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Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two

He didn't sound like a bear. His voice, whiskey smooth and low, curled her toes, and when he sang his little ditties shivers crawled along her spine. His voice conveyed sexy, his words portrayed caring. Her imagination conjured breath-stopping handsome.

Chastising herself for such a schoolgirlish notion, Paige stuck her head around the family room door. "Jamie, put your shoes on. Daddy'll be here in a few minutes."

"Mo-om, Bidwell's on."

And nothing on earth, not even a trip to the zoo with his father, would keep Jamie Holbrook from his daily date with Bidwell Bear.

What did the man under the fuzzy bear costume look like? The question nagged every time she heard the Bidwell Bear theme song. So often voices didn't match the mental image they proclaimed. Good old lovable Bidwell was most likely a balding fellow, whose paunch was camouflaged by his costume's thick artificial fur.

"You can put your shoes on and watch Bidwell at the same time."

A toe-tapping rhythm emanated from the television set. "Mom, watch this! Bidwell's gonna dance and do a flip. Watch, Mom. He's way cool."

Intrigued in spite of herself, Paige perched on the edge of the couch, her gaze trained on the screen. How could anyone wearing a bulky suit move with such grace? Bidwell sang, bidding his young fans to share and play fair while he executed a terrific soft-shoe and emphasized his lesson by turning a back flip. His electric blue, Greek fisherman's cap dropped to the floor. The long vest slid up to his armpits. How he kept from getting tangled in the poppy red garment, she'd never know. The image of a well-honed athlete flashed through her mind.

"Didya see him, Mom?" Jamie's eyes, blue as the Nebraska sky on a clear summer day, sparkled.

Not for the first time, Paige thanked her lucky stars that Jamie had chosen such a lovable, worthy idol. The Bidwell Bear Show was fun, fast-paced and informative, geared to the limited attention span of a pre-schooler. In Jamie's mind, the TV character's word was gospel.

Jamie shook her knee. "Mo-om! Didya see Bidwell flip?"

"Sure did. Now, please put your shoes on."

Jamie shoved his feet in battered sneakers and pulled on the laces. "I make rabbit ears, right?"

"That's right--" The doorbell chimed.

* * *

That afternoon, Paige made her way through the crowd of proud parents and excited graduates looking for her favorite students to tell them good-bye.

"Ms. Holbrook!"

The Vice Principal's voice sounded urgent. "Yes, Mr. Bentley?"

"Your father called. There's been an accident. Jamie's hurt badly. They've taken him to the Med Center."

Chapter One

Hunter Blackwell jerked the bear costume hood from his head and plowed his hand through his soaking hair. Taping was over for the day--finally. He rubbed his back and flexed his sore knee. How many cotton pickin' times had he performed that flip and not gotten twisted up in his baggy vest? More than he could count. He was gonna pay for that misstep or whatever it was that sent him sprawling into the light stanchion. Although Bidwell's back flip was signature to the character, at times like this he wished he'd never included gymnastic stunts in the show.

Entering his dressing room, he yanked the soft black nose from his face and removed the contact lenses that changed his unbear-like blue eyes to a believable dark brown. As he shed the Bidwell trappings, Hunter wondered how many more times he'd don the costume and persona of Bidwell Bear. The month left before hiatus, another season, or never? It sure wouldn't be never. He was contracted for the season, which meant he'd play the character at least until hiatus, but after that...?

He stripped the bear suit from his sweaty body and headed for a quick shower. He'd rather face Monica cleaned-up.

Entering his dressing room minutes later, he frowned at the cloud of smoke emanating from the recliner facing the window. "Blast it, Monica. How many times have I asked you not to smoke those filthy things in here?"

The swivel chair turned. "How'd you know it was me?" the twiggy woman seated in the depths of the chair asked.

"Simple. You're the only one I know rude enough to ignore my repeated request. You're setting a bad example for the kids, besides injuring your health."

"The kids don't see me, bucko, and my health is my own business." Monica deWitt, executive producer of The Bidwell Bear Show, puffed on the cigarette through the silver holder clamped between her lips. She'd be pretty if she'd grow her close-cropped spiked hair to a reasonable length and wear less dramatic make-up. She levered herself out of the chair and waved a ream of paper under his nose. "You haven't signed your contract."

Hunter perched on the dressing table bench and pulled on his socks. "We've been through this before. I'm not committing myself to another season until I talk to Palmer about my tour."

"That old has-been. You don't really expect him to come up with a gig better than this." She rattled the thick contract under Hunter's nose.

"Palmer's done all right by me so far. I wouldn't have those--" Hunter tilted his head toward the Oscar statuette residing in splendid glory on the shelf above the piano beside his golden record "--if it weren't for Palmer."

"C'mon, Hunter, you got a lucky break. Palmer May didn't have one damn thing to do with it."

"Yeah, it was a lucky break, but the opportunity wouldn't've come my way if my agent hadn't greased the wheels. We've been over this before. I never intended to make Bidwell my life's work. This is my chance to do what I really want to do. I can't afford to let it slip through my fingers. I want to sing; I've always wanted to sing. If Palmer can arrange a concert tour, I'm outta here."

"You're a damn fool. One hit song does not a career make. I'm offering you a hell of a lot of money to do Bidwell for the next three years. Between your salary and your percentage from Bidwell products, you'll be stinkin' rich."

"This isn't about money, Monica. I've already got more money than I need. It's about dreams. Bidwell's a stopgap. You've known that from the beginning."

She blew a puff of smoke in his face. "So we didn't envision how big Bidwell would become. You can't leave while the show's hot." Her voice rose to a wail. "You can't."

"Can't" wasn't a word Hunter Blackwell liked or understood well. "I most certainly can. Anyone can romp around in a bear suit."

"That's not true and you know it." She dragged in another lung-full of smoke. "You're the creative genius behind the show. We can't do it without you."

He stood and shoved his feet into brown tasseled loafers. The Bidwell Bear Show was Monica's life. It started out as an amusement, financed by dear old Dad to get her out of his hair. With syndication, Bidwell's popularity had soared beyond anything either of them had ever imagined. But that didn't mean he had to stay tied to playing to a kids audience when all he'd ever wanted was a career as a pop singer.

He turned around and picked up his comb. "Flattery will get you nowhere, especially while you're blowing that cancer stick in my face."

She found a paper cup and stubbed the cigarette out. "There. Are you happy?"

"It's a start." He tamed his hair and loaded the pockets of his khaki slacks, then strode to the door. "I have an appointment with Palmer in an hour. We'll talk again tomorrow."

Driving along Santa Monica Boulevard toward his agent's edge-of-Hollywood office, a surge of excitement shot through Hunter. After all the years of hard work, all the dreams, all the we'll-let-you-knows that hadn't materialized, the singing career of Hunter Troy Blackwell, professionally known in the music business as Troy Black, was about to take off.

Smog obscured the sun and traffic moved at a pace somewhere between a shuffle and a plod. Street people congregated on the sidewalk and debris danced in the salty ocean breeze. With a sudden pang, he longed for the clean air and friendly faces of the Missouri burg where he'd grown up. He flipped on his turn signal and shook his head. Cranstown, Missouri, where the action wasn't. Los Angeles didn't offer the wholesomeness of small town Mid-America, but LA was where careers were made. He parked his Explorer and entered the aging stucco building, climbing the flight of stairs to the Palmer May Agency.

"Hi, Mamie," he greeted the spindly lady at the front desk.

"Hey, Troy." She batted her mascara-caked lashes at him. "What's cookin', hot buns?"

"You're gonna get slapped with a sexual harassment suit one of these days if you don't start watching your tongue."

"Nah," Mamie patted her glaring red beehive, "you guys love me too much." Palmer's secretary/receptionist matched everything else in the agency, including the talent agent himself--on the downward slope from the pinnacle of success.

Hunter grinned. "That we do. I have an appointment with Palmer."

"Hold on, blue eyes, while I buzz him."

"You're mixing me up with Sinatra."

"Nah," she winked, "you're cuter than Frankie. Hold on." She picked up the phone and hit the intercom button. "Troy Black's here, Palmer." She cradled the receiver. "Go on in."

"Troy!" Palmer squeaked in his high-pitched voice. He pushed himself to a standing position and shook hands. "Whatcha know, old son?"

Palmer May was one of the world's greatest caricatures in a town where eccentric was the norm. Balding, he covered his pate with salt and pepper swaths pulled from sideburns and French braided from the top of his head to his fringe, where the braid merged into a ponytail held tightly with a piece of red ric rack. He wore loud polyester sports coats that strained around his girth and even louder ties.

"You tell me."

"Got your tour finalized." Palmer plopped in his chair, which creaked in protest. "You start as soon as Bidwell goes on hiatus."

A burst of anticipation zipped up Hunter's spine. All it had taken was one timely serendipity. "Dare to Dream", written and performed by Troy Black, had won this year's Academy Award for Best Song. The theme song for a low budget film by the same name had soared to the top of the charts, along with the rest of the soundtrack. No one could've predicted the appeal of the movie. Certainly, nobody expected such a sleeper to win the Oscar for the Best Picture and for his tune to ride the film's coattails as Best Song.

He couldn't rest on his laurels. Fans' memories were notoriously short. A big break did not a career make, as Monica had pointed out so pithily. If Troy Black was to become a major singing star, he must make it happen. And that meant a concert tour in smaller cities, wowing audiences with the very best he could give them. He still fought the frequent urge to pinch himself. No more smoky dives and second rate clubs. Troy Black had finally made it off the bottom rung on the ladder to stardom. "Where'm I going?"

"Gotcha booked in nine cities: Sacramento, Phoenix, San Antonio, Louisville, Tampa, Charlotte, Philly, Cleveland and Omaha. One show in each town. Between Philly and Cleveland you stop off in the Big Apple to appear on Good Morning America."

Hunter blinked and stared at his agent. "Good Morning America? No kidding?"

Palmer puffed out his chest. "I don't kid about personal appearances, old son. Gotcha scheduled for a radio interview in each town, too. You do the whole gig in two weeks, then it's back here like you said.

"You'll have plenty time to write new tunes afore you start that bear routine again." Palmer's disparagement of Bidwell came through in his tone. "You're gonna havta quit dancing 'round in that stupid suit if you wanna be a real star."

For the first time, Palmer's badgering didn't set his teeth on edge. After eight years, the daily grind of the TV show had become old. It had started as fluke, and his success had sidetracked him on the way to the career for which he yearned. Rather than digress into an old argument that couldn't be settled anytime soon, Hunter said the first thing that popped into his head. "Not exactly first-rate concert towns."

"Did you expect Vegas and Carnegie Hall first time out?" Palmer sounded testy.

"Of course not. I know I have to pay my dues."

"You ain't starting where most do, you know. I coulda set you up as an opener for a headliner."

Now I have to smooth the old turkey's ruffled feathers. "This is better than I expected, Palmer. I know New York and Vegas are out of my league for a while yet."

Once sought after, Palmer May wasn't on the must-have list for the top stars any longer. Even though Hunter could afford a more prestigious representative thanks to Bidwell, he'd have to make Troy Black a household name before the big guys would give him the time of day. One day. One day soon. He wanted more than a two bit agent and two bit gigs. Move over Elvis, move over Beatles, move over Michael Jackson. Troy Black was about to claim his moment in the spotlight.

"Mamie's got the itinerary: gigs, flights, hotels, the whole she-bang, all typed up for you."

"Thanks, Palmer. This is great, really great."

"Do me proud, old son."

"You bet." Hunter took a step toward the door.

"Take a load off, Troy. We got things to discuss afore you take off. I'm gonna issue a press release announcin' your tour in the mornin'."

Hunter sank into a chair, wishing all this could wait and knowing it couldn't. They were compressing everything that should take months into weeks.

"Got you booked on Jay Leno tomorrow," Palmer went on. "You'll sing 'Dare to Dream', then get an opportunity to plug the tour."

"Great." Leno and GMA, wow! Hunter realized he should be jaded enough not to get a thrill out of appearing on big time early morning and late night shows. Well, he wasn't. If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up.

"Called Sebastian Tolini about a snazzy wardrobe."

Hunter's head jerked up. "Not Tolini. His designs are pure sleaze."

"Troy, old son, sex sells. You want babes to go ape for your stuff, you gotta make their little hearts throb."

"Not by strutting on stage wearing glittering strings of nothing. I don't sing that kind of material. The majority of my audience are the moms of Bidwell's fans. Besides, I've heard from a few twelve and thirteen-year-olds. It wasn't too long ago that those young people were hanging on Bidwell's every word."

"We're not mentioning that dancin' bear thing you do. The fewer people who connect Troy Black and that damn bear, the better."

"Fine with me, but I'm not denying I'm Bidwell either. Which means a clean image. Squeaky clean, Palmer. No more setting me up escorting sex symbols with their boobs hanging out and their skirt split up to tomorrow. My mom almost had a heart attack when she saw that picture in that trashy tabloid, Eyes of the World. Took me a week to calm Monica down."

Palmer squirmed in his chair. "Just trying to build name recognition."

"Yeah, well, that's not the kind of recognition I want to cultivate." Hunter stood and braced both hands on the desk top. "If we try to keep my Bidwell role a secret, someone's bound to find out at just the wrong time. I'm looking to create a sensation with my music, not tabloid fodder. Got it?"

"You'll get a bigger draw my way, old son."

"Maybe, maybe not. I'm willing to risk it. I happen to think there are plenty of fans who'll find a G-rated performer refreshing."

"Look at who's at the top of the charts," Palmer countered.

"Me, for a few weeks, you old cynic. I'm not backing down on this, Palmer. My songs are about love, not sex." Hunter slouched in the chair, his body in a straight line, diagonal to the floor, his ankles crossed. "I want a Boy Scout image or I'll cancel the whole thing."

"You can't do that!"

"Watch me."

"Okay. Okay. We'll do it your way. But don't come cryin' to me when you bomb."

"It's a deal." Hunter bounced to his feet and offered his hand. "Thanks."

"You signing Monica's contract?"

"Haven't decided yet. I'm going to see how this tour goes." Hunter stepped into the reception area.

"Here's your itinerary, Troy." Mamie handed him a thick envelope. "Tickets, confirmation numbers, everything's in the packet. Call me if I forgot anything."

"Mamie, the marvel of efficiency, forget something. Not in this lifetime."

She preened and patted her hair. "Check it over. There's a first time for everything."

He executed a one-finger salute. "Will do. See you."

He bounded down the stairs, his mind in a whirl. The prospect of a coast to coast tour with all those side appearances done in a mere two weeks daunted him. Yet, Palmer met Hunter's stipulations. Troy would perform his shows across the country and still have time to write material for a new album before Bidwell taping began again. If he decided to do another season. And that was a big if.

He didn't want to burn his bridges, even if he could afford an extended period of time without a sure income. Bidwell was a deeply ingrained part of him. Despite the grind, despite his achievement with "Dare to Dream", despite his craving for a singing career, it would be hard to leave the children's show.

In order to become a successful singer he needed to devote more time to his craft than he could when Bidwell was in production. That was why this mini tour was important. If he took with live audiences, then he'd know which way to go. If not, he'd fall back on the TV show.

So many if's.

Troy's music was a throwback, a blend of styles of the 60s and 70s. A little Tony Bennett here, a little Neil Diamond there, sprinkled with the three octave range of John Gary and a healthy dose of something special all his own. Over the years he'd worked on his stage presence. Now he'd have to polish his act. What worked in the intimate setting of clubs wouldn't necessarily work on the stage in big auditoriums.

He needed a break. Between taping the show and performing five nights a week at the Pacific Club, he'd stretched himself pretty thin. At least he'd finished his gig at the club. Not that his free evenings meant he could goof off. There was way too much to do before he left town, starting with new duds.

Palmer was right about one thing. His image needed pizzazz. Suits like those favored by Bennett were too staid for a thirty-one-year-old. The outrageous garb of the rockers and rappers set his teeth on edge. He'd have to come up with a look somewhere in-between, and fast.

* * *

Paige Holbrook stood, her shoulders hunched, at the foot of the bed watching Jamie sleep. After all this time, she should be used to all the tubes attached to his small body, but she wasn't. An IV bottle dripped life-giving fluid into a vein in his hand and a nasal cannula clipped to his nose supplied oxygen. Her heart twisted every time she saw the feeding tube in her son's stomach.

Why was she wasting time in this useless vigil? He slept as he'd done every moment since he'd slipped into a coma in the operating room three weeks ago. Not even the move from the University of Nebraska Medical Center to the Rehabilitation Center at Methodist Hospital had roused him.

Perhaps the coma wasn't as deep as it had been at first. Or was that her imagination?

Did he really respond ever so slightly to the sound of her voice? She wanted to think so. Still, he didn't look up at her with his big blue eyes. What she'd give to see those eyes sparkling with his usual impishness.

She stepped around to the side of the bed and brushed his soft blond hair from his forehead, careful not to touch the huge welt of the healing wound that ran from his cheek to his hairline. "Jamie. It's Mommy, sweetie. Can you open your eyes? Jamie, if you can hear me, open your eyes."

"Paige. Go home. You're wearing yourself out hanging around here day and night. We'll call you the minute there's any change."

Paige started and turned to the redheaded nurse standing beside her. "Oh, Bonnie. I didn't hear you come in."

"I'm not surprised. You were too busy trying to wake your little guy up. It'll happen when his body's ready and not one minute before."

"I know. It's just..."

"It's just that you can't leave. I know." Bonnie patted her arm. "Look at it this way. If you don't get some rest now, how are you going to cope when Jamie does wake up and needs you?"

"Oh, all right. Dad's probably wanting supper."

"No doubt."

Paige bent over the bed and kissed Jamie's forehead. "I'll be back tomorrow, son. Bonnie's right here. You aren't alone."

* * *

Paige stepped from the elevator, her eye pealed for anyone who looked like a reporter. Seeing no one she'd suspect, she made her way across the lobby and exited the hospital.

"Has your little boy woken up yet, Ms. Holbrook? Does his face look awful? Have you told him his father's dead?"

A chill crawled down her spine. Without conscious thought, Paige's hands balled into fists. She shook her head and kept on walking. She'd learned in the weeks since the accident not to do so much as turn toward those intrusive voices. Just because Jamie had captured hearts in a sideline interview after the Superbowl three years ago, a few reporters wouldn't allow her ex-husband's tragic story to end with his funeral three days ago. Why couldn't they leave her alone? Why couldn't they permit her child to recover in peace? She hoped if she ignored them long enough, they'd find something else to write about.

An orange and gold sunset faded into dusk, bathing Omaha in a soft half-light. Unlocking her car, a blast of trapped heat hit her in the face, dispelling her earlier chill. Determined not to dwell on the rudeness of the prying press, she headed home, praying there was something left in the refrigerator that she could whip into a quick supper.

Fatigue threatened to overwhelm her. How could doing nothing but sit at the hospital make her so tired? Each day passed in the same monotonous pattern as the one before. She watched. She waited. She worried.

And blamed herself. If only she hadn't permitted Mark to sweet talk her into letting him take Jamie for the day. If only she hadn't allowed her former in-laws to persuade her that Mark had progressed in his recovery enough to have his son alone. If only she'd paid attention to her gut instinct.

A mother was supposed to protect her child and she'd failed. It didn't matter that the accident wasn't Mark's fault.

Paige paused in her self-flagellation and blinked mist from her eyes. Mark Holbrook was dead. For that she was truly sorry, especially since he seemed to have turned his life around. Now, despite his new contract with the Kansas City Chiefs, he'd never have the opportunity to climb back to the top.

Once upon a time she'd loved him enough to follow him into the limelight he craved. Paige slammed the door shut on that thought. She'd made her decision. There was no point rehashing old hurts.

She turned into her father's driveway and pressed the button to raise the garage door. Her mother's roses bloomed in profusion in the bed under the breakfast nook window. Their scent caught on a breeze, greeting her with a welcome change from the stale, medicinal smell of the hospital. She noticed the weeds poking through the bark mulch and winced. She'd get to the neglected beds soon...just as soon as Jamie woke up.

Entering the house through the door from the garage to the kitchen, she kicked off her shoes the second she crossed the threshold. Heading straight to the refrigerator, she sized up the contents. Stark whiteness reflected back at her. Zilch. Well, not quite but close, the next best thing to nothing.

"That you, Paige?" Will Montgomery called from the family room.

"Yes, Dad."

"About time you got here. I'm starving. When do we eat?"

Paige gritted her teeth. Not how's Jamie? Not even how are you? She tried to cut her father some slack. He hadn't gotten over his wife's death a year ago. Sometimes she wondered if he ever would.

Still, she nearly choked on her swallowed resentment. Will Montgomery's feet were firmly planted in a by-gone era when the man ruled the household and the little woman catered to his every whim. It was just the way he was, reinforced over thirty-five years of marriage by her doting, equally old-fashioned mother. He expected his daughter to pick up where Ellen Montgomery left off. Someday Paige would drag him kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. But not today. She didn't have the fight in her.

"As soon as I get it ready. Did you have a good day?"

Will appeared in the doorway. "Joe and I played eighteen holes. He beat me. My lucky golf shirt wasn't in the closet, Paige. You know I always wear my lucky shirt on Wednesday."

Paige bit back an impatient retort. How had her mother stood his chauvinistic attitude all those years? "Sorry. I'm behind on the laundry."

Will slouched against the door frame. "Damn, I miss your mother. Best wife a man could ever ask for."

"I miss her, too," Paige replied, plunking a carton of eggs, three lonely strips of bacon and a hunk of cheddar cheese on the counter.

"What's for dinner?" Will strolled across the floor and peered over her shoulder. "I'm starved."

"So you said. I'm fixing omelets."

"Omelets! I want a real dinner."

Paige's intention to placate her father evaporated. "Fine. Fix it yourself if you can find anything to fix."

"If you'd do your job properly we'd have food in the house. Your mother's surely spinning in her grave, the way you neglect your responsibilities around here."

"Dad, that's not fair."

"What's not fair? I asked you to move back home when you had nowhere to go in exchange for a little help. You've got a roof over your head and I'm getting nothing in return."

"I happen to think your grandson is more important right now. You could have the decency to ask how he's doing."

Will didn't even have the grace to look sheepish. "I figured if there was any change, you'd've said so."

Her blood boiled. Pure rage choked off her words. If he didn't care enough to ask, she sure wasn't going to mention her faint hope. She spun on her heel and strode from the kitchen. What was there to say anyway? As a retired chief financial officer, Will dealt in concrete facts, pooh-poohing mere impressions. And that was all she had, nothing more than a vague feeling. Yet...

At the doorway she paused and gathered her composure. Her father wasn't as indifferent as he came across. Her mother's long illness had taken a huge toll on him. Hospitals gave him the heebie-jeebies. That wasn't a cop-out. She'd seen the sweat drench his forehead the few times his conscience forced him to put in an appearance at Jamie's bedside.

Still, she deserved more support than she got from her parent. Not only deserved, but needed desperately. Hospitals weren't her favorite places in the world either. Will Montgomery could use a swift kick in the keister. Paige swallowed hard. "I'll move out tomorrow."

"But--but..."

Let him stew. He could fend for himself. There was no reason a healthy sixty-year-old man required waiting on hand and foot. He was capable of preparing his own meals. He could read a cookbook, couldn't he?

Paige knew darn well she wouldn't move out and leave him in the lurch, but he didn't have to know that right now. The injustice of his accusation clawed at her gut. She lived in her father's house for one reason and one reason only. At the time of her divorce, he'd needed help caring for her mother, declining rapidly from Lou Gehrig's disease. It seemed a perfect solution to both their problems at the time. She stayed for Jamie's sake. He needed a male role model. Although at times--like today--Will's behavior failed miserably as the example she wanted for her son.

She could afford a place of her own. Maybe not as big as this house, but something decent in a nice neighborhood.

Paige climbed the stairs. Tonight she was too tired, too disheartened, to care if her father ate. Their little spat robbed her of what little appetite she had. Jamie's lack of progress weighed too heavily on her heart to leave room for mundane concerns like food.

"Paige, wait."

She turned at the top of the staircase. "Good-night, Dad."

* * *

The quiet streets glowed in morning's first light. Paige parked in the now familiar hospital lot and hastened to her son's bedside.

Jamie lay motionless on his back, reminding her of a medieval effigy except for an involuntary twitch now and then. The first time she'd noticed his leg move her heart had pounded, sure that her little boy would open his eyes and grin at her any moment. He'd been weaned off the ventilator and now breathed on his own. The staff even had him sitting in a chair for a period every day. Although Jamie achieved those milestones, Paige had learned not to get her hopes up.

"Jamie, sweetie, wake up. Talk to Mommy."

Time crept by, broken only by the sounds of the hustle-bustle of the hospital's routine. She glanced at her watch. An idea came to her. She picked up the remote and tuned to the correct channel. "Jamie." Paige spoke in a sharp voice. "It's time for Bidwell Bear. Open your eyes, Jamie."

She gazed on her son's face, almost afraid to hope. His long, silky lashes moved the slightest bit, didn't they? At this point she didn't trust her eyes. Well, if he'd really tried to respond, his effort passed.

Leaving the television on, Paige lifted his leg and started on exercises the physical therapist had taught her, keeping time with the show's music. As she worked through the regimen, Bidwell's dulcet voice soothed her tattered nerves. The longer Jamie lay in bed the more his muscle tone deteriorated. The procedure couldn't replace normal use, but the workout was better than nothing.

She finished exercising both legs and started on his left arm. As the days poked along, Paige's anxiety level had soared. The longer Jamie stayed comatose, the more chance there was of brain damage. When he finally woke up, Jamie would face the first of many reconstructive surgeries on the horrendous gash across his cheek. Her insurance coverage was limited. She had to do something more effective than wait.

Jamie's favorite Bidwell song floated down from the wall-mounted television set. Somehow she felt better hearing the catchy tune. If Bidwell's voice helped her, it surely would help his biggest fan. Only nothing seemed to penetrate the fog surrounding Jamie's brain.

But maybe if Bidwell spoke to Jamie himself. Paige placed the control gadget close to her son's ear and turned the volume up higher. Her intense gaze detected a teensy movement of his lashes. She was sure of it! Then the Bidwell theme came on and the show was over for the day.

"Okay, Jamie, you've lazed around long enough. Bidwell's over and it's time to get busy." No response. Her heart cracked further. If anyone could awaken Jamie, Bidwell Bear could.

The tapes! Jamie owned several Bidwell videos. Tomorrow she'd bring them in and play the tapes over and over again.

* * *

Paige rewound the video, then slammed another into the VCR. After hours of Bidwell Bear without a break, she was close to screaming. Her head hurt from the elevated volume. However, she'd been advised that loud was in order. Jamie needed stimulation in extremes.

She turned back to the bed at the same moment Bidwell's theme song played yet again. Watching her son's face... His eyes! They were opened. "Jamie, sweetheart!" she shouted in a shaking voice. "Look at Mommy."

She cupped his chin and turned his precious face toward her. It wasn't her imagination. His blue eyes were open. She gazed into those beautiful eyes for the first time in weeks and realized they were unfocused. He wasn't seeing her. Her fingers covered her mouth and she blinked away tears. "Jamison Wilson Holbrook," she screamed, "look at me when I speak to you."

His lids drifted shut.

Paige slumped in the chair and sobbed, whether from joy or frustration, she didn't know. Had the tapes worked the almost miracle? Obviously they weren't quite enough. She searched her pocket for a tissue and mopped her eyes. Crying only made her head hurt worse.

She dropped her head in her hand, Bidwell's song about being kind to your neighbor washing over her. The lyrics were directed to pre-schoolers, but that voice... Something stirred inside her every time he sang. What would it be like to have that velvet baritone singing just to her?

Her head popped up. That's it. What if she asked, no begged, on her knees if he wanted, the man in the bear suit to make a tape especially for Jamie? You can't ask a busy man like that to take the time to help one fan. Why not? she argued with herself. At this point anything was worth a shot.

All he can do is say no.

Chapter Two

Paige jotted down the deWitt Sunrise Productions number the information operator repeated, unable to believe the company responsible for The Bidwell Bear Show actually carried a listed telephone number. Encouraged by this stroke of luck, she placed her call before she lost her courage.

"You have reached deWitt Sunrise Productions," a computerized voice answered. "Please listen to the menu selections carefully. If you know the extension of the person..." Paige listened to the whole spiel, drumming her fingers on the table top, prepared to punch in the number for the public relations department when she heard it given. Much to her surprise, Hunter Blackwell was listed as a choice. He portrayed Bidwell Bear and was also the creative consultant, according to the show's credits. She punched the number, her finger tense.

"This is Hunter Blackwell. I'm unable to take..."

Paige mentally rehearsed the message she would leave.

"Blackwell speaking," a familiar voice broke into the recording.

She sucked in a deep breath and plunged. "Mr.-Blackwell-you-don't-know-me-my-name-is-Paige-Holbrook-and-I-need-a-favor-my-son's-a-big-Bidwell-fan-he's-in-a-coma."

"Hey, slow down. Take a breath. I'm listening and I won't hang up until you're finished."

Paige heard the almost-laugh in his voice and felt foolish. "Thank you."

"Your son's in a coma. What do you want from me?"

"Jamie seems to respond to Bidwell shows but just can't quite wake up. Could you please make a tape directed especially to him? If he hears Bidwell telling him to wake up, I think it might work. I know it's a lot to ask, but I'm desperate, Mr. Blackwell. P-please."

"What makes you think I can work a miracle, Mrs. Holbrook?"

His courtesy, his calm, soothing voice, eased her nervousness. His questions, rather than a flat out "no" encouraged her. "I've played Bidwell tapes over and over. This afternoon Jamie opened his eyes when your theme came on. But he wasn't awake."

"I see. So you think if Bidwell bids your son to open his eyes, he'll do it."

"I hope. I've heard that kind of thing has worked for others. I'm willing to try anything at this point." Paige heard the quiver in her voice and cringed. She sounded at the end of her rope. Oh, well. At this point she didn't care if Hunter Blackwell thought her frantic. It was the truth. "I'll pay you for your time."

"You don't need to pay me anything. I'm glad to help. Tell me about your son."

The deep concern Bidwell Bear had for children registered before his words sank in. Had he really said he'd help? For free? "You mean you'll do it? At no charge?"

"Sure. That's why you called, isn't it?"

"I can't thank you enough, Mr. Blackwell--"

"It's Hunter. Whenever you say Mr. Blackwell, I look around for my dad."

"All right, Hunter. I'm Paige."

"Is there anything specific I should say to Jamie?"

"Jamie loves it when you do a back flip. Maybe if you tell him to open his eyes and watch you flip, it'll work. The doctors tell me his senses need stimulation in extremes. Make it loud and repetitive."

"Gotcha. What color are his eyes?"

"Blue. Great big sky blue. And most of the time twinkling with excitement and mischief." Much to her chagrin her voice cracked.

"Hang in there, Paige. He's going to get well. I know it."

A lump lodged in her throat.

"I'll make the tape tonight," Hunter went on, "and overnight it to you. Where shall I send it?"

Her name sounded different coming from Hunter Blackwell's mouth. Softer, sweeter somehow. Like he'd reached inside her and caressed her most tender spot. His voice could reduce her to a puddle if she wasn't careful. Heavens, what an absurd thought.

She rattled off the address, trying to sound businesslike. It would never do to come across as breathless as he made her feel. "Thank you so much, Hunter. You have no idea how desperate I am."

"Oh, I do--"

She wondered what he meant but didn't presume to ask.

"I'll get started on the tape right away. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

"What was that all about?"

Paige whirled toward the door. "Oh, Bonnie. I didn't hear you come in. Can you believe it? Bidwell Bear's making a tape especially for Jamie."

"You called Bidwell Bear?" the evening shift nurse asked.

"Yep. Called and begged. Hunter Blackwell--he's the actor who does Bidwell--is the nicest man. He didn't hesitate to say yes. I still can't quite believe it."

"Paige, what did that man say to you? You've got stars in your eyes."

Her fingers flew to her eyelids, and she shook her head. "He said he'd make the tape. That's all. He gave me hope."

"Hope didn't put that dreamy smile on your face, my friend."

Paige sighed. "He has the most gorgeous voice."

"Yes, I know. I've heard him sing. I imagine the whole floor's heard him by now."

"Oh, gosh. I hope I haven't disturbed people."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it." Bonnie's iced tea brown eyes twinkled. "So this bear's voice turns you on."

Heat suffused Paige's cheeks. "I wouldn't say that."

"Paige Holbrook, you're blushing. What did that man say to you?"

"I told you. And I never blush. It's just hot in here."

"Yeah, right!" Bonnie moved to the bed and stuck a newfangled thermometer in Jamie's ear. She wrote down the reading and attached a blood pressure cuff. "Go home, Paige. You've done all you can for today."

Paige picked up the tote she carried every day and stepped to the bed. "See you tomorrow, son."

"Sweet dreams, Paige," Bonnie said and winked.

* * *

"Is Jerry still around?" Hunter hollered out his office door.

"Yo! Whatcha need?"

"A video, PDQ. A handheld camera will do. Can you stay?"

"I gotta date."

"I'll pay you triple time. It shouldn't take too long."

Jerry's eyes sparkled. "Sure. Okay."

"Call your date and explain while I change into the costume."

"What's going on, Hunter?" Monica asked from her office doorway across the hall.

"A little kid needs a special Bidwell tape," Hunter replied over his shoulder on his way to his dressing room.

Monica followed, as he knew she would. "How much are we getting for this tape?"

Hunter sighed. This was an old conflict between Monica and himself. "Not a cent and you know it."

"You're giving the product away again."

"Yes." His answer was terse, but the less said the better. He didn't need another argument with his producer. It had been a long day. He had enough left to accomplish in preparation for his tour to keep him up half the night, even before this project came up.

"I don't like it."

Blast it. Monica was in a griping mood. "I don't care. I have the right to make the tape as long as I do it at my own expense. It's written in my contract."

"You're a soft touch for every bleeding heart out there, Hunter," Monica sneered.

"The little guy's in a coma, Monica. What'm I supposed to do? Ignore his mother's plea? I'm a last resort. No mom would beg a stranger if she wasn't frantic. Besides, it's flattering that she thinks I can help. How could I turn her down?"

Monica plopped on the couch, disgust written on her face. "Ever heard of no? It's a simple word, only two letters. N, O."

"If the tape wakes the kid up, I'll have the satisfaction of knowing I helped. If it doesn't, my conscience will rest easy because I tried."

"Nothing I say'll stop you?"

Hunter ducked behind the screen and donned the cumbersome bear suit for the second time that day. "No. See, I do know the word. Why do you waste your time bugging me? I haven't changed my mind before and I won't now."

"Damn it, Hunter, you can't bring Corey back."

Hunter went to the sink and put the brown contacts into his eyes. "I'll say this one more time. I've seen what sick kids go through. I've experienced the anguish the parents experience. If I can alleviate even a smidgen of their pain, I'm going to do it."

"Do-gooder."

Hunter moved to the make-up table, stifling the urge to shout at her. "That's me. Get out of here, Monica. I need to think about what to do on the tape. Jerry doesn't want this to drag on all night."

"You drive me crazy, Hunter Blackwell."

He shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that. Shut the door on your way out."

The door slammed. He chuckled and applied the rubbery black nose over his own. He'd explained and explained and undoubtedly would again. Monica had never understood. Helping others was just not a concept she grasped. She wouldn't change his mind, now or ever. She tested his patience as much as he strained hers. He had to admit he took perverse pleasure in pulling her chain. At least being ornery kept him from blowing up. Selfishness drove him crazy.

He pulled the bear hood over his head, plopped his hat between the rounded ears and shrugged into the vest. Striding toward the studio, Hunter mentally rehearsed the routine he'd perform.

* * *

Paige plunked the grocery bag on the cluttered kitchen counter and toed off her flats. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her back. Good thing the stores had extensive deli departments or she and her father would starve to death.

"I'm home, Dad."

"It's about time. I'm hungry."

"I picked up fried chicken and macaroni salad."

"You call that dinner?"

"Don't start, Dad. I'm tired." She put away the few items in the bag and started sorting through the haphazard mail pile.

"You wouldn't be tired if you weren't hanging around the hospital all the time."

"Don't, Dad. I mean it. Jamie's more important than anything else right now, and that includes you." Her unusual bluntness in speaking to her father should've pricked her conscience. It didn't. His continued complaints were like an itch she couldn't reach. His fussing had gone beyond annoying. She didn't care how she managed to get him to cease his whining. All she was in the mood to listen to was blessed silence. In the interest of harmony, she'd settle for pleasant conversation.

"I deserve a little consideration from you, Paige. You don't care how I'm doing."

Paige counted to ten, bit her tongue, then continued on to twenty. Taking a slow breath, she willed herself to stay cool. "Wash up while I get the food on the table."

"Don't take that tone with me, young lady. You've no call to talk to me like I was Jamie's age."

Her head jerked in his direction as if yanked by a lasso. Defensive words died on her tongue. Before her stood a lonely, pathetic man. She reminded herself yet again, that he'd lost his wife--truly the other half of himself. He was the epitome of a needy child, doing whatever necessary to get the attention he required.

She eyed the dirty dishes stacked--thrown was more like it--in the sink and opened the dishwasher for clean plates and silverware to set the table. Just once, why couldn't he... Stop. Right now. That kind of thinking only shoots your blood pressure through the roof.

With sudden insight, it occurred to her that by staying here, she enabled him to mope about. He played his weekly golf game and went to church and not much else. Just as she was no longer part of a couple, neither was he. He didn't fit in with his old crowd anymore. He needed to make new friends. There were certainly enough single people in his age group around, especially women. Perhaps she really should find her own place for both their sakes.

Soon, but not now. She couldn't cope with moving until Jamie was well.

"Please, Dad, sit down. Let's eat in peace. I have news."

"What news?" Will's expression of genuine interest warmed her heart. "Did Jamie wake up? Why didn't you say so?"

Paige fetched leftover three-bean salad from the refrigerator and zapped rolls in the microwave. "He hasn't come around yet, but today he opened his eyes just for a minute when Bidwell's theme came on."

"You mean playing those tapes paid off?"

"Not quite." She stared at her plate, pushing a green bean from rim to rim. She raised her head without taking a bite. "I called Bidwell and asked him to make a special tape for Jamie."

Will's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "You what?"

"You heard me. I talked to Bidwell Bear. Actually, I talked to Hunter Blackwell, who plays Bidwell. I told him about Jamie and he's going to help."

"I can't believe you did that." Will gnawed on a drumstick, looking for all the world like his grandson.

"I was scared. But, hey, what's a little fear if it helps Jamie? Hunter was great. Put me at ease and he didn't act like what I asked was in any way an imposition, even though I know darn well it is." Paige leaned forward and gazed into her father's brown eyes. "Dad, please come with me tomorrow. I want you to be there if this works."

Will shook his head. "Hospitals give me the creeps."

"You think I like being there?"

He didn't answer. He ate the last crumb of his dinner and looked around like a woe-be-gone puppy. "I'm still hungry. What's for dessert?"

"If you'll come to the hospital tomorrow afternoon, just while I play the tape, I'll make some brownies now."

"Full of chocolate chips and nuts?"

"Yes."

"You drive a hard bargain, girl."

She grinned. "Yep. When necessary."

* * *

"Is this meeting really necessary?" Monica asked, casting a superior glance at Palmer May, seated in the other guest chair in Hunter's office at the studio. She shook a cigarette from her pack.

"Don't light that in here," Hunter warned. "Seemed simpler to say this just once." With a sudden feeling that what he was about to say betrayed the kids, especially his deceased nephew, Corey, he sank into his desk chair. He'd wrestled with his choice far into the night, coming to the conclusion that he owed himself this precious chance. Shifting to get comfortable, the leather upholstery whispered a protest under his weight. "You both want a decision from me."

Monica pushed the deWitt Sunrise contract across the wide teak desk toward him. "Sign the damn thing so I can have my smoke."

Hunter shoved the contract back to his producer. "Nope. I've decided not--"

"All right." Palmer cheered, his eyes alight.

"Hold it, Palmer. Let me finish." Don't let them see your doubts. Leaning forward, Hunter placed his clasped hands on the desk blotter in front of him. "Cards on the table. I'm tired of the show, Monica. I want a singing career."

Monica wilted like a deflated balloon. "But-but--"

He held up his hand to stop her objection. "This tour's important. I've never performed in front of large crowds before. I don't know if I'll like it or if the audiences will like me."

"'Course, they'll like you, old son. Look how they're eatin' up "Dare to Dream" and it's not your best piece."

"You can't walk out on me, Hunter Blackwell," Monica screeched, "I won't let you." Her shrill voice grated on Hunter's nerves. It was just that attitude that made him long to waltz out of the studio without a backward glance. And yet...

"I need time from both of you. Bear with me, Monica--no pun intended. I'll make my decision in time to hire a new Bidwell before taping begins for next season."

Hunter glanced at Palmer. "Quit gloating, Palmer. I haven't decided for sure to drop the show."

"Dumb bear's gonna kill your career before you get off the ground if you don't drop it, Troy."

"Your advice is duly noted."

"Don't get smart with me, you young whippersnapper. I was in this business before you were born."

"That's right, you old has-been," Monica smirked. "Your ideas and contacts are as old as Hunter, too."

Hunter leaned back and pressed his fingertips into his forehead. Whatever made him think putting Palmer and Monica into the same room would be easier? Both had their own agendas and couldn't care less what was best for him.

"Stop it, both of you," Hunter said, his voice tired. "Monica. Regardless of whether I do Bidwell next season, or you hire someone else, I will provide new songs and new routines. Here's a signed letter of intent to that effect."

The look of relief on her narrow face was almost comical.

Hunter turned to his agent. "Palmer. I want you to hold off setting up anything else for Troy for a bit longer."

"Gotta strike while the iron's hot, old son."

"Yeah, I know. I'm doing the tour. Give me a little breathing space, okay."

Palmer frowned in disgust. "You're committing suicide."

Hunter stood and ambled to the door. "I won't keep you dangling any longer than necessary."

Palmer waddled into the hall. "See that you don't."

Monica paused in front of Hunter, her loaded cigarette holder suspended from her fingertips, as yet unlit. She ran her other hand along his arm and unfolded a coy smile. "We're a team. We click together. It won't be the same if you decide to leave."

Her breathy voice grated as much as her shrill shriek. Monica wanted more than a business relationship with him--had for a long time. He chose to ignore her come-ons. She wouldn't jeopardize the show by making a blatant play for him if he didn't encourage her, and he doggone well wouldn't give her a single reason to think theirs could be anything more than a business relationship. Stunts like this one convinced him it was time to move on.

* * *

Paige would've paced, had the furniture-and-equipment-crowded hospital room allowed that much freedom of movement. Nervous energy built with each passing moment. Her gaze caught the clock. Where was her father? He'd promised! For the zillionth time since she'd signed for the tape this morning, she picked up the cassette and turned it over and over in her hands.

The squeak of rubber soles on polished tile drew her attention to the door. "Hi, Bonnie."

"Is that the video, Paige? The bear really sent it?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense. Did Jamie react?"

Paige set the black plastic rectangle on the bedside cabinet. "I haven't played it yet."

"Why not?"

"I wanted you here. You and Dad."

The nurse crossed the room and gave Paige a big hug. "That's sweet of you. Let's play it now." Bonnie looked around the room. "Where's your dad?"

"I don't know. He said he'd be here by three."

"He's thirty minutes late. Call him."

Paige picked up the cassette again and popped it into the VCR, stalling. Stop being foolish, she chided herself and reached for the phone. Dialing, she waited through three rings before Will answered. "Dad, why aren't you here?"

"Changed my mind."

"You promised." The half empty brownie pan flashed through her mind. "I kept my end of the bargain. You were supposed to be here a long time ago."

Bonnie grabbed the phone from Paige's hand. "You'd better get your bod over here so fast you singe your tail feathers, you old chicken, or I'll send the biggest gorilla I know after you. That's no idle threat either. We're waiting for you."

Paige stood close enough to hear her father sputter. She stepped back and chuckled. Nobody talked to Will Montgomery that way. Nobody.

"Twenty minutes, Mr. Jamie's Grandfather," Bonnie said. "You have twenty minutes." She slammed down the phone. "Can't stand a welsher. What was your part of the bargain anyway?"

"Brownies. Thick, gooey brownies, like my mother made. He's as big a chocoholic as I am."

"You made him brownies and he didn't show? I should sic Toby on him regardless."

Paige dropped into the chair laughing. "I'm almost afraid to ask. Who's Toby?"

"My neighbor. He's a truck driver and as big as a sumo wrestler. Nobody messes with Toby."

"Why would Toby take on my dad?"

"Oh, he's got this thing about needles. He's supposed to give himself his allergy shots, but he can't look at the sharp point poking his arm. Even if he manages to stick himself, he can't stand to push the plunger. So I give him the shots." Bonnie flashed a sheepish grin. "Got myself a devoted slave. I say jump and he says how high."

Paige held her sides, she was laughing so hard. A hulking truck driver at the mercy of a five-foot-zip bundle of determination. Paige couldn't remember the sheer joy of a good belly laugh. Not in a long, long time. It felt good. Darn good. "You're not a redhead for nothing, are you? Poor Dad. I wish I could've seen his face."

Bonnie tossed her cap of carrot-red curls and chuckled, then sobered. "I intend to have a little talk with that father of yours. He's a self-centered so-and-so. He should get himself up here more often."

"He's having a hard time adjusting to living without my mother."

"Paige, that's no excuse for neglecting Jamie and you right now. You need someone to share this crisis."

"I know, but I can't make him. It's not like he doesn't care. He just can't show it in a helpful way."

"Humph. I've got to check on some other patients. I'll be back when old yellow shows."

Twenty minutes later--Paige kept close count--Will Montgomery sauntered into Jamie's room, Bonnie following hot on his heels. Before either Paige or her father had a chance to speak, Bonnie launched. "It's about time you showed your face."

"Now see here--"

She poked him in the chest with her finger. "No, you see here. When you make a deal, it's right and proper to keep it. Now sit down and let's see if we can wake up this little guy."

"Just a darn minute--"

"I've got more to say to you, buster, but first things first. Start the tape, Paige."

Paige hit the play button, her heart in her throat. The Bidwell theme and standard opening come on, then the bear himself bounded onto the screen.

"I bid you good morning, Jamie Holbrook," Bidwell sang, dancing the soft-shoe for which he was noted.

Paige tore her vision from the TV and focused on her darling little boy's face. His sinfully long lashes rested on the lavender circles under his eyes. His silky blood hair, shaggy now from lack of its regular cut, framed his pale face. A livid red welt split his right cheek. The doctors promised to continue the repair process after he woke up.

Would this command performance work? Could Bidwell affect the miracle for which she'd prayed?

"C'mon, Jamie, my friend. Bidwell bids you to open those big blue eyes of yours."

Paige's gaze remained glued to her son's face. She didn't blink. Or breathe.

"Jamie! Hey, Jamie Holbrook! Bidwell's gonna do a back flip."

The sheet covering his small body moved the slightest bit. "Jamie," Paige pleaded, clasping his hand, "open your eyes. Please son! Open your eyes."

"Okay now, Jamie, we're gonna count to ten, then Bidwell will flip. You have to help count. Jamie, open your eyes and watch for the numbers."

Paige shot a fleeting glance at the TV. Bidwell pulled a bright green one from his vest pocket.

"One, Jamie. Did you see the one, Jamie? Open those blue eyes, Jamie, and see the two..."

And so it went, all the way to ten. How could she ever repay the kind man who'd gone to all this trouble for her son?

"Now, Jamie, my friend, this is your favorite part. Bidwell's gonna flip. You open those eyes and watch Bidwell flip."

Her heart lodged in her throat, Paige stared at Jamie's closed lids. Had they twitched? The beat of the music changed to the familiar drum roll that signaled Bidwell's famous back flip. She bit her lip and watched her son.

"You open those eyes, Jamie, and watch Bidwell flip..."

Nothing happened.

Her shoulders drooped. Tears stung her eyes. Her hands shook. She'd pinned all her hopes on this special tape.

And it hadn't worked.

Bonnie caught Paige in a hug, and eased her into a chair. "I think Bidwell's getting through. Grandfather, make yourself useful and rewind the tape. We'll try it again."

Paige drank in several long breaths and closed her eyes, willing herself to calm down. "Give me minute."

Bonnie thrust a glass of water in her hand. "Sip slowly. Easy, girl. Deep breaths. That's right. Ready to try again?"

Paige nodded. She wasn't really sure she could stand the suspense through another round, but what choice did she have? As she'd reminded her father often, Jamie was more important than anything right now.

"Are we ready?" Will asked, his voice strangely subdued.

"Hit it, Grandfather," Bonnie said.

Paige braced herself for the music and picked up her son's small hand. Her thumb stroked the soft skin over his knuckles.

"I bid you good morning, Jamie Holbrook..."

There was no mistaking the rustling of the sheet. "Jamie," Paige whispered, unable to make a louder sound.

"C'mon, Jamie, my friend. Bidwell bids you to open those big blue eyes of yours...Jamie! Hey, Jamie Holbrook! Bidwell's gonna do a back flip...Now Jamie, my friend, this is your favorite part. Bidwell's gonna flip. You open those eyes, Jamie, and watch Bidwell flip..."

Jamie's silky lashes lifted.

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