read together, walk to the bus stop, share books, play catch. He'd be the older brother she never had, the playmate that she had always longed for.

Obviously her father wasn't going to give her any more information, but maybe Maisy would. She went in search of the housekeeper and found her in the kitchen. Maisy was frowning at the maid who helped with the cleaning.

“Mary, it is not our place to question who the judge invites into his home.”

Mary sniffed. “You can bet I wouldn't want to be sleeping here at night with him having free run of the house, and I'd count the silver each morning, too, while I was at it.”

Maisy shook a spoon at her helper. “Now that'll be enough out of you, missy. I've been working for His Honor a long time now, and I haven't found a reason to question his judgment yet.”

“But . . .”

Maisy drew herself up to her full five feet, two inches. There was no mistaking the authority in her voice. “No buts. If you don't want to work here any longer, that's one thing. But as long as you are an employee of this house, Mary O'Day, you'll not be insulting his guests.”

Even Brenna's father had been known to cringe when Maisy felt her authority was being challenged. She was amazed to see Mary give it one more shot.

“But it's not like the judge to bring home strays. Why, from what I've heard, that boy . . .”

Maisy slammed a pot down on the stove. “Enough!” She looked as if she were about to say more, but that was when she noticed Brenna hovering just outside the door. “You here for more of those fresh baked cookies, sweetie?”

Brenna felt obligated to nod, though she didn't know why. She accepted the cookies and a glass of milk. Mary started to say something, but Maisy gave her a quick elbow in the ribs and rolled her eyes in Brenna's direction. After that, the two women had little to say to each other and nothing at all about the newcomer to the household.

Even so, Brenna had learned enough to be even more curious about the stranger coming to live with them. She ticked off the facts she'd already gathered one by one. He was young. He'd be with them for some time, which made her wonder about his family. Wouldn't they miss him?

Then there was Mary carrying on as if she were frightened of him, which was ridiculous. Her father would never invite a guest in to their home who posed a threat to them. Still, she smiled to herself, it did give her some delicious shivers to think that he might be just a little bit dangerous.

And, of course, he'd be good looking, in a tortured hero sort of way. Heathcliff came to mind. That would be a whole lot cooler than the studious older brother she'd imagined earlier.

The hall clock chimed five times. It was almost dinnertime--he could be here any minute. If she hurried, she could put on that new outfit and maybe try out some of that makeup her aunt had sent her. She took off at a run for her room.

Picking out the right shade of eye shadow for her green eyes took longer than she had expected and now her mascara was smeared. Time was running out. She dabbed at her eyes one more time, intent on hurrying downstairs to make her carefully staged entrance as her father's hostess. Finally, she was satisfied with her appearance.

She clicked off her stereo and was reaching for the lamp when she noticed a strange flickering light from outside her window. Puzzled, she peeked out. The front drive was filled with police cars, all of them with their lights twirling. The last one's siren was just dying away.

“What in the world?” She sped out of her room to the staircase, but was brought up short by the angry sound of her father's voice.

Instead of plunging down to join him, she slipped back into the shadows of the landing. He never, ever raised his voice, but he was unmistakably furious now. She edged closer to the railing in order to better hear what had set off her normally calm parent.

He was rigid with fury. “This was not called for! Do you hear me, Sergeant? What does it say for the quality of our police force that it took three cruisers and six, count them six, of the city's so-called finest to deliver one teenage boy to my house.”

He got right in the man's face. “What's wrong, Sergeant? Afraid you'd get lost between the jail and here? Hell, it's got to be all of two miles. Who knows what desperate acts of violence could have occurred, especially with the kid in handcuffs and leg irons? It's a proud day for the police force, I can tell you.”

The officer in question flushed red and then white. Then his own temper let fly. “Your Honor,” his tone anything but respectful, “we were ordered to deliver one accused felon to this address. It is standard procedure for prisoners to be restrained for the safety of all concerned.”

That did it. The judge ticked off his points one by one. “Not when the prisoner has already been cleared of any felony charges. He is a juvenile currently on probation for a series of misdemeanors, being remanded to the custody of the court.”

The judge took a deep breath, then another. When he spoke again, his words were chilly and full of threat. “Let me make this clear to all of you,” he said as he glared at each officer in turn, “there will be repercussions for this. And if there is one mark on that boy that wasn't there when last I saw him, charges will be filed, and the case will be heard by me.”

He jerked the front door open and gestured at the lot of them, “Now get the hell out of my home. Get back out on patrol while you still have jobs.”

When the last one had filed out, he slammed the door behind them. Running his hands through his thinning hair, he took another of those deep breaths.

“Son, I'm sorry about this. If I had known how stupid they were, I would have come and gotten you myself.”

That's when Brenna noticed that her father was not alone in the foyer. A boy was standing a few feet away, his back to the wall, his arms down at his sides, his hands clenched in fists. He was almost directly below her, so she couldn't see his face. She held her breath for fear that one of them would notice her lurking above them. Somehow she knew that neither of them would appreciate an audience.

“Come on with me, and I'll show you to your room. I thought you'd prefer the privacy of being downstairs.” Her father led the way down the hall below her, his words growing fainter until she heard them no more.

Brenna slipped back into her room, unsure what to do next. Her father stressed honesty above all else, but she didn't want anyone to know what she'd witnessed. The strange thing about it was that she wasn't sure whom she was protecting. Not her father nor herself. No, it had to be their new houseguest.

She didn't know his name, but she knew pride when she saw it. Something in the way he'd held himself in the foyer told her that pride might be all that he did have. No, there was no need to let either of them know a thing.

After checking her appearance again, she stepped out into the hall. Deliberately, she closed the door with just a shade more force that was necessary. The staircase was carpeted or else she would have tried making a bit of noise there, too. No matter, she'd done all she could to make her presence known.

Her father was in the living room, staring into the fireplace. Alone. There was no mistaking the disappointment she felt.

“Is he here yet?” she asked, trying to sound merely curious. She should have known better.

The judge looked at her over his shoulder. “You know very well that he is. Even if you hadn't been hiding on the staircase, you couldn't possibly have missed that travesty of a police escort.”

“Sorry,” she apologized. “I wasn't sure if you saw me. I didn't think he would have wanted witnesses.”

Her father turned around to face her, a warm smile softening the worry in his eyes. “You show amazing sensitivity for your age, Puffin.” He shook his head. “You're right, of course. He's had a hard enough time lately.”

Crossing her fingers, she asked, “Is he eating with us?”

“I think he'd prefer not to tonight. I've asked Maisy to prepare him a tray. You might see if it's ready and take it to him.”

She tried not to let her excitement show. “Sure thing, Dad.” She was almost out of the room before she realized that she didn't even know what to call the boy. “I forgot to ask, what's his name?”

The judge chuckled. “That would help, wouldn't it? It's Blake. Blake Trahern.” He waited, as if studying her reaction to the name.

Should she know it? Her first response was negative, but then something niggled at the back of her mind. Stopping in the hall, she gave it some thought, but nothing came to her. Shrugging, she went looking for Maisy. If it were important, it would come to her eventually.

Maisy was just putting the final touches on a tray heaped with food. She was muttering under her breath when Brenna walked into the kitchen. Brenna caught just the tail end of it.

“Poor boy. Skin and bones. I bet those monsters didn't even feed him at all. Well, I'll fix that.” She added two more cookies and then looked around to see if there was anything she'd missed.

Interesting. Brenna added Maisy's comments to the list of things to be considered later in the privacy of her room. “Dad sent me in to take the tray for you.”

Maisy looked her up and down as if trying to decide if she was up to the task. “Well, that would be helpful. Don't linger because I'll have your own dinner on the table in a jiffy.”

“Sure thing.” Brenna picked up the tray and almost dropped it. It was heavier than it looked. She tried again, fully aware that Maisy would snatch it away from her if she wasn't careful. Then she'd have no excuse to approach Blake and that wasn't acceptable.

The second attempt went better. At least the guestroom was only a short distance down the hall. She did her best to walk quickly without risking disaster. Thank goodness there was a small table near the door where she could set the tray down, freeing up her hands to knock on the door.

No answer.

She tried again, this time a little louder. Footsteps shuffled inside the room.

“Hello?” she called and knocked again.

This time the footsteps came closer to the door. It opened a crack. She could almost make out one eye and part of a nose. A surly “Go away,” was followed by the door closing. Firmly.

Failure to deliver the tray would bring Maisy and perhaps the judge down on both of their heads. Feeling a little desperate, she knocked on the door again. “I've got your dinner tray.”

“Leave it on the floor.”

“I can't do that. My father, he's the judge you know. Anyway, he said I was to deliver it right to your hands.” That was a lie, sort of.

She convinced herself that her father would want to know that the boy had been taken care of properly.

The door opened again. The boy stuck out one hand while staying out of sight as much as possible.

“The tray is too heavy. You'll need both hands or else I'll carry it in and set it down for you.”

That offer got an immediate reaction and Brenna got her first really close look at Blake Trahern. Her heart lurched in her chest and she fought a sudden wave of nausea.

There wasn't a square inch on Blake's face that wasn't covered with fading bruises and cuts. Oh, God, what had happened to him?

His chin came up, his pale gray eyes warning her that sympathy would not be welcome. Hoping her voice was steadier than her hands were at that moment, she thrust the tray at him.

“Maisy, that's our cook and housekeeper, fixed this for you. You can have more if you want. Just ask her.” Backing out of the room, she blurted out, “I've got to go. Dinner, you know.”

She waited until he slammed the door behind her before giving into the urge to run. And that she did, all the way to the dining room and right into her father's arms.

“They hurt him, Daddy. They hurt him so bad.”

The bruises quickly faded and the cuts healed without leaving a mark as Blake settled into a routine in the judge's house. He made sure that was how he thought of the place--as someone else's and not his own home. Everyone, even that little pain Brenna, bent over backwards to make him feel welcome.

It made his skin crawl.

He'd been taking care of himself for most of his sixteen years and there was no need to change things now. The real incentive for staying put was that the cops were unlikely to come after him again when the judge saw him on a daily basis. So far, they'd taken the judge's threats seriously and left him alone. As long as Blake felt safe from their retribution, he'd put up with the housekeeper fussing over him and the judge's friendly interest.

He allowed himself a rare smile. Besides, Maisy made the best cookies of anybody. With that thought, he headed for the kitchen.

Homework could wait.

The sound of someone singing decidedly off-key brought him up short. Brenna was in the kitchen. Damn, he'd really wanted those cookies, but she was the one person in the household that he avoided like the plague.

He hesitated just a shade too long. Before he could duck back down the hallway, she came barreling out of the kitchen, right into him.

His quick reflexes kept the two of them from hitting the floor, but in saving them that indignity, he caught her up against his chest.

Her hands latched on to his arms and her wide green eyes stared up into his. “Sorry,” she whispered, her cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. For a brief second, time shifted and it was as if the woman she would become peeked out from inside the awkward young girl.

Inside of his chest, near the vicinity of his heart, something lurched. The feeling that swept over him was alien in nature. Warm. Nice. Terrifying. Before he could analyze exactly what was happening--and what to do about it--she jerked free of his unintentional embrace and took off back through the kitchen.

He hung back, trying to regain control.

Damn that brat. Wasn't enough that he had to put up with her staring at him during dinner and haunting his footsteps at school--and whoever heard of a twelve-year-old in high school? Thoroughly disgusted with her and himself at the same time, he debated what to do next. Short of becoming a hermit, somehow he had to learn how to deal with the pest being underfoot all the time.

He could only be grateful to her father for telling Brenna that it wasn't appropriate for her to invite Blake to her thirteenth birthday party the coming weekend.

Reasonably sure that this time she'd hit the floor running and hadn't stopped yet, he ventured into the kitchen. Maisy was in her usual place at the counter, slicing vegetables with a vengeance. When she looked up and saw him standing there, a look of understanding crossed her face.

“So you're the one that sent that child running the other way.” Maisy shook a finger at him, but the sparkle in her eyes let him know that he wasn't in trouble. “What did you do to scare her?”

“Nothing.”

If she wanted details she'd have to ask Brenna. He shoved his hands into his pockets and waited for the accusations to start. Maisy picked up her knife and started whittling carrots with frightening efficiency.

“Cookies are in the jar. Milk's in the fridge. Clean up after yourself.”

Blake let out a slow breath and another. Deliberately, he walked to the cookie jar and took out a handful. Snickerdoodles. His favorite. He risked a look over his shoulder. Maisy was smiling at him, fully aware his weakness for the cinnamon-coated sugar cookies. He grabbed a glass of milk and started to leave the room.

“Ahem.”

He froze in his tracks, unsure what he'd done wrong this time. Instincts honed over sixteen years of struggling to survive had him preparing to run.

“You're welcome,” Maisy said archly.

The panic eased. “Sorry, Maisy. Thank you.”

He was one step short of the doorway when she added, “The judge called. Said he needed to see you before dinner. In the library.”

What now? Blake forced himself to keep calm, taking deep breaths, as he strolled back to his room. Once there, he forced down the snack he no longer wanted. Clenching his fists, he stared out the window toward the backyard to reassure himself that nothing had changed. He'd memorized the best escape routes from the house within days of moving in. Too many times his life had depended on having more than one way out of whatever dive his mother had found for them to live in.

He had no idea what the judge wanted. Experience had taught him to always expect the worst, and he was rarely disappointed. There was no use in stewing about it because that wouldn't change a thing.

Finally, he couldn't postpone the visit any longer. Maisy always served dinner promptly at six. The clock showed five-thirty. Time to face the bad news.

Stepping out into the hall, he realized the house was unnaturally quiet. Where had everyone gone? At this time of the evening, Maisy was usually bustling around the kitchen, but she was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Brenna was spending the night at a friend's, but that wouldn't explain Maisy's absence. Besides, it was a school night. Had the judge ordered Maisy to take Brenna away for the evening to prevent her from seeing Blake leaving in disgrace?

Damn, where would they send him this time? Back to jail? He shuddered. The bruises may have faded, but the memories of brutal fists and powerful kicks were still mirror bright. With some effort he shoved them to the back of his mind where they could be ignored for a while. No matter what was about to happen, he wasn't going to beg or grovel. And if their plans for him were too horrible to be acceptable, well, he had his escape plans ready and his emergency pack sitting by the door. He'd miss Maisy's cooking, and sleeping between clean sheets was nice but hardly necessary for survival. The streets had been his home before and would be again.

He raised his fist to knock on the library door, hating the way his hand was trembling. What was that about? One of the earliest lessons he'd learned was to show no fear. While it might not save him pain, it did save his pride. He rapped sharply on the dark wood and stood back.

The door immediately swung open as if the judge had been waiting just inside for Blake's arrival. His smile, meant to reassure, only made Blake more nervous. “Come on in, Blake. We've been expecting you.”

Blake tried unsuccessfully to swallow the big lump in his throat that threatened to choke him. He acknowledged the judge with a quick nod, but he kept his eyes solidly on the other two men in the room. Neither of them smiled as they stood up, but the looks they gave him were curious rather than hostile.

The judge closed the door and moved to stand beside Blake, as if offering his unspoken support. “Blake, I'd like to introduce to two associates of mine. I think you'll find that the three of you have a surprising amount in common.”