Breakfast the next morning was typical for the Sloan household, or so the Sloan men anticipated before discovering a small cyclone in the kitchen. "What the hell?--" Steve muttered, half out loud, gazing at the scene with amazement.

Randy turned from the counter where she had been conjuring up something which smelled indescribably appetizing. "Out! Both of you!" she commanded, shooing them with those small hands. "Go sit and enjoy the morning air -- coffee and juice are already out there, and breakfast's almost ready." Bemused, Steve watched her neatly circumvent his father's attempt to sneak around her to inspect her creation, easily deflecting him towards the door to the deck, and decided he was less likely to get hurt if he simply did as he was told. "I'm going, I'm going, don't hit me," he grinned at her, and limped out to join his father.

The reality of breakfast fully met the promise of its aromas. Stuffed, Mark put his napkin down and leaned back, smiling at their guest. "Randy, that was delicious. Thank you."

"Second," mumbled Steve, mouth full of the best Western omelet he had ever tasted. "I'll hire you at Bob's any day."

Randy patted his hand. "Thank you for the compliment, Steve, but I'm afraid you can't afford me."

"Huh?" Steve swallowed his mouthful and looked up to see what he privately considered the "Randy Wolfe diploma announcement" look. "Let me guess. Muckety-muck cooking school, class of ?"

"Actually," Randy replied, "American Culinary Institute, California and Louisiana Culinary Institutes, over a few years, and a stint at the Cordon Bleu before I took the cruise ship job." She gave the startled men a bland look. "I like to cook."

After an astonished silence, Mark broke into delighted laughter. "That does it. Pretty, smart, talented, and now an incredible cook -- if you don't snap her up, Steve, I swear I will!"

Randy watched the color seeping up Steve's neck and took pity on him. "I'm sure we can work something out," she said kindly. "More coffee, anyone?" she asked, and burst out laughing as Steve hastily reached for the pot before she could pick it up.

"All right," Mark said a few minutes later, fortified with a fresh cup of coffee. "What's your plan of attack, Steve?"

Cradling his mug in his hands, inhaling the aroma appreciatively, Steve organized his thoughts, swiftly switching from pleasant flirting to critical analysis. "I gave this some thought last night," he replied. "You enjoy messing around on the Internet, so why don't you see what you can find out about who or what owns an interest in this operation?"

Mark nodded. "Corporate info, other interests, all that," he agreed. "Real estate transactions..." his voice trailed off while he pondered.

Randy gave Steve an inquiring look. "And you?" she asked.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I'm debating whether to call my partner, Cheryl, and ask her if she'd be willing to pay the ranch an official type of visit. If something fishy is going on, I don't know that I want to alert them unnecessarily to any kind of investigation." He doodled absently on the placemat with a fingernail, searching for the best way to tell Randy where his thoughts were leading him.

Mark looked hard at his son, sensing Steve's unease. "What is it, son?" he asked quietly.

Steve reached over to take Randy's hand, running his thumb gently over her fingertips. "I think," he said carefully, as tactfully as possible, "I'd also better check official police reports for the last month or so." As her eyes widened, he added gently, "I'm sorry, Randy, but I have a bad feeling about this."

"What do you mean?"

He didn't want to look into those same eyes he had been mooning over the night before. Watching him, Randy realized he was mentally somewhere he didn't want to be, and she was going to have to join him there if their discussion was going to get anywhere. "Steve?" she encouraged, but he continued to avoid her gaze, until she felt an uncharacteristically strong wave of irritation ripple through her. "Steve Sloan," she warned, "spit it out before this pot of coffee ends up in your lap!"

Despite his worry about his son, Mark let out a crack of amusement, startling Steve from his distraction. "What?" the latter demanded aggrievedly.

"Son," Mark said gently, "You need to tell us what you're thinking."

Steve scrubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay. I can't wrap this in cotton wool, Randy. I don't think your sister's still alive."

She swallowed, hard, but kept her calm. "Why?"

"That place has had some disturbing press in the last year or so," he started to explain, but Randy interrupted him. "Wait a minute! You hadn't even heard of it yesterday!"

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I -- woke up last night and couldn't get back to sleep --"

It was Mark's turn to interrupt. Frowning at his son, he asked with concern, "Nightmares again? I thought you were going to take the pills I gave you --" His voice trailed off as his son's squirmy look altered abruptly, eyebrows slamming down into a deep vee of annoyance. "Dad, I --"

Mark shook his head angrily, glaring back at his son. "You didn't even try to go to sleep, did you?" he charged.

"Dad --"

"Look, Steve, I can't wave a magic wand and make your knee better!" Mark was in full swing now, oblivious to Randy's presence, concentrating on his exasperating eldest-born, aching to knock some sense into that obstinate skull. "You have got to recognize your body can't keep fighting itself while you prance about pretending the injury doesn't exist!"

"Dad, I --" Steve's voice had risen to match his father's, but he might as well have tried to stop a runaway express train by standing in front of it. "I really wish, just once, you'd humor me if nothing else," Mark stormed, "and do as I damn well tell you!"

Randy couldn't take it anymore. "Mark, don't you think you're being a little harsh?" she asked, setting off another torrent of snarling between the Sloan men, Mark gloriously furious, Steve glowering and trying to get a word in edgewise, and her exasperated scolding all contributing to an incredible cacophony of argument. Finally, totally out of patience, Steve slammed both fists on the table and, to the accompaniment of rattling crockery, yelled, "Dad! Would you please listen? I was on the Internet!"

Mouth open in readiness to deliver another blistering comment about his son's hard head and lack of filial responsibility to an aging, worried father, the elder Sloan stopped in mid-inhalation, promptly breaking into a fit of coughing as the air went the wrong way. Randy patted him on the back. After catching his breath, Mark eyed his son with a certain wariness and demanded, "You were on the Internet? You actually touched the computer?"

Randy watched with regret as Steve made a visible effort to calm down. She had to admit that he was absolutely magnificent when he was angry, those eyes blazing blue fury and his color high. She shook herself mentally at her purple prose, and gazed at the two men with fascination.

Aware that his audience was waiting, Steve complained, half-joking, "You don't have to make an issue of it," which spurred an unfortunate reaction from his father. "The computer or your health?" Mark inquired, voice dripping with sarcasm, still stung by his son's lack of receptiveness to his lecture.

Steve crossed his eyes and counted to ten. Then, hoping he had succeeded in regaining control of himself, he said mildly, "Either one, Dad. I really am trying to take care of myself. I just was too edgy to sleep, and I figured I'd do something constructive."

Mark opened his mouth to retort and shut it again hurriedly as Randy scowled at him and reached for the coffee pot. Steve ignored the byplay, worrying at the placemat with his finger again. "Anyway, if we're all through digressing, there were several stories in the newspaper archives which were -- unsettling."

He had their undivided attention now. "In addition to the sort of yellow journalism you might expect about this type of mystic crap and the mass marriages, they've attracted attention over several nasty lawsuits." He looked up, brow creased. "These weren't your garden variety cult-related cases, either; an excessive number of them involved allegations of criminal mischief, particularly in the disappearances of three men and two women, no apparent connection between them, over the course of several months." Steve hunched his shoulders as if he were suddenly cold. "They had one of those video -- streamers? -- of Aubrey Wyler, the guy in charge; shades of Jones, Manson, all those nuts, except this fellow had the deadest eyes I've ever seen." He took a deep breath, shook himself, and this time did meet Randy's eyes, hating what he had to say next. "I'm sorry, Randy. I don't think we can expect anything but the worst as far as Ariel's concerned. And," he added hastily, seeing that look in her eyes which meant her brain was cooking up something which was going to be scary as hell, "please, please, please promise me you won't go waltzing in there brandishing whichever diploma claiming to be qualified to do God-knows-what in order to find out what happened!"

Randy gazed at him appreciatively. Intensity was almost as irresistibly attractive on him as rage; maybe more so, she decided, noting the worry in his blue eyes. "All right," she agreed equably.

"And don't think I don't mean -- what?" asked a flustered Steve, certain she had planned to give him a hard time.

"No, Steve, don't worry. I won't -- we will," pronounced the infuriating woman as she scooped up the breakfast dishes and sailed off into the kitchen with them. Irritated, Steve reached for his cane, but was stopped by his father's hand on his arm. "Leave her be for now, son," Mark advised kindly. "She'll need some time to think that idea through, by which time we should be able to calmly and rationally talk her out of it."

Steve stared at the man who had been shouting and waving his arms like a lunatic only minutes before. "Calmly and rationally?" he inquired, trying and failing to keep the grin from sidling out.

Unable to resist his son's smile, Mark responded with one of his own. "Yep, ice-cool, that's us!" They both laughed, then Steve said soberly, "Dad, I'm going to call Cheryl and see what kind of reports she can dig up, on this ranch and on Ariel, and pick her brain about how to approach our investigation."

Mark nodded in agreement. "Best before Randy finishes punishing the dishes and comes looking for us!"

Unfortunately, what Steve learned was even less reassuring. His partner confirmed a number of suspicious incidents which had involved residents or former residents of the Enlightenment Ranch. She also pulled a Jane Doe report on a drowning victim which, when Cheryl dropped by the beach house with it, bore a disturbing resemblance to Ariel Carson, nee Wolfe. The identification was confirmed when Randy took one look at the picture, went white, nodded and mumbled something thickly about going for a quick run to clear her head.

Cheryl watched her run out of the room, then turned back to her partner and his father. "I called the ranch and asked if they had a member named Roger Carson," she reported. "I explained that we were trying to confirm the identity of a woman believed to be his wife."

Mark looked up over his glasses from the report. "And?"

She shrugged. "First reaction was a little interesting; I got the feeling the girl I was talking to knew something but not how to tell me she didn't. But she took off and found someone who must deal with the public frequently enough to know how to avoid unpleasant questions. I was informed, very politely and just as firmly, that the Carsons had been assigned to one of the quote-unquote missionary teams -- get this, in Malaysia, of all places -- and weren't expected to be anywhere near civilization for at least two or three months."

"Convenient," Steve commented.

His partner glanced at him. "I can try to get a warrant to look around," she offered, "but I'm not sure that would be helpful."

He nodded. "Under the circumstances, I have to agree with you. We'll have to think of a different approach."

Mark had been leaning back against the couch cushions, eyes half closed, listening to the other two. "Wait a minute," he said suddenly. "You said they told you the Carsons, both of them, were in Malaysia?"

Cheryl nodded. "That's right."

"But," Mark pointed out, "they told Randy her sister had never been there at all. Ever."

"That's what they said." Randy came into the room, wearing shorts and a tank top, hair in a ponytail. She had gone for a quick run on the beach to clear her head, and her skin glistened with a faint sheen of perspiration. To Steve, with the sun from the windows behind her, it looked like she glowed.

Cheryl spread her hands. "Then maybe an official visit would be better, if they've lied about Mrs. Carson," she suggested.

Randy shook her head firmly. "No. If they realize we're onto them, they'll destroy any proof which may exist." She gave Mark and Steve a pleading look. "I have to know how this happened to my sister."

Steve tried not to look in his father's direction, but it didn't work. Sure enough, Mark was wearing that famous Sloan "my hands are tied, what are you gonna do?" expression. Fat lot of help he was going to be, his son mused resentfully.

"Why do I think I'm not going to like this part?" Steve asked with resignation. He glanced up, and saw the look in Randy's eyes he had been dreading; she was running in high gear now and capable of concocting all sorts of hare-brained schemes. "You're not seriously thinking --"

"Of infiltrating their organization? Absolutely," she declared with determination.

"Randy, this is crazy. For one thing, they've seen you before, remember?" he begged.

She gave him the sort of pitying look one bestowed upon men of slow brain. "They saw a blonde."

Before anyone could offer an intelligent response to this indisputable but bewildering statement, she continued, "I intend to look different. And you and I will pose as an affianced couple looking to travel the enlightened path."

"A what doing what?" Steve exclaimed, aghast.

Randy ignored him. "We get in there, snoop around, find what we're looking for, and then get out fast. And we set up some kind of check-in with Cheryl so the police know where we are and that we're okay. If we don't call in, then it's time to send in the Marines."

Cheryl looked dubious, not wanting to say anything which would set off the argument which hovered in the air. Mark's expression was grave, but he remained silent. This was Steve's decision. Randy turned to face Steve's scowl with desperation in her eyes. "Please, Steve," she pleaded softly. "I have to know. I wasn't here to stop her."

Steve felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. How could he turn her down now? He had first-hand experience of the heartbreak of trying and ultimately being unable to protect a much-loved younger sister from the harsher aspects of life. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered resignedly, "but okay. We'll do it. And I mean we, as in you, me, Cheryl, Dad, everybody," he added as he watched a totally different glow come over her face, and promptly lost any control of his heart whatsoever.

Watching them, Mark quipped to Cheryl, "I don't think they'll have to work too hard to get into character."

They spent a few more hours working out the details. Mark's internet research had revealed a formidable operation. What public information existed showed ownership of the Enlightenment Ranch to rest in the hands of a few frighteningly powerful individuals, whose influence stretched in far too many directions.

"Easy enough to wish someone away with the right funding," Steve remarked, contemplating the stack of paper Mark had generated. Cheryl glanced up from the call-in schedule she was preparing. "All the more reason for you to be very careful," she pointed out, "especially since you still need to watch your step literally." She ducked as he tossed a wadded-up paper at her in mock admonishment, and handed him her plan. "Here. If there are no phones, and your cell doesn't work, get out of there or find some way of alerting me to back off. Otherwise, any time we don't hear from you somehow within one hour of your check-in time, we're coming in with a warrant."

After they had finally tweaked the schedule to their satisfaction, Cheryl hugged her partner, wished them luck, and took her leave.

Steve took Randy to a quiet little Japanese restaurant not too far from the beach house, pointing out that he couldn't fall on his face on the floor if he was already sitting on it. Dinner itself actually turned out to be relatively uneventful, although there was a near miss involving shrimp and a cruet of teriyaki sauce. Steve considered himself fortunate only to incur a minor cleaning bill during the course of the evening.

Returning to the beach house, he took her to his special spot on the beach, shielded from any watching eyes, where, as he took her in his arms, they discovered their attraction was very much a mutual one.