Lost in thought, Spock lay on his bunk aboard the Enterprise. He did not react when Lauren left her work at his computer and entered the sleeping alcove. As her hand touched his arm he momentarily closed his eyes, shutting out the glaring words on the bedside monitor.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He was not surprised that she sensed his disquiet. "I have received some disturbing news," he said, gesturing toward the view screen, "from both my mother and my aunt on Earth."

Lauren sat on the bunk's edge. They were off-duty and had shed their uniforms in favor of more casual clothing. Lauren's hair hung down her back, golden and wavy. As she eyed the monitor, her eyebrows drew together in a frown.

"It is about T'Beth," Spock told her. The mere mention of his daughter stirred a miasma of emotion—displeasure, embarrassment, but most of all, guilt. The truth was, he had given little thought to T'Beth during the recent mission to Nimbus 3. He had actually been relieved to ship out unexpectedly and miss his daughter's arrival on Earth. In her angry frame of mind she would likely have created an uncomfortable scene at the spaceport.

"Is she in trouble again?" Lauren asked.

Wordlessly Spock tilted the viewer. Lauren read the two messages intently, her expression ranging from shock to concern to puzzlement. "She knifed a schoolmate! But this doesn't make any sense. Your mother makes T'Beth sound like some kind of hoodlum, but your aunt's version is so different—so full of warmth and understanding."

"Perhaps more than the child deserves," Spock remarked. Pushing the viewer aside, he stood and did what he could to center himself in the cool, immutable logic of Vulcan. "It is fortunate that she was not arrested, but T'Beth must learn to control herself, even in difficult circumstances."

"Yes, of course. But if the other girls attacked her…"

"It is unlikely they would have attacked her without some provocation."

Lauren just stared at him.

"Consider this. T'Beth has admitted to smuggling the dagger out of Vulcan. What need has an innocent girl for such a weapon? And remember, she is a convicted vandal."

Lauren sighed. "She's still hurt about the council's sentence. She hasn't talked to you since they locked her up, has she?"

"No." Spock sat down beside her. "Before I last left Vulcan, my father and I had a rather…intense exchange. He voiced certain harsh opinions regarding T'Beth, and I came to her defense. I went so far as to accuse Sarek of letting emotion cloud his judgment—that he was allowing his feelings about Sybok to affect the way he saw T'Beth. For the first time in decades I spoke Sybok's name aloud, even though he was ktorr skann—an outcast. But I believe what I said was true. In T'Beth, my father sees a reincarnation of his elder son—the lawless one, the renegade. I could not accept that judgment. Somehow, I still cannot." Quietly he added, "Perhaps my father's assessment of me was correct. Perhaps I am a fool."

"No." Lauren put her arm around him. "You're not a fool for wanting to believe in T'Beth. A good parent never gives up on his child."

But Spock did not feel like a good parent. His Vulcan upbringing had left him ill equipped to be both father and mother to an unruly half-grown daughter. He did not know what he was going to do about T'Beth. When the Enterprise reached Earth, he would have to confront her. He would have to evaluate the situation for himself and deal with her accordingly. And when it was all over…

Spock turned and looked at Lauren. There was a matter between him and this singular woman that also had to be confronted. He was no longer the uncertain, wounded creature he had been after Genesis and his subsequent captivity among the Klingons. He had shaken off the paralyzing fear and anger. He had resumed his rightful place in life. And now that he had found someone to share that life, he wanted to share everything with her, always—the private moments as well as the public, the mundane as well as the lofty—to spend all their days together and awaken in the night to find her sleeping at his side.

He knew that she wanted the same. There was a powerful yearning between them when they were near like this. She, too, longed for the consummation of a marriage bond. But did she understand all that such a commitment would entail? Not only regarding him, but also his daughter? Those were the questions he had never put to her, a corner of her thoughts he had never dared explore. What would be her response? Spock searched Lauren's eyes and wondered.

oooo

It was another warm, wonderful day free of the ocean fog that clung all too often to the coastal hills. T'Beth was glad school was out for the year. She had spent the morning hiking with Kevin Morrow along the rim of the canyon near her aunt's house. A light breeze carried the sweet scent of flowers as they retraced their way south, shoes scuffling along the path of their earlier explorations. Though they had stopped for a snack only an hour before, the exercise sharpened their youthful appetites.

Pausing, Morrow swung his daypack from his shoulder and rummaged around inside. His dark face scowled as he pulled out the crumbled remains of their last muffin. "Darn! It's all smashed."

T'Beth laughed at him as he licked the crumbs from his less-than-clean fingers. "Come on, we're almost there. You can make it."

As they crested the ridge, the roof of Aunt Doris' rustic house peeked at them through the treetops. T'Beth let out a whoop and ran, Morrow hard on her heels. A couple of minutes later they burst into Doris' yard, flushed and out of breath.

T'Beth froze in her tracks. A strange skimmer was parked beside Morrow's groundcar. She could make out the shape of the Starfleet logo on its side window.

Morrow stopped and stared at her. "What is it? What's the matter?"

T'Beth fought to catch her breath. No! It couldn't be him! Not yet. The Enterprise wasn't due in until tomorrow—and even if it had docked early, it wasn't likely the second-in-command could immediately break away, especially one so dedicated as Commander Spock. Everyone was always talking about his wonderful dedication, how his work was so very important, so much more important than the other, more personal aspects of his life.

"T'Beth." Morrow's brown eyes studied her.

Though her heart was hammering, she shrugged. "It's nothing. Come on. Let's go inside."

They entered through the kitchen door. The house was very still. With a sense of foreboding T'Beth poured two glasses of water and handed one to Morrow. Her hand trembled as she drank. No one's here, she told herself. Probably some friend of her aunt had stopped by and they'd gone out together in Doris' groundcar.

Screwing up her courage, she headed into the living room and stopped short, her eyes fixed on the sofa. A man in a Starfleet uniform rose and turned toward her. She had grown since she last saw him, so he did not seem as tall as she remembered. But his demeanor was far more imposing than in the days following fal-tor-pan, when he was struggling to regain himself. His dark, purposeful eyes seemed to penetrate her insides.

Beside her, Morrow let out a little gasp of recognition. "Oh! Hello, sir," he stammered nervously. "It…it's really an honor to meet you." Spock stared the awed youth into silence. Morrow shifted uneasily. Edging back toward the kitchen, he mumbled, "Well, I…I guess I better go now…"

The first wave of shock was subsiding. T'Beth's hands clenched. "No," she loudly declared, looking daggers at her father. "I see no reason for you to leave, Kevin." She had never called Morrow by his first name before, but she needed to throw that bit of familiarity in her father's face. See? I have a friend. I have a life of my own. I'm doing just fine without you. "Kevin?"

"I'll call you later," he said, and walked out the door.

T'Beth felt like kicking him, like kicking everyone who had ever let her down, and most of all her father. Choking on unshed tears, she demanded, "Why did you have to do that? Do you have any idea who Kevin is?"

"His father was formerly Chief of Starfleet Operations," Spock said levelly. "Now sit down."

Rage boiled up inside her. "No! I don't have to. I'm never doing anything you say a—"

Striding forward, Spock caught her by the shoulder and unceremoniously shoved her into a chair. The abrupt maneuver left T'Beth temporarily speechless. It had been a long time since she had seen him this angry. Her father loomed over her, waiting for her to get up or say one word, just one insolent word more. She decided against it. In stiff, rebellious silence she watched him reach inside his jacket. He drew out a jade-handled dagger—the very dagger recently confiscated from T'Beth at school. Unhurriedly Spock slid the glittering blade from its sheath, examined it, and settled the weapon back into its protective covering. Then he looked at T'Beth.

Holding up the dagger, he said, "Explain this."

There was a moment of terrible quiet.

"I see," he remarked in an icy tone. "Then I must take your silence as an admission of guilt and punish you accordingly."

T'Beth felt as if a cold hand squeezed her insides. Swallowing hard she said, "What are you going to do, lock me up like the Vulcan council? Solitary confinement? Go ahead, shut me in a closet!"

Coolly returning the knife to his jacket, he walked over to a living room window and gazed out. "I will admit that I am tempted to do exactly that," he said in a voice that suddenly sounded tired. He turned and caught her looking at him. Her face went red. "Initially I thought the sentence meted out by the Vulcan elders was unduly harsh, but I am no longer certain…"

T'Beth's fingers dug into the arms of her chair and she leaped up. "You knew what they would do, but you sent me back to the council anyway! I trusted you and you let them—" Her voice broke. She bit down hard on her lip, but still the tears came, a humiliating flood that wet her burning face. Running to the front door, she slammed it behind her and fled outside.

Halfway up the ridge she stopped and sank down at the base of a big oak tree. The rough bark scraped her as she leaned against it, pressing her fists to her eyes. Why did he always do this to her? Why did she let him? God, she hated the man! It would have been better if she'd never met him, if she'd gone straight to that orphanage on Ildarani after her grandmother died. At least there she could have gone on imagining a father who really loved her.

After a while her tears dried. Stretching out on the grassy slope, she gazed up through the branches of the tree. Birds played among the gray-green leaves. She envied their simple, uncomplicated lives. She envied the wings on which they could fly away on a moment's whim.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke into her daydream. Her stomach went leaden and she covered her eyes with her arm. Higher and higher up the slope he came, until he stopped so near that his dusty boots almost touched her leg.

"Look at me," he demanded, "and listen to what I have to say."

Reluctantly T'Beth moved her arm off her face, but she refused to look at him.

"We will discuss this," he said, standing over her. "Without communication there can be no understanding. Without understanding there can be no trust."

"You broke my trust," she accused in a less than steady voice. "You knew what they would do to me. You knew."

"No," he denied. "I did not know."

Rising into a sitting position, she glared at him. "Sarek said you'd studied Vulcan law during your re-education."

"Not in great depth. I was aware of meditative confinement, but only as a rehabilitative measure for full-blooded Vulcans. I did not believe the elders would resort to such a sentence in your case."

"Well," T'Beth said with bitterness, "I guess they figured I'm Vulcan enough. You can't imagine what it was like. Fifty excruciating days in that rotten little cell—it seemed more like fifty years." Catching the skeptical look in her father's eyes, she added, "Oh, I know. I should have been glad my jailers weren't Klingons. I should have just relaxed and enjoyed all the wonderful 'quietude'. You don't get it and you never will. I'm not like you. I'm not Vulcan."

"You are one quarter Vulcan," Spock corrected with his usual maddening precision, " and regardless of your lineage, you did in fact commit a crime. As for the conditions of your confinement, I am truly sorry that you did not find the company more pleasant."

She frowned at him. "Company? What company?"

"Yourself."

T'Beth stared at the ground in resentful silence. At last she said, "I suppose you told Jim all about it."

"The captain does not know," Spock answered, much to her relief. "Nor does he know about this." Reaching into his jacket, he drew out her dagger for the second time. T'Beth found her gaze drawn to the deadly masterpiece of Vulcan jade and steel as he slowly turned it in his hands. She wanted to snatch it away from him. The knife belonged to her.

"Golheni," he identified correctly. He was always correct. "Second Era. How did you acquire this?"

"It was a gift," she replied, "from a friend."

"A fine gift," he said. "Why didn't you show it to your grandparents?"

T'Beth made no reply.

"Could it be that you knew it was wrong to accept such a gift? And knowing this, you nevertheless concealed it aboard the starliner and brought it into your aunt's home, and even to school."

"You already know all the answers," she said, sullen-faced.

"I want to hear them from you."

T'Beth sighed. "Didn't Grandmother tell you? The school decided that it wasn't my fault. I only used the dagger in self-defense."

"Did you not first attack them on an earlier occasion?"

"Not with the knife. They were harassing me—talking about you—saying things. Ugly things. I couldn't stand it." Father seemed so disapproving that T'Beth's anger heated. "I should have known! You wouldn't take my side, even if I were lying dead in the street. I suppose I should have just let them kill me, then maybe you'd be happy!"

Ignoring the outburst, he said, "I understand you have apologized to the Helvan girl and her parents."

She scowled at the memory. "Gram made me. But I don't think it was very fair. Zorlaa's the one who was expelled, not me."

"Consider yourself fortunate that you were not deported. Using that dagger was wrong," he admonished her, "whatever the provocation, no matter how frustrated or angry or ashamed you felt. It is time you learn to take responsibility for your behavior and not blame someone else, or something else—such as an emotion—however valid that emotion might be."

"If you say so," she mumbled, hoping that would be the end of it. What did he know about emotions, anyway?

But it was not end. After a moment her father spoke in a strange, quiet voice. "I am going to tell you something you might find difficult to believe. As a boy, I also experienced the taunts of my peers. I also knew frustration…and anger."

"And let me guess," she put in. "You were the perfect little Vulcan. You never lost control."

He slowly shook his head. "To the contrary. I reacted most violently. I used my fists…or anything else at hand."

T'Beth gaped at him. She could not imagine her proper father so completely out of control. Was it true? Could it be that deep down inside he actually understood some of the dark forces driving her? That once upon a time he, too, had dealt with them?

He went on. "Perhaps it is a flaw we both share…but if I overcame a violent tendency, so can you. It grieves me, T'Beth, to see you constantly retreating into the role of a victim. It is true that you are undisciplined, but you are essentially strong. With effort you can use that inner strength to improve your character. You cannot always control what happens to you—no one can. But you can learn to manage your reaction to it—to respond with intelligence and dignity, and seek help when you need it."

"If you were here," she said, "I might have asked for your help. But you weren't—so I handled it on my own."

"No," Father said, "I cannot accept that. You were not left here alone. You had your grandmother and your aunt. And there were also the school psychologist, the principal, and your instructors."

T'Beth glowered at the dirt. "Okay, it was all my fault. That's what you want me to say, isn't it? I'm sorry. I'll try not to knife anyone again." Drawing up her legs, she folded herself into a tight impenetrable knot. "You haven't even mentioned my grades. I guess it doesn't matter that I made the honor roll. After all, it's only an Earth school—right?"

There was an aching moment of silence, and then Spock said, "I am pleased with your academic performance. It is…unfortunate…that your behavior compels me to punish you."

Her eyes flamed at him. "So now what? A spanking?"

That made his eyebrow climb and for an uneasy moment she wondered if he was actually considering her suggestion. It was not the first time she had dared him. Then, plainly out of patience, he said, "Is that what the hell you want?"

She felt her face reddening. She had never before heard him use even a mild profanity, and for some reason it embarrassed her. "You know what I really want?" she shot back. "I just want you to go back to your ship and leave me alone."

Spock put the sheathed dagger under his coat and let out a slow breath. "It will please you to know that I am returning to the Enterprise, but only temporarily. I will be back and be assured, you will be punished. For Jim's sake you can go camping at Yosemite, but you are not going anywhere else, nor having any visitors, until I decide what to do about this."

T'Beth jumped to her feet. "You're grounding me? What about Kevin? Can't he come over?"

"No. He cannot." He stopped and considered for a moment. "Tell me. How well do you know that boy?"

"He's my friend," she answered defensively. "Why are you asking? What difference does it make?"

"He is the one," Spock said, "who spoke to the principal on your behalf."

T'Beth was wondering where this might lead when the realization struck. "Oh. I get it. I know what you're thinking."

Spock's expression was guarded.

"Yeah." A short, humorless laugh escaped her. "I've always wondered when you would bring it up. My tainted Sydok blood. You think it's happened, don't you? You think I've bewitched him just like my mother did to you. That maybe Kevin even lied to help get me out of trouble?"

A strange sick look came over her father's face. She could almost see his mind struggling to put all the pieces together. How could it be? The only one who knew was…McCoy? But McCoy wouldn't tell. No, not the good doctor McCoy.

All at once T'Beth regretted opening her mouth, but it was too late. She had lost her temper and now McCoy would pay. Her chest grew heavy, her throat tightened, but the words still found their way out. "Yeah, I know. I've known about it for years. You think I'm going to be just like her, just like Mother. That's why you don't trust me. That's why you don't even want me around."

The hillside was so still. Why didn't Father say something? Why did he just stand there, staring, as if he had never really seen her before?

"That is not true," he denied, but it seemed to T'Beth that his remark lacked conviction.

She waited for him to say something more, anything more—to rebuke her or continue to defend himself or even defend her mother. Her mind cried, Can't you see I'm afraid? What does it all mean? Am I really turning into a Sy-jeera?

Wordlessly he turned away from her and walked back down the slope.

oooo

It was a less than jovial group that set up camp at Yosemite Park. McCoy, the self-appointed cook, still smarted from a recent confrontation with Spock. How dare the Vulcan chide him for telling T'Beth the truth! In McCoy's opinion, it was probably the only thing that had kept Spock's relationship with his daughter going this long—not that Spock had tried very damn hard to be a father. McCoy had at least given them some shred of understanding to build on. At least T'Beth knew why Spock had abandoned her during those early years, that it wasn't so much about her, but because of her grandmother's lies. But this time there'd been no reasoning with the stubborn Vulcan. What had happened to the rapport that had grown between him and Spock since fal-tor-pan? Muttering, McCoy banged the pots and pans as he unpacked by the fire pit. Wasn't this just peachy! The cold shoulder from Spock, and Lord-only-knew what macho scheme Jim was dreaming up to break his fool neck this time.

Lauren could not help noticing that McCoy was out of sorts. Uneasy with the situation, she put down her gear next to Spock's. T'Beth gave her a chilly look and made a show of dumping her pack and sleeping bag on the opposite side of the clearing. Obviously the girl resented her presence, but what was McCoy's problem? Lauren wondered if coming here was such a good idea. But she had missed out on the last trip and been so glad when Spock invited her this time. At least she was sure that he wanted her along.

Kirk was acutely aware of everything going on around him—the glances, the glares, the strange undercurrents of tension that drifted through the campsite. What the hell was it all about? This was supposed to be relaxing and fun. Tossing aside his gear, he raised his arms as if to embrace the warm, pine-scented air and said, "Mm, just smell that! Great to be back, isn't it?"

There was dead silence except for McCoy who at least mumbled something, even if Kirk couldn't quite make it out. He turned to the doctor. "Don't worry, Bones. I'll be a good boy this time. No white water. No falling off mountainsides. In fact…" he bent to rummage through his equipment bag, "I hope you brought a nice big skillet, 'cause I'm going fishing."

T'Beth's face lit up. "Fishing? Can I go, too?"

"Sure. I can get you a license right now." Kirk turned to consult his wrist phone, and then hesitated, his enthusiasm fading a bit. "That is, unless your father isn't comfortable with the idea…"

Whatever Spock thought about impaling living creatures on sharp little hooks, he kept it to himself. Looking only mildly disapproving, he said, "If that is what T'Beth wants, she may go."

T'Beth hurried Kirk to the river before her father could change his mind.

oooo

Spock and Lauren set out together for Ribbon Falls. Even with the occasional assistance of Spock's jet boots, it turned out to be a long trek, but well worth the effort. The view was spectacular from their vantage point near the base of the falls. From a height of 1,612 feet the torrent of water thundered downward in a narrow plume, enveloping them in cool, swirling clouds of mist. For a long time they sat side by side, watching in silence.

At last Lauren said, "I bet there's nothing like this on Vulcan."

"No," Spock replied, "there is not."

Lauren kept her eyes on the falls. "Too bad T'Beth didn't come, but that was nice of you to let her go fishing. I…I only wish she liked me half as much as she likes Jim."

Spock turned and looked at her. She wore a red plaid shirt rolled to the elbows and a faded pair of jeans that perfectly suited her slim figure. Particles of mist clung to her golden hair and long eyelashes. She was so lovely that he could not fathom T'Beth's resentment of her. "I apologize," he said, "for her coldness toward you. Be assured, I will speak to her about it."

She shrugged. "Well, Spock, you have to expect it."

Startled, he said, "I expect civil behavior."

Her lips moved into a crooked smile. "She's jealous, don't you see? I'm stealing your attention—the attention that belongs to her."

Spock disagreed. "To the contrary, Lauren. She does not seem to want any of my attention. She could have come here with me, but she decided against it."

"With you, Spock? No. She chose not to come with us."

Spock gazed up at the churning water of the falls. "I don't think it would have made any difference if I were alone. These days our relationship consists only of confrontations."

"Well, at least she's talking again." Lauren scooted closer and put an arm around his waist. The pressure of her body felt very pleasant as she told him, "My grandmother had a saying—'This, too, shall pass'. T'Beth will get older. She'll grow in maturity and understanding. Meanwhile, you just have to do your best with her and live your own life."

Spock inwardly sighed. Since Genesis he had found it necessary to redefine his life and its goals many times over. He knew firsthand the impermanence of physical existence, and the recent death of his brother had driven it home in a painfully fresh way. Of one thing he was unshakably certain. He was no longer satisfied with the solitary life he had lived for so many years. He wanted more.

Lauren's arm tightened around him, and his blood stirred. Now was a favorable moment. After five years, he would voice the carefully prepared words that would change their relationship for all time. The sun was sinking fast behind the mountains, the shadows lengthening. Turning, he looked long and deep into the astonishing beauty of her eyes. The words ached inside him. He opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he kissed her. Then he said, "It is time to go."

oooo

Light danced over the bubbling surface of the Merced River. His eyes on a riffle, Kirk rhythmically flicked his fishing pole back and forth, letting the fly sail out on its line to touch the water again and again. The fishing had been poor—just two small trout for the day's effort—but he had enjoyed himself too much to care. Reeling in his line, he walked downriver to T'Beth. There the girl squatted, picking intently at the tangled mess hanging from her reel.

"Come here," he said.

With a sigh T'Beth set down her rod and joined him at the river's edge. Jim gave her his pole and came up from behind to guide her movements. Strange, how quiet the girl had been today. He wondered if Spock had told her about the death of her uncle, Sybok. Or maybe it was something else. It was rumored at Starbase that there'd been some sort of trouble at T'Beth's school. He didn't know how to bring it up, or even if he should. He didn't want to chance spoiling their day together.

Looking into T'Beth's face, he smiled. She smiled back, her cheek nearly brushing his, her hazel eyes solemn beneath thick lashes. She had grown tall. Every time he saw her, she looked prettier. A day in the outdoors had brought a healthy glow to her complexion. The cool river breeze stirred the dark wisps of hair too short for her braid. Pulling his eyes away, he concentrated on fishing.

"Jim," she said low. "What would you do if you'd said something…some things that probably hurt someone…and maybe you're sorry, but you can't seem to say it because…because the person just keeps making you so mad."

Kirk stepped away and let her cast on her own. "Well…that's a hard one, kiddo. But I suppose you could tell the person exactly how you feel—calmly, like you did just now. And then listen to what they have to say, too. Everyone needs to be heard. Everyone has feelings." At the dubious glance T'Beth gave him, he ventured to add, "Yes—even your father."

T'Beth stopped fishing and faced him, her eyes narrowed. "What makes you think I'm talking about him?"

Kirk sat down on the grassy bank and gazed out across the river. "Okay, then. We'll pretend it's someone else."

T'Beth dropped the pole on the ground. Reaching down, she ripped up a handful of grass and threw it on him, a hint of mean-spiritedness lurking behind her playful façade. Oh yes, she was angry. At him? Maybe. But Kirk knew it was more than that. Brushing away the grass, he said, "You better mind your manners, young lady."

"Or what?" she challenged.

"Or I'll eat all that trout myself."

She laughed. "All two bites. Those are the puniest fish I've even seen."

"You're just envious because I caught them."

"No," she said seriously. "At least not much. It was fun just trying."

Lying back, Kirk closed his eyes and let the sound of the river lull him. He was very relaxed when something touched his hair. His eyes snapped open. T'Beth was so near that he could feel her breath on his face.

"There's grass," she said innocently, "in your hair."

He sat up and swiped at his hair with his fingers, much to T'Beth's amusement. Plopping down at his feet, she looked at him with a wistful expression.

"Tell me something," she said. "Do you like Lauren Fielding?"

"Well, yes," Kirk answered, wondering where the girl might be headed with this. "Lauren's a nice woman. Why?"

T'Beth hesitated. "Father likes her. It was his idea for her to come camping, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Kirk recalled his own surprise at the Vulcan's request. "I guess they're getting along pretty well these days."

T'Beth toyed with a little rip on the knee of her jeans. "How well? I mean…do you think Father is…do you think he's…"

Kirk felt a ripple of embarrassment. McCoy had mentioned seeing Spock and Lauren in some kind of mental joining, but Kirk was not about to tell his daughter. He said, "You probably know more about their relationship than I do. Spock doesn't talk to me about Lauren. He never has."

"Oh." She frowned. "I don't like the way he looks at her."

Kirk had to laugh. "Yes—the look. I think I know what you mean. But T'Beth," he added seriously, "that's between your father and Lauren. It doesn't have anything to do with his feelings for you."

T'Beth made a derisive sound. "What feelings!"

Kirk shook his head. "You know darn well 'what feelings'. You're his daughter—his own flesh and blood. I could tell you what David meant to me—" But he broke off suddenly. This had gotten more serious than he intended. There were tears in T'Beth's eyes.

Abruptly he tore away some grass and tossed it at her. "Payback time!" Her mouth opened wide in astonishment. Her arm swung and dirt pelted him. "Okay," he said, "you're really going to pay for that!"

With a devilish glint Kirk lunged to his feet and chased her up the riverbank, into the trees where they played a game of cat and mouse for a couple of minutes. She was too fast for him, but he knew how to throw an opponent off-guard. Dashing after her, he let out a fake yelp and pretended to stumble. He was bent over, examining his ankle, when T'Beth drifted within reach. The concern on her face changed to shock as his hands closed on her. She screamed and tried to yank free, but the desperate maneuver only threw them both off balance. They tumbled, laughing, to the ground.

"You cheated!" she cried, her face flushed.

"Did not." Kirk tightened his grip and straddled her. "Okay kiddo, you're in for it now!" With his free hand he began to tickle her.

"No!" she protested, giggling and squirming under him.

Suddenly Kirk became very aware of her body touching his. He stopped the tickling and loosened his grip on her arms. His smile faded. As he gazed down at her, she brought up her hands and touched his neck gently. The warmth of her fingers brought an odd shiver, and the air seemed to hum. As if in a dream he found himself drawn closer, closer to a sweet mysterious light shining deep in her eyes. Somehow their lips touched. Lightly, at first, a mere tease of moist velvet. Then their lips met once more and he answered her hungry mouth with a deep, unfatherly kiss.

But what the hell was he doing? Kirk abruptly pulled back. Moist-eyed, T'Beth stared up at him, the fingers of one hand pressed to her trembling mouth. My God, what had he done? Fighting a whirlwind of emotion, he somehow staggered to his feet, but there was no time to think—to do—to say anything.

A few yards away the brush swayed and McCoy came into view. "There you are," he said with a glower.

Kirk blushed to the roots of his hair, but he forced out a wry smile. "Checking up on me, Bones?"

"Someone better," McCoy grumbled.

T'Beth rose from the ground, mumbled something about going back to camp, and promptly left the scene. Kirk wished he could disappear that easily—wished he could make the whole day disappear—but he had to retrieve his fishing gear from the riverbank. McCoy followed along, ominously silent. Maybe, Kirk hoped, it was just a guilty imagination making the doctor seem angry and accusing. Maybe McCoy hadn't really seen anything. After all, Bones had been out of sorts earlier. Maybe he was still in a bad mood.

They were halfway back to camp before McCoy spoke again. "Jim," he said, "you're playing with fire."

The damning flush returned to Kirk's face. Doing his best to collect himself, he gave a little laugh and kept moving. "Bones—what are talking about?"

McCoy shook his head. "She's sixteen, Jim. Sixteen. Aside from that, she's Spock's daughter—remember? And you know as well as any of us how vulnerable she must be when it come to…to that sort of thing."

Kirk stopped and shifted his carrying bag to his other shoulder. His eyes narrowed at the doctor. "I'll say it again. What the hell are you talking about?"

McCoy stared at him for a long moment. "Maybe it's not your fault—at least not completely. Jim, there are things about her you don't know."

"Things? What things?'

McCoy went silent.

"Come on," Kirk pressed. "You started it—now finish it."

"Never mind," McCoy said, strangely subdued. "I'm probably wrong. I probably didn't see what I thought I saw. I hope to God I didn't." Turning away, he left Kirk and hurried up the trail.