Unlikely partners bound by circumstance…or by fate?

Being rescued by a good-looking, bad-boy firefighter isn’t how Samantha Bennett expected to start her stay in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. Now she has everyone’s attention—especially that of Justin Sloan, her rescuer, who wants to know why she was camped out in an abandoned old New England cider mill.

Samantha is a treasure hunter who has returned to Knights Bridge to solve a 300-year-old mystery and salvage her good name. Justin remembers her well. He’s the one who alerted her late mentor to her iffy past and got her fired. But just because he doesn’t trust her doesn’t mean he can resist her. Samantha is daring, determined, seized by wanderlust—everything that strong, stoic Justin never knew he wanted. Until now…

Praise for Carla Neggers and her novels

“Neggers captures readers’ attention with her usual flair and brilliance and gives us a romance, a mystery and a lesson in history.”

—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on Secrets of the Lost Summer

“Only a writer as gifted as Carla Neggers could use so few words to convey so much action and emotional depth.”

—Sandra Brown

“With a great plot and excellent character development, Neggers’ thriller Saint’s Gate, the first in a new series, is a fast-paced, action-packed tale of romantic suspense that will appeal to fans of Lisa Jackson and Lisa Gardner.”

—Library Journal

“Saint’s Gate is the best book yet from a writer at the absolute top of her craft.”

—Providence Journal

“Cold Pursuit is the perfect name for this riveting read. Neggers’ passages are so descriptive that one almost finds one’s teeth chattering from fear and anticipation.”

—Bookreporter.com

“[Neggers] forces her characters to confront issues of humanity, integrity and the multifaceted aspects of love without slowing the ever-quickening pace.”

—Publishers Weekly

Cider Brook

Carla Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my friend Fran Garfunkel

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Excerpt

One

Samantha Bennett slipped her grandfather’s antique silver flask into an outer pocket of her khaki safari jacket. He’d claimed the flask was from an old pirate chest, but she’d discovered in the three years since his death at ninety-six that not everything he’d told her had been factual. Harry Bennett had been a grand spinner of the strategic tall tale. He’d probably been drinking rum from the flask when he’d spun the pirate-chest story.

No rum for me, Samantha thought, glancing around her grandfather’s cluttered office on the second floor of the Bennett house in Boston’s Back Bay. She’d filled the flask with the smoky Scotch he had left in one of his crystal decanters. If she was going to hunt pirate’s treasure, she figured she ought to have whiskey with her.

Although what could go wrong in little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts?

Her grandfather smiled at her from a framed black-and-white photograph hanging on the wood-paneled wall behind his massive oak desk. At the time of the photo he’d been forty-seven, roguishly handsome, wearing a jacket much like hers. He’d just arrived back in Boston after the Antarctic trip that had sealed his reputation as a world-class explorer and adventurer. It had almost killed him, too. Her couple of nights’ camping in an out-of-the-way New England town hardly compared to an expedition to Antarctica.

She buttoned the flap of her jacket pocket. There were endless pockets inside and out. She was already forgetting where she’d put things—her phone, compass, matches, map, the earth-tone lipstick she’d grabbed at the last second, in case she went out to dinner one night during her stay in Knights Bridge.

Out to dinner? Where, with whom—and why?

If nothing else, a few days away from her grandfather’s clutter would do her good. He had been born on a struggling New England farm and had died a wealthy man, if also a hopeless pack rat. Samantha hadn’t realized just how much he’d collected in his long, active life until she’d been hired by his estate—meaning her father and her uncle—to go through his house and his London apartment. She swore she’d found gum wrappers from 1952. The man had saved everything.

The morning sun streamed through translucent panels that hung over bowfront windows framed by heavy charcoal velvet drapes. Her grandmother, who had died twenty-five years ago, when Samantha was four, had decorated the entire house herself, decreeing that gray and white were the perfect colors for this room, for when her husband was there, being contemplative and studious—which wasn’t often, even in his later years. He’d spent little time in his office, mostly just long enough to stack up his latest finds.

Samantha appreciated the effect of the filtered sunlight on the original oil painting that she’d unearthed from the office closet a few weeks ago. The painting was unsigned and clearly an amateur work, but it had captivated her from the moment she’d taken it out into the light. It depicted an idyllic red-painted New England cider mill, with apples in wooden crates, barrels of cider and a water wheel capturing the runoff from a small stone-and-earth dam on a woodland stream. She’d assumed it was untitled but two days ago had discovered neat, faded handwriting on the lower edge of the simple wood frame.

The Mill at Cider Brook.

Her surprise had been so complete that she’d dipped into the Scotch decanter.

She didn’t know if the mill depicted in the painting was real, but there was a Cider Brook in Knights Bridge, barely two hours west of Boston.

Of all places.

A quick internet search had produced a year-old notice that the town of Knights Bridge was selling an old cider mill in its possession. Had someone bought it? Was it still for sale?

Samantha had checked the closet for anything else her grandfather might have stuffed in there related to Cider Brook. Instead, she discovered a legal-size envelope containing about fifty yellowed, handwritten pages—the rough draft of a story called The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth.

She suspected but had no way to prove that the story was by the same hand as the painting, but it didn’t matter. It had sealed the deal, and now she had Harry Bennett’s antique silver flask tucked in her jacket and her plans made for her return to Knights Bridge—a town she had expected, and hoped, she would never have to visit again.

Plans more or less made, anyway. Samantha had no illusions about herself and knew she wasn’t much on detailed planning.

Her first visit to the little town had been two and a half years ago, on a snowy March day a few months after her grandfather’s death. She had expected to slip in and out of town without anyone’s knowledge, but it hadn’t worked out that way.

“A carpenter told me he saw a woman out here. You, Samantha?”

Yes. Her.

The carpenter had been her undoing. She didn’t know who he was, but it didn’t matter. She would be more careful on this trip, even if careful wasn’t a Bennett trait.

This was her chance to put things right.

* * *

Samantha returned the painting to the closet, pulled the drapes, locked the doors and met her uncle and cousin out front. They had collected her grandfather’s forty-year-old Mercedes from its parking space behind the house. It was a staid gray and had Massachusetts plates, but it was destined to stand out in Knights Bridge. In some ways, Harry Bennett’s frugal upbringing had never left him. While he’d bought an expensive car, he’d decided to keep it until he ran it into the ground. It would have helped if he’d driven it once in a while, but he’d never liked to drive.

His younger son, however, loved to drive. Caleb Bennett was a rakishly handsome maritime historian in his early fifties. He and his wife, a rare-books specialist, lived in London and were the parents of four, the eldest of whom, Isaac, a high-school senior, was strapped into the seat behind Samantha. Isaac and his father were heading to Amherst, the first stop on a tour of New England colleges. Samantha, who didn’t own a car, was hitching a ride with them.

“This will be great,” Caleb said as she got in next to him. “I can’t remember the last time I drove into the New England countryside.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“Nah. Sit back and enjoy yourself.”

The three youngest Bennetts would be arriving in Boston with their mother that evening for a weeklong visit. At some point, Samantha’s parents were due to arrive from the Scottish coast for an even shorter visit. A sort of family reunion. Her uncle and Isaac would pick her up in Knights Bridge on their way back to Boston.

Caleb pulled out onto busy Beacon Street. It was late September, a great time to be in Boston—or anywhere in New England. He glanced at Samantha. “You look as if you’re about to walk the plank.”

“Do I? I don’t feel that way. I’m excited.”

“That bastard Duncan McCaffrey fired you, Sam. Going back to Knights Bridge just picks the scab off a wound that should be healed by now.”

Isaac leaned forward. “Duncan McCaffrey? The treasure hunter?”

Samantha’s throat tightened, but she tried not to let them see her tension. She and Isaac shared the Bennett golden-brown hair and dark eyes, but he was lanky, angular and a gifted tennis player. She was active but had no patience for tennis, and, at five-five, she had obviously not inherited the Bennett height. Even her mother, Francesca, a marine archaeologist, was taller. Samantha considered herself lucky to have inherited her beautiful mother’s high cheekbones and full mouth.

“That’s right,” she said finally. “I worked for Duncan for a short time. He’s gone now. He died two years ago this past June.”

“He fired your cousin three weeks before he died,” Caleb put in.

Seventeen days, to be precise. Samantha, let it go. “I didn’t tell him things he thought he was entitled to know,” she said.

Isaac’s eyes widened. “You lied to Duncan McCaffrey?”

“Not exactly.”

Her cousin sat back in the soft leather seat. “Wow. That’s got to haunt you. Talk about bad timing. What does Knights Bridge have to do with him?”

“I’ve heard stories in treasure-hunting circles, but I don’t have all the details. Apparently Duncan was searching for information on his birth parents and ended up buying property in Knights Bridge. His son inherited it. Dylan. He’s now engaged to a woman from town.”

“Wait,” Isaac said. “You’re going there for revenge because Duncan fired you?”

“No. I’m not going for revenge.” Samantha took a breath, not knowing what to say to her cousin, especially with her uncle right next to her. She’d already told Caleb more than she’d meant to. She exhaled, her tone matter-of-fact as she continued, “I’m going to test a theory.”

Caleb grimaced next to her. “You’re stirring things up for no good reason.”

“Dylan McCaffrey doesn’t even have to know I’m there.”

“Sam...” There was a note of dread in Isaac’s voice. “Sam, please tell me this trip isn’t about pirates.”

She swiveled around to look at him. “What, you don’t like pirates, Isaac?”

“I got over pirates when I was twelve. Are you searching for the lost treasure of Captain Hook?”

“Show some respect, Isaac,” his father said. “Samantha’s an expert on East Coast privateers and pirates. Captain Hook is fictional. She’s only interested in real pirates and such. Right, Sam?”

Samantha ignored the skeptical note in his voice. “I’m researching Captain Benjamin Farraday, a Boston privateer-turned-pirate who disappeared before he could be hanged for his crimes.”

Isaac yawned as the Mercedes sped west on Storrow Drive, along the Charles River, which was dotted with small sailboats and Harvard rowers. “You think this Captain Farraday buried treasure in Knights Bridge?”

“It’s possible.”

Her cousin groaned. “Sam, nobody believes in buried treasure anymore.”

His father glanced sideways at her. “You see? His mother’s influence. He’s got both feet planted firmly on the ground.”

“He wants to go to Amherst College. That’s Grandpa’s alma mater.” Samantha winked at her cousin in the backseat. “There’s some Bennett in you.”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

* * *

Dozing—and pretending to doze—on the drive west at least allowed Samantha to stop trying to convince her uncle that she hadn’t lost her mind. He’d interrogated her on the contents of her backpack—he was pleased she had a first-aid kit and an emergency whistle—and her reasons for venturing to Knights Bridge on her own. “You and this damn pirate, Samantha. You’re obsessed with this Captain Benjamin Farraday of yours.”

No argument from her.

She hadn’t mentioned the cider mill painting and the story she’d discovered in his father’s Boston office. She had enough to overcome with her uncle without telling him she was off to Knights Bridge because of an anonymous painting and the fanciful writings of an unknown author—a woman, Samantha would guess given the feminine handwriting. She had no doubt her uncle would have dismissed The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth as worthless to a proper historian and tossed the pages into the fire.

Samantha had copied them and brought them with her, possible clues to her pirate mystery, as well as a reminder of the reasons she was undertaking this mission and returning to Knights Bridge. It was a fun story. One particular passage had stuck in her mind.

Lady Elizabeth Fullerton refused to choke on the terrible rum the black-haired, black-eyed pirate had thrust at her. “What’s your name?” she asked, returning the flask to him.

“Farraday. Benjamin Farraday. And yours?”

“Bess.” She’d already considered what name to give him. Something simple and not too far from the truth, so that she wouldn’t forget. “Bess Fuller.”

He grinned and leaned in close to her. He obviously didn’t believe her. “Well, Bess Fuller, drink up. We’ve a long way to go before you’ll see England again. You can thank me later for saving you.”

“I’d rather have drowned than to be rescued by a pirate rogue.”

It was a rousing tale of a spirited high-born British woman who’d been captured for ransom by a dastardly enemy of her remote but wealthy father and then “rescued” by a dashing pirate. Although entertaining, the story bore only marginal resemblance to the life of the real Farraday—at least his known life. There was much not yet known about the Boston-born pirate and his exploits.

Samantha had her grandfather to thank for sparking her interest in Captain Farraday. A few months before his death, he had plunked a copy of an eighteenth-century broadside in front of her. It detailed the crimes credited against Farraday, then a wanted man. “You like pirates, Sam. Check out this guy.”

She had dived in. As her grandfather’s health quickly had begun to fail, he loved for her to sit at his bedside and tell him every new development in her research. She had theorized that Farraday might have hidden treasure in the wilderness west of Boston, first as his personal insurance policy against his capture, arrest and ultimate execution, then to finance a new sloop to continue his raids on other ships.

She had little to go on—no proof beyond snippets here and there and her leaps to connect the dots of her research. She didn’t know why her grandfather hadn’t told her about the painting and the manuscript pages in his closet—he could have simply forgotten they were there. Now she suspected at least the story had brought Captain Farraday to his attention in the first place.

“Samantha—Samantha, we’re here.”

She sat up straight at her uncle’s voice. “Right. So we are.”

He slowed the old Mercedes as they came to the Knights Bridge town common, an oval-shaped green encircled by a narrow main street with classic homes, a town hall, a library, a general store and a few other businesses.

Caleb shuddered. “This place is straight out of 1910.”

“It just looks that way on the surface.” She pointed vaguely. “You can drop me off anywhere here.”

He stopped in front of the Swift River Country Store. “What about mosquitoes? Ticks? I hope you packed DEET.”

“DEET and Scotch,” Samantha said lightly. “The necessities when hunting pirate treasure.”

Caleb looked at his son. “You’re going to be an engineer.”

Isaac managed to stir enough to wish her luck. As she grabbed her pack out of the backseat, she caught him smirking and muttering something about hoping she found herself a sexy pirate of her own.

“This isn’t about sexy pirates,” she told him.

He gave her a knowing grin. “Right. It’s about scholarship.”

She ignored him. “Enjoy your college tour.” She smiled at her uncle. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Have fun. Steer clear of carpenters.”

Samantha wished she hadn’t told her uncle how Duncan McCaffrey had come to fire her. Being spotted in the snow by a small-town carpenter paled in comparison to some of the ways her father and his baby brother had gotten themselves into trouble over the years.

Caleb and Isaac didn’t linger. Samantha waited for the Mercedes to disappear back out the winding road to the highway before she set off. There was nothing she needed to pick up at the general store. She didn’t have to ask for directions—she had a paper map and a map on her phone, but she’d committed her route to memory.

* * *

Ninety minutes later, Samantha slipped off her backpack and set it at her feet as she paused on a simple wooden bridge. It spanned a rock-strewn stream that had to be Cider Brook. She was on a back road that meandered among green fields, old stone walls and woods that were changing color with the arrival of autumn.

She could see a sliver of the Quabbin Reservoir in the distance, its quiet waters shining blue in the afternoon sun. Before Quabbin, three branches of the Swift River had run through a valley of peaceful New England villages. The valley’s abundance of freshwater streams, rivers, ponds and lakes had proved too tempting for growing, thirsty metropolitan Boston to resist. In the 1930s, the villages had been forcibly cleared out, razed and the valley flooded to create a pristine source of drinking water for their neighbors to the east.

The “accidental wilderness,” as it was called, was a stunningly beautiful sight on an early-autumn afternoon.

Samantha wished the weather was cooler. The day had turned warmer and more humid than she’d expected. She unbuttoned her jacket and was tempted to take it off altogether. She doubted she would have use for the merino wool throw she’d packed, in anticipation of a chilly night looking up at the stars. With little ambient light out this way, the night sky would be spectacular.

Across the bridge, the narrow road curved uphill to a rambling white clapboard farmhouse with black shutters and a red barn set on a hill that overlooked the valley. Huge maple trees, their leaves just starting to turn color, shaded the front lawn. A dark brown dog slept in the driveway, and a white duck—a pet, Samantha assumed—paraded across the grass as if it owned the place. She could hear an unseen rooster crowing in the summerlike stillness.

If she remembered her map correctly, the farmhouse was at a hairpin turn in the road, which then wound back toward the village. That meant the stream under the bridge definitely was Cider Brook.

She lifted her backpack again and slung it over one shoulder. She would strap it on properly once she was on her way again. She crossed the bridge and left the road, pushing through knee-high ferns down a steep incline to the edge of the brook. The brook was narrow here—far too narrow to support even a small cider mill—but would widen farther downstream. The coppery, clear water was shallow, winding downhill over and around rocks and boulders that created natural pools and mini waterfalls.

She brushed away a mosquito buzzing by her head. A hundred years ago, this area had been largely farmland. Now much of it had been reclaimed by a mixed hardwood forest.

An old cider mill could easily be tucked in the woods, and she could walk right past it.

At the rate she was going, she would be finished with Knights Bridge well before her uncle and cousin headed back this way. She hadn’t calculated the exact distance from the bridge to the reservoir, but it would be a pretty hike—an adventure, even if she didn’t come across a nineteenth-century cider mill.

More mosquitoes found her, and she stopped alongside the brook to refresh her bug spray. Thunder rumbled off to the west. She looked up at the sky, hazy and blue directly above her but with ominous dark clouds behind her. Tucked in the trees as she was, she couldn’t see far enough to get a sense whether the storm was coming her way or moving off in another direction. This late in the season, she hadn’t considered she might run into a thunderstorm. Of course, once she thought about it she realized a storm wasn’t out of the question.

She noticed a trail on the other side of the brook. She had a feeling she was close to the spot where Cider Brook curved toward a dirt road that jutted off the paved one she had followed to the bridge. If she got in trouble with the weather, she could always work her way out to the road and find a house or a shed or flag down a car. Something. Right now, she wanted to get across the brook and on the trail.

Adjusting her backpack, Samantha tested a jagged, half-submerged rock. When it didn’t move, she stepped onto it, then jumped to a flat-topped hunk of granite, the cold brook water swirling and gurgling, soothing her sudden sense of dread as more thunder growled. She leaped to the opposite bank, sinking slightly into the soft ground, and thrashed through ferns and skunk cabbage onto the trail.

Lightning flashed, and the darkening clouds created eerie shadows. She picked up her pace. She didn’t need a detailed weather forecast to know a nasty storm was bearing down on her. The trail continued to follow Cider Brook into the woods. As she’d anticipated, the brook widened as smaller streams joined it on its gentle descent toward Quabbin.

As the trail curved past a huge, old red-leafed tree, she could see sunlight ahead—a clearing of some kind. A simultaneous bolt of lightning and ferocious clap of thunder propelled her into an outright run. Trees swayed in strong wind gusts, and she could hear the hiss of rain in the woods behind her. Fat raindrops splattered on the dirt trail.

Breathing hard, debating whether she should seek shelter in a protected spot in the woods, she emerged into a clearing. She came to an abrupt halt in front of an old rough-wood building, maybe thirty feet by twenty feet, tucked next to a small stone-and-earth dam and quiet millpond.

Damned if she hadn’t found her cider mill.

Or a cider mill, anyway.

It resembled the one depicted in the painting in her grandfather’s office, but it was run-down, obviously abandoned and definitely not new or painted a rich, vibrant red.

Hail pelted her, an unpleasant reminder of her immediate situation. It was dime-size and quickly covered the ground.

“Ah, damn.”

Of course there was hail.

She bounded up to the mill’s solid wood door, but it was padlocked. Why, she couldn’t imagine. Three small windows were encased in thick, dirty plastic. A garage-style door, where wagons had once unloaded apples and loaded cider, was boarded shut.

She knew how to pick a padlock. Her uncle had seen to teaching her that particular skill himself. “It’s only to be used in self-defense, Sam. No breaking into a vault or anything like that.”

She noticed faded Do Not Enter and Danger signs to the left of the door.

Lightning lit up the sky, and thunder echoed in the woods.

She needed to get inside.

Now.

Two

The storm was fierce, intense and downright unnerving, but Samantha rode it out inside the dusty, empty cider mill. With the rain stopped and the thunder clearly off to the east, she had her grandfather’s flask out of her jacket pocket and was debating whether to imbibe now or wait until after dark.

Then she smelled smoke.

Smoke? She groaned in disbelief. Wouldn’t that just top off her day?

She tucked the flask back in her pocket and breathed in deeply, hoping the smell of smoke had been a trick of her imagination. The mill consisted of a single room with rough-wood walls, wide-board flooring and a pitched ceiling with open rafters. It would go up in flames in no time if it caught fire.

The smell didn’t dissipate, and it wasn’t her imagination. It was definitely smoke.

Could the wind have carried smoke from a chimney in a nearby farmhouse?

What nearby farmhouse?

She could taste smoke now, feel it burn in her eyes.

She reached into the open compartment of the backpack at her feet, grabbed her four-by-nine-inch documents pouch and slipped it into an outer jacket pocket, opposite the one with the flask.

A strange hissing noise seemed to come from beneath the floor by a half-dozen old wooden cider barrels pushed up against the wall. In another moment, smoke, visible now, curled through cracks in the floorboards and floated up to the rafters as if it were a living thing. Samantha stared at it, transfixed. She couldn’t delude herself. She was in a fire.

She didn’t have a minute to waste. She clicked into action.

She knew she had to leave everything—tent, sleeping bag, food, water, toiletries, bug spray, first-aid kit, flannel pajamas and her merino wool wrap, a gift from her mother. So much for watching the stars come out, envisioning life here in the early eighteenth century.

More smoke poured through the floorboards.

Samantha dropped low, remembering that was what someone was supposed to do in a fire, with rising smoke. She pulled her jacket collar over her mouth and nose and launched herself toward the door.

She swore she could hear flames under her in the mill’s cellar.

Her eyes were blurry and watery with smoke, but she could see an orange, fiery glow by the north wall. She felt the heat of the fire now. Sudden, intense.

How long did she have before the old, dry wood exploded into flames?

Stifling a surge of panic, she crouched even lower, coughing as smoke filled the enclosed space. She kept moving. She had to get out of here before she collapsed due to smoke inhalation.

Flames burst through the floorboards by the barrels and crawled up the wall, bright and terrifying in the gray light. Fire and smoke seemed to join, forming a monster ready to consume everything in its path.

She got onto her knees, gasping for air. Her hand fell from her jacket, exposing her to more smoke. She covered her mouth and nose with the crook of her arm and decided she would crawl on her belly if she had to...but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. There was no pirate rogue to save her. She had to save herself. She had to stay conscious, get moving, steer clear of the flames.

The front door banged open, startling her.

“Is anyone in here?”

A man’s voice. Soothing, firm, maybe a little annoyed. Or was it her imagination, or a passage from the pages she’d discovered in her grandfather’s office?

Samantha tried to stagger to her feet. “Captain Farraday?”

“Easy. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and blinked, but she couldn’t focus—couldn’t see the man through the smoke and her own burning tears.

Strong arms reached around her. “Stay low,” her rescuer said. “We need to move fast.”

He had her up off her feet before she realized he had lifted her. In a few long strides, he had her out the door and down the stone-slab step, then flung onto the bank of the small millpond. She landed in cold, wet grass, rolled onto her stomach, coughing, spitting, sucking in the clear air.

“Do you have medical issues?”

The man again. Samantha sat up, her eyes and throat burning, aching. She tasted smoke and grime and felt her heart thumping in her chest. She blinked rapidly, peering up at the man standing between her and the mill. He was tall, looming over her. She made out dark short-cropped hair, deep blue eyes, a firm mouth, a square jaw, broad shoulders. He wore a black canvas shirt over a black T-shirt, jeans, scuffed leather boots.

Hauling her out of the mill had obviously not taxed him to any degree, but he didn’t seem happy about it. She had no idea who he was. A hiker? A local man? Did he own the cider mill? She hadn’t considered she might have to contend with an owner, or that it might be a tough, humorless man not much older than she was.

“I’m sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “What did you ask me?”

He sucked in a quick breath. “Do you have asthma, allergies, a heart condition, anything—”

“No. Nothing. No medical issues.” Her voice was raspy, tense. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

He showed no sign of lowering his guard. “Fire department’s on the way. I have to get to work. You sit tight.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Stay out of the way.”

He hadn’t hesitated even half a beat before firing off his answer. He didn’t wait for a response and set off toward the mill. Thick smoke billowed from the open door into the cool, clear air. Flames glowed orange behind the dirty plastic and cracked glass in the windows.

Samantha watched as her rescuer stopped at a dusty-gray pickup truck, parked with its hood facing out the pitted dirt driveway. In seconds, he had donned fire gear—hat, mask, jacket.

A firefighter?

He grabbed an ax and headed for the mill.

The fire seemed to have sucked the door shut. He kicked it open and went inside.

Whoever he was, her rescuer was strong and utterly fearless.

She shivered in the cooler air. She hadn’t called him Captain Farraday, had she? Not out loud. It just wasn’t possible.

She heard sirens and realized a road was closer than she’d thought. In another thirty seconds, fire trucks and a lone police car descended. Samantha moved to a small boulder by the brook. With the downpour from the storm, the water was high, rushing over rocks, moss and mud.

As she watched firefighters set to work, she could feel the padlock in her jacket pocket.

If no one asked about it, she saw no reason to mention it.

Three

Her rescuer’s name was Justin Sloan.

Or so he told Samantha right before he demanded she produce his padlock.

He put out a callused hand. “Where is it?”

The fire was out, the mill intact if damaged. The firefighters had loaded up their gear and left, and the two uniformed police officers had followed them along the rutted driveway to the road. One of the officers had interviewed her. She’d told him the truth about how she’d ended up in the cider mill—that she’d ducked inside to get out of the thunderstorm. He’d asked if she’d noticed the Do Not Enter and Danger signs. She’d said she had. He’d scowled and hadn’t requested further details.

He was a Sloan, too. Eric Sloan.

One of the firefighters was also a Sloan. Christopher.

Small towns, she thought.

Justin, she now realized, was a volunteer firefighter. After helping put out the fire, he’d returned his gear to his truck and then joined her by her boulder. Samantha had dipped a hand into the cold brook water and done what she could to wipe the soot off her face, but she doubted she’d gotten it all. The acrid fire smells wouldn’t be easy to eliminate from her skin or her clothes. She had travel wipes and fresh clothes in her backpack, assuming it had survived the fire and wasn’t too contaminated by smoke.

Telling Justin Sloan that his missing padlock was in her jacket pocket didn’t seem like a particularly wise course of action at the moment. Although he gave no indication, he had to be in high-adrenaline mode after coming upon the old mill in flames, discovering a woman was more or less trapped inside, carrying her to safety and then helping to put out the fire.

Samantha realized she was in high-adrenaline mode herself. She stood, the seat of her pants wet, and flicked an ant off her knee. Casual. As if she hadn’t picked the padlock to get into the mill and didn’t have it in her jacket.

The banter she’d overheard between the firefighters had confirmed her suspicion that her rescuer owned the old cider mill.

“Hell, Justin, this place is even more of a dump than I thought.”

“I can’t believe you spent real money on it.”

“Firetrap, Justin. Told you.”

That last had come from Christopher Sloan. Apparently he was one of two full-time firefighters in Knights Bridge. Everyone else was a volunteer.

“They’re your brothers?” Samantha asked. “Eric and Christopher?”

“My brothers. Yes.” Justin snapped two fingers of his outstretched hand. “My padlock.”

Not a man easily distracted. She tried to look as if she didn’t quite understand him. “Padlock?”

“The one you picked or broke to get into the mill.”

He lowered his hand to his side, but she could tell from his set jaw that he wasn’t giving up. She didn’t feel guilty at what she’d done, but she didn’t want to explain herself to a man who’d just carted her out of a burning building and had helped put out the fire. He didn’t look as if he’d be a willing listener on a good day. Since one of his brothers was a police officer and another was a professional firefighter—and he himself was a volunteer firefighter—she wasn’t afraid of him. He wasn’t a thug. He was just not in a great mood.

“It was a dangerous storm. Downright scary, and I’ve been in some scary storms.” She decided to change the subject. “My name’s Samantha, by the way.”

His deep blue eyes narrowed on her. “What’s your last name, Samantha?”

“Bennett,” she said, sounding more tight-lipped and reluctant than she would have liked. She hadn’t volunteered her last name on purpose. She’d told Eric Sloan, the police-officer brother, but he’d asked, leaving her no choice. She doubted the Bennett name meant anything to him, Justin or the other firefighters who’d rushed to the old cider mill, but she’d intended to get in and out of Knights Bridge without the knowledge of any of its residents.

“Are you a Sam or a Samantha?”

“Either works.”

“Mostly Sam?”

“Mostly Samantha, actually.”

“Well, Samantha, you’re damn lucky you got out of there in time.”

“No argument from me. I noticed the smoke about fifteen minutes after the storm ended. Lightning caused the fire?”

He gave a curt nod. “Looks as if it struck the roof and traveled down the side wall to the cellar. The fire started there and worked its way up the wall. We’ve had a string of severe storms this past month.” He looked at her as if she might have caused the recent bad luck with the weather. “A microburst hit the center of town a few weeks ago. It uprooted a bunch of trees and damaged some homes and businesses. No serious injuries.”

“That’s good. About the injuries, I mean.”

Samantha glanced up at the sky, graying now with dusk. It would be the kind of cool, beautiful night she’d anticipated. She’d checked the forecast on her phone on the drive from Boston, but she’d missed any reference to the force and speed with which the cold front would move into this part of New England.

Of course, it was just like a Bennett to be struck by lightning.

“What were you doing out here?” Justin asked her.

“Hiking.”

“Most people hike in Quabbin or one of the state forests. Why’d you pick here?”

“I wanted to follow Cider Brook to where it empties into Quabbin.”

“Any particular reason?”

“It seemed like a good idea this morning.” She smiled, feeling less jittery now that the fire was out. “That could be my family’s motto. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’”

Justin didn’t appear amused.

She added, truthfully, “I like the name Cider Brook. Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Never thought about it. Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Someone picking you up?”

“Not today.” She gestured vaguely toward the mill and surrounding woods. “I planned to camp out here.”

He shook his head. “Not happening. Most of your gear’s wrecked, and I can’t let you inside the mill until I’m satisfied it’s safe.”

Well, that was inconvenient. Samantha considered her options. Amherst, where her uncle and cousin were spending the night, wasn’t that far—but she would have to figure out how to get herself there. If they had to make a detour to pick her up early, she would never hear the end of it. Uncle Caleb would carry on about why she hadn’t known about the storm before it hit, the odds against a lightning strike setting the mill on fire and what she was going to do now that she’d come to the attention of the locals. She could just hear him: “You never should have gone to Knights Bridge in the first place.”

But she had, and now she needed to figure out what to do. Send Justin Sloan on his way and then...what? Buy a new tent and sleeping bag? Where? What about dinner? Water? Clothes? If her things were trampled, soaked, burned up in the fire or just out of reach, she would have to start from scratch. She didn’t even have a toothbrush.

“There’s an inn down the road,” Justin said, interrupting her thoughts. “You can stay there tonight. I’ll drop you off.”

The Farm at Carriage Hill. Had to be.

It was owned by the woman who was engaged to Dylan McCaffrey, Duncan McCaffrey’s son.

Samantha carefully arranged her features so she wouldn’t look as if her rescuer had just invited her into the lion’s den. She could be hard to read herself. It just wasn’t her natural state. Her natural state was to be open, honest and straightforward, but she had to be circumspect now that a fire had put an end to her low-profile presence in Knights Bridge.

“Thank you, Justin.” She even managed a smile. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’m glad the damage to your mill wasn’t any worse. It’s a good thing you got here when you did, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” He took a half step closer to her and pointed at her jacket. “My padlock is in the inside pocket on the right. I felt it when I rescued you.”

“I didn’t need you to ‘rescue’ me.”

“Yeah. You did.” He tapped the lower left pocket where she’d tucked her grandfather’s flask. “Booze?”

“Scotch. Lagavulin. I was going to sip it under the stars.”

He gave just a hint of a smile. “I’ll bet you were.”

He went back up to the cider mill and disappeared inside.

Samantha exhaled but didn’t relax. She’d had a close call with the fierce storm and then the fire—closer than she wanted to acknowledge. It wasn’t easy to admit that if Justin Sloan hadn’t come along when he had and swept her out of the burning mill, she could have been overcome by smoke and gone up in flames.

She would return his padlock to him. Just not right now. Better to wait until they’d both had a chance to deal with the adrenaline dump of the fire.

Justin emerged from the mill with her backpack. He opened the passenger door to his truck and tossed the pack inside. “Hop in,” he said. He left the door open as he circled around to the driver’s side. “Carriage Hill is a ten-minute drive.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

He got into his truck, shut the door and started the engine, clearly in no mood to wait. Samantha suspected his terse manner was the way he was, although the events of the day might have exacerbated his natural tendency. She reminded herself she wasn’t in Knights Bridge to make friends, or even because of Captain Farraday, as intriguing and as entangled with her true reasons as her colorful eighteenth-century pirate and his illicit treasure were.

She looked up at the old mill, bits of barn-red paint visible in its worn exterior. The fire smells were strong in the cool late-afternoon air. She wanted to know about the painting she’d found in her grandfather’s closet. She wanted to know how the author of The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth had ended up writing a fictional story about a real pirate, and why Harry Bennett had put her—his eldest grandchild—onto the trail of the mysterious New England pirate.

All of that was interesting, but Samantha knew it was only a small part of the reason for coming to Knights Bridge. The main reason—the real reason—was to make peace with Duncan McCaffrey, a man who’d hired her and mentored her.

Who’d trusted her.

“Damn, Samantha. It never occurred to me not to trust you.”

She tightened her jacket and headed for Justin Sloan’s dusty-gray truck.

* * *

The combination of adrenaline, an enclosed space and an intense man behind the wheel turned the ten-minute drive to The Farm at Carriage Hill into something that felt a notch short of an eternity. Samantha was accustomed to being around rugged men, but this was different. Even if she could have gotten out of the mill on her own—and she remained convinced she could have—Justin Sloan had, in fact, rushed into a burning building and carried her out. A courageous deed by any standard. As the beneficiary, she felt a mix of gratitude and guilt but also a physical awareness that had taken her completely by surprise.

Justin had rolled up the sleeves of his canvas shirt to just below his elbows, revealing taut, well-developed forearms. Samantha guessed that his volunteer firefighting plus whatever he did for a living kept him in shape. She wasn’t going to ask for details. Personal questions on her part risked personal questions on his part.

He pulled in front of a cream-colored center-chimney house, the last home on a narrow road that once had been a main route from Knights Bridge into the Swift River valley towns—long before major highways and interstates. Now it dead-ended at a Quabbin gate. Not only had she studied her map and the history of the area but she’d been out here before, if only that one time on a snowy March day.

She shook off that thought. Couldn’t go there. Later, maybe. Not now.

Justin turned off the engine. He’d parked next to a sign for The Farm at Carriage Hill painted with its signature blossoming chives. Although Samantha hadn’t done nearly enough planning for her trip to Knights Bridge, she knew that Olivia Frost, the owner, was a graphic designer, as well as Dylan McCaffrey’s fiancée.

Samantha unlatched her seat belt and pushed back a surge of regret that she hadn’t stayed in Boston and walked the Freedom Trail with her aunt and young cousins. No point second-guessing herself now. Dylan had only ventured to Knights Bridge earlier that year, meeting Olivia in the process. After his career in the National Hockey League had ended, he’d teamed up with his childhood friend, Noah Kendrick, an MIT genius. Together they had transformed Noah’s fledgling NAK, Inc. into a profitable high-tech entertainment company that had gone public last fall. Samantha had never met Dylan during her weeks working with his father, and she wasn’t in Knights Bridge to intrude on his and Olivia’s lives.

But here you are, on their doorstep.

Justin pushed open his door. “Carriage Hill’s just opened. It’s not a regular inn.” He glanced sideways at her. “Your hands are trembling. A little wobbly? It’s normal after a fire.”

“I’m okay. Hungry. What about you? Are you wobbly?”

“Me?” He grinned. “No. Not wobbly.”

“You’ve had experience with fires, but this one was on your land.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

A dark-haired woman was arranging pots of yellow-and-white mums on the steps to a one-story ell off the main part of the house. Olivia Frost, presumably. Samantha turned to Justin. “Am I expected?”

“I didn’t have a chance to call ahead. It’ll be fine.”

She didn’t move as he headed to the stone walk. He’d left the door open. She could hear Olivia as she approached Justin, dusting off her palms on her baggy cargo pants. “Dad just called about the fire. He says it was a lightning strike. Yikes, Justin. You’re all right?”

“Yep. Fine.”

“The storm must have gone right over the mill. It wasn’t that bad here. Dad says a woman was camping there—”

“Samantha Bennett,” Justin said. “She needs a place to stay tonight.”

“Of course. We have loads of room.”

He motioned to the truck. “Hop out, Sam. Come meet Olivia.”

Samantha could think of a hundred other places she would rather be. She wished she’d at least found refuge somewhere else besides Justin Sloan’s cider mill. The chicken coop at the farmhouse upstream would have done nicely.

She stepped out of the truck, misjudged the distance and felt her knees buckle under her. Even as she steadied herself, Justin was there, one hand on her elbow. “I guess you’re wobbly after all. No shame in it.”

“I’m not that used to trucks is all.”

He lowered his hand. “I’m not surprised.”

Olivia stepped forward with a smile and introduced herself. “My father was at the fire. He’s a volunteer firefighter. I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Thanks,” Samantha said. “It’s been quite an afternoon.”

“You must be beat. We’d love to have you stay with us.”

“If you’re sure it’s not too short notice—”

“I’m positive,” Olivia said graciously. “Did Justin explain that Carriage Hill isn’t a regular inn? We’re just getting started with destination events. Showers, weddings, meetings—that sort of thing, mostly on weekends. My friend Maggie and I are having a blast so far.”

Samantha stood back. “You mean you don’t take in overnight guests? I can find a place to pitch my tent. Really. I don’t mind.”

“Your tent didn’t make it out of the fire,” Justin said.

She frowned at him. “It burned?”

“I told you most of your gear was wrecked.”

Olivia shot him a disapproving look, apparently not appreciating his bluntness.

He shrugged. “Your tent and sleeping bag were trampled and soaked. They’re easily replaced.”

“Is there some place in town I could buy new ones?” Samantha asked.

“The Swift River Country Store on the town common,” Olivia said. “We call it Hazelton’s—they were the original owners. It’s got everything. They must have tents.”

“Then I could pop over there,” Samantha said.

Justin shook his head. “They’re closed.” When Olivia glared at him again, he softened his expression and added, “You’ll like Carriage Hill. Maggie and Olivia are even making their own goat’s milk soap these days.” He glanced at Olivia as if to say “Better?”

She ignored him and shifted back to Samantha with an encouraging smile. “We do take in overnight guests, of course, and we’d be happy to have you stay with us. Welcome.”

“I love goat’s milk soap,” Samantha said. “I appreciate this very much. Thank you, Olivia. I’m still a bit rattled, but a quiet night will help.”

With a slightly muddy hand, Olivia pointed at the door to the ell. “The kitchen’s through there. I’ll be right in. Help yourself to whatever strikes your fancy. Maggie and I made applesauce this afternoon. No sugar added. The apples are perfect on their own.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Samantha said, feeling less tense. “Thank you again.”

Justin headed to his truck, grabbed her backpack and brought it to her. “I can bring it up to your room if you’d like.”

“Got it, thanks.” She took the pack from him and slung it over one shoulder. Picturing him in her guest room at Carriage Hill wasn’t helping her heart rate at all. She could feel heat rushing to her cheeks. Ah, hell. She wasn’t the blushing type. She forced a quick smile. “Thank you for all your help today. I hope the fire won’t set back your plans for the mill.”

“It won’t.” He glanced at Olivia as if expecting her to scowl at him for being so abrupt, then shifted back to Samantha and added, less bluntly, “I have more dreams than actual plans. I’ll adjust. Glad you weren’t hurt today.”

“Same here. That you weren’t hurt, I mean.”

He grinned. “I appreciate that.”

She couldn’t get inside fast enough but turned to Olivia. “I look forward to that applesauce,” she said, then headed up the steps past the mums and through a blue-painted door into a cozy kitchen.

A white mixing bowl of applesauce was in the middle of a butcher-block island. She set her backpack on the floor by the door and went over to the island, felt the sides of the bowl and realized the applesauce was still warm. As she found a small bowl and spoon, a big dog wandered out from the adjoining mudroom and yawned at her. He was mostly German shepherd, she guessed.

She heaped applesauce into her bowl and sat with it at a white-painted table. The dog flopped down at her feet. She patted him, wondering at how her day had started in the cluttered office of Harry Bennett and now was ending in a warm, inviting kitchen on the edge of the Quabbin Reservoir, in a little town that time seemed to have forgotten.

She still smelled like the fire at the cider mill, though.

Maybe a bath with the goat’s milk soap would help.

Four

Justin knew he was in trouble with Olivia, but it wasn’t unexpected. She’d been giving him a hard time ever since she and her little friend Maggie O’Dunn had caught him and a couple of his brothers raising hell out by Frost Millworks when they were teenagers. Now Maggie was married to his younger brother Brandon, and Olivia was engaged to a California multimillionaire.

And he’d just dumped a problem on her doorstep.

Samantha Bennett. Treasure hunter, expert on pirates and a woman who had an uneasy relationship with the truth. What was it Duncan McCaffrey had told him?

“Samantha Bennett isn’t your problem, Justin. She’s my problem.”

Justin watched as Olivia picked up a yellow mum in a clay pot and glared at him. “I know you’ve had a rough day with the fire at the mill, but could you be any more brusque?”

He winked at her. “Yeah, probably.”

She tucked the pot under one arm. “Samantha needs a little time to get her feet back under her. You did the right thing bringing her here.”

He suspected Samantha already had her feet back under her, but he made no comment.

“What was she doing out at the mill?” Olivia asked.

“She says she’d been following Cider Brook and ducked into the mill when the storm hit. We didn’t get into details.”

Olivia tilted her head back, frowning at him. “Justin, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yep.”

“Sounds as if you arrived at the mill just in time.”

“I stopped by after the storm. I knew it’d gone right through there, and I wanted to check for damage. Figured at most I’d run into a fallen tree.”

“Instead the place was on fire.” Olivia let out a breath. “Really scary, Justin. Was Samantha trapped inside?”

“Overcome with smoke. She was right by the door. Rescue was a piece of cake.”

“That’s what you always say.”

Probably so, he thought. He’d learned a long time ago that if he dwelled on the dangers and the might-have-beens of his life, he’d never do anything. He trusted his training, preparation and experience. Beyond that—not much he could do. Which wasn’t to say that discovering a semiconscious woman overcome by deadly smoke in his old cider mill hadn’t taken a toll.

He appreciated the cool breeze in the wake of the storm. It helped clear his head. He wanted to talk to Dylan about Samantha Bennett.

He realized Olivia was eyeing him with concern. He preferred her scowls to outright worry, but she said, amiably, “You’re welcome to stay for dinner, Justin.”

“I’m good. Dylan’s up the road?”

She nodded. “He rode out the storm in his car. As I said, it wasn’t that bad here.”

“Olivia,” Justin said, “if you’re not sure it’s okay for Samantha to stay here—”

“I’m sure. I imagine she’s still in shock. She might not be able to grasp how close she came to real harm.” Olivia took in an audible breath. She’d had close calls of her own and was palpably tense, as if she were picturing Samantha collapsing in the burning mill. She seemed to give herself a mental shake. “I’ll keep that in mind tonight.”

“Dylan will be here, right? He’s not going out of town?”

“He’ll be here.” Olivia smiled and leaned toward him. “You’re free to go, Justin. Your good deed for the day is done.”

She’d always thought it about killed him to be nice. He pointed at the mum in her arm. “I like the yellow.” He grinned. “Autumnal.”

“You’d say that no matter what color it was.”

He laughed. “Probably. See you around, Liv. Call if you need me.”

He returned to his truck, aware she was still frowning at him. As he got in and started the engine, she set the yellow mum off to one side at the base of the kitchen steps. He doubted arranging flowers was foremost on her mind. She had good instincts. She’d sense he hadn’t told her everything he knew about her guest.

Justin’s grip tightened on the wheel. Was Samantha helping herself to applesauce in Olivia’s kitchen?

Thinking about taking a crowbar to the walls in search of pirate treasure?

Looking for a place to hide his padlock?

In the immediate aftermath of the fire, bringing her to Carriage Hill had made sense. Now he wondered if he should have left her to her own devices. But that hadn’t been a viable option. One, because of who she was. Two, because she’d had a scare and shouldn’t be on her own out in the woods.

But mostly because of who she was.

She was younger and more attractive than he would have guessed from the one glimpse he’d had of her two and a half years ago. He hadn’t recognized her when he grabbed her out of the mill and plunked her down by the brook, her face smudged with grime and just pale enough that he had no doubt the fire had affected her. She had golden-brown curls that framed angular features, dark, almond-shaped eyes and a full mouth. She’d struck him as a curious mix of unflappable and vulnerable.

Then again, who wouldn’t look a touch vulnerable after escaping a fire?

But that was before he’d learned her name.

He’d been tempted to rifle through her backpack when he’d retrieved it from the mill, but he had a feeling most of the interesting stuff was in her jacket. She was the type to grab any incriminating evidence at the first smell of smoke.

Maybe he should have driven her to Amherst or Boston—away from Knights Bridge.

Or just loaned her a damn tent.

* * *

It was almost dark when he pulled into the gravel driveway just up the road from The Farm at Carriage Hill and parked behind Dylan McCaffrey’s Audi sedan. A new house and barn were going up on the site where Grace Webster, a retired teacher now in her nineties, had lived for more than seventy years. Dylan’s father had bought the property from Grace but hadn’t told his only son. Dylan had found out this past spring, when Olivia had contacted him about the mess in his yard. Before that, he’d never even heard of Knights Bridge.

Justin knew Grace, but she’d been long retired when he was in school. She’d moved to Knights Bridge as a teenager with her father and grandmother. After they’d died, she stayed on in their simple house and taught high-school Latin and English. She never married and had just moved into an assisted living facility in town when Duncan, a respected treasure hunter, had shown up and bought her crumbling old house.

Duncan had died a few months later while on an expedition in Portugal, without revealing the reasons for his interest in Knights Bridge. Dylan had figured out the truth on his own. His father hadn’t come to the little Massachusetts town for treasure but to investigate a long-dead British jewel thief and the young woman he’d met while on the run more than seventy years ago. Grace Webster and Philip Rankin were star-crossed lovers and Duncan’s birth parents.

Philip, a Royal Air Force flyer, had been killed early in World War II and never returned to Grace. She’d secretly delivered their baby boy—Duncan—who’d been adopted by a Boston couple. Grace had never held her son and had never seen him again, until he’d ventured to Knights Bridge seventy years later.

It was a hell of a story that had taken Justin and everyone else in Knights Bridge by surprise, but it had changed Dylan’s life. He had fallen for Olivia Frost and was making a home in Knights Bridge, launching the adventure travel business his father had dreamed they would start together one day.

Not one to let the grass grow under him, Dylan had hired a local architect, drawn up plans for a house and barn that could be used for the business and enlisted Sloan & Sons to do the construction. Justin—one of the sons—was in charge of the project. The foundations were in, and he anticipated finishing basic exterior work before cold weather set in. The original house hadn’t been worth saving. Grace had often said she had considered tearing it down and wasn’t at all sad to see it go, although she’d been pleased when Dylan had put aside bits and pieces to incorporate into the new house.

Olivia was involved in every decision about the construction, particularly those having to do with color. Dylan, she maintained, would default to “cappuccino” if she didn’t step in. Justin had never pictured her with a Southern California businessman and former hockey player worth upward of a hundred million, but no question she and Dylan were right together—a good thing since they were planning a Christmas wedding at Carriage Hill.

As Justin got out of his truck, he noticed the air had cooled even more in the time it had taken for the short drive. The unseasonable humidity had gone with the line of thunderstorms that had moved through. He walked up the driveway to a stack of two-by-fours that had been delivered just before the storm. Dylan was adjusting a blue tarp over the lumber. He wore a sweater, jeans and boots, looking like any other guy in Knights Bridge—except he wasn’t like any other guy in Knights Bridge.

Dylan stood straight. “I just talked to Olivia. She told me about the fire. She said you dropped off the woman you rescued. Damn, Justin. Hell of a day’s work.”

“It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“I imagine this woman thinks otherwise.”

Justin wasn’t too sure about that. “Her name’s Samantha Bennett.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “Someone I should know?”

He obviously didn’t recognize her name. Justin wasn’t surprised, although he would have less explaining to do if Dylan was familiar with her. “She’s not from town.”

“So I gathered.” Dylan, known for his keen instincts about people, stood back. “What’s going on, Justin?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Your father had me out here when he was in town. I mentioned I’d seen a woman checking out the place a couple of weeks before that. I thought she was his daughter or an assistant or something, but he got quiet, asked me to describe her. He recognized her right away. He told me her name was Samantha Bennett, and she worked for him as an expert on pirates.”

“Pirates.”

“That’s right. He said she was his problem.” Justin left it there. “I never thought much about our conversation after that.”

Dylan nodded thoughtfully. “My father never liked the term treasure hunter. He loved the work, and he was serious about it. I don’t recall him mentioning pirates or a pirate expert—or this woman. Not that he would have. I wasn’t involved in his treasure hunting. Most of his unfinished projects have been taken over by colleagues. I’ve only just started sorting out the orphaned ones.”

“Maybe Samantha is in town to get in on one of them.” Justin rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the effects of fighting the fire. Hauling Samantha Bennett out of the mill hadn’t been a strain at all. She couldn’t weigh more than a few sticks of lumber. “I don’t know what she’s up to, Dylan, but maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to have her stay at Carriage Hill.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be there.”

Justin pulled at the tarp, letting loose a small pool of water from the earlier downpour. It streamed onto the ground. “When I described her to your father, it was clear she hadn’t told him she’d been out here.”

Dylan winced. “He wouldn’t like that. Trust was important to him. He worked hard to establish and maintain his reputation. He didn’t take well to anything that might threaten it.”

“Understandable.”

“That doesn’t mean he was thorough. He thought he was good at reading people. He hated taking the time to check people out, even people he hired. He relied on his gut. Usually it worked out, but maybe not in this case.” Dylan looked out at the rolling fields behind his house, dark now with the increasingly shorter days of autumn. “I didn’t know my father had come to Knights Bridge, and I’m his son. How did Samantha Bennett find out?”

“I don’t know.” Justin placed a rock on top of the tarp to hold it in place. “We only had that one conversation about her.”

“Did you recognize her today?”

“Just her name. I don’t know why I remembered it, but I did.”

“And it’s the same Samantha Bennett?”

“Doubt there are two, don’t you?”

Dylan nodded, sighing. “My father never mentioned her to me, but he wouldn’t have. Treasure hunting was his passion.” Dylan’s voice was laced with pain and loss, but he maintained his composure. “Hell, I miss him. I guess I always will.”

“I see that as a good thing,” Justin said simply.

“Yeah, me, too. Anyway, having Samantha stay at Carriage Hill gives us a chance to find out who she is and what she’s up to.”

“I doubt she knows I’m the one who told Duncan about her.”

“Just as well, maybe.”

Justin shrugged. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re not the worrying type,” Dylan said with a grin that quickly faded. “I’ll call Loretta and see if she knows anything about her.”

Justin had met Loretta Wrentham, Dylan’s longtime San Diego attorney and friend, when she’d blown in and out of Knights Bridge a few weeks ago. He’d spent less than ten minutes with her but could easily believe she would be someone Dylan would turn to about a mysterious woman from his father’s past.

“Let me know if I can do anything,” Justin said.

“Will do. Thanks for stopping by. My father and I got along, but we didn’t spend much time together his last few years. I guess we thought there would be more time than there was. He didn’t tell me everything, as you know.”

“I can go back and get Samantha if you change your mind.”

“There’s plenty of room at Carriage Hill. She must be exhausted after today.” Dylan eyed him with obvious concern. “You, too, Justin.”

“I’m good. Just need a beer and a good night’s sleep.” He started back to his truck. “Give a yell if I can do anything.”

“You saved a woman’s life today. I think that’s enough.” Dylan paused, then added, “Besides, my father was right. Samantha Bennett isn’t your problem.”

Justin got into his truck and pulled the door shut. The fire, the padlock. Pirates.

Somehow he doubted he’d heard the last of the dark-eyed woman whose butt he’d just saved.

Five

Instead of calling it a night, Justin headed back to the cider mill. He parked his truck, got out his flashlight and navigated the pitted patch of dirt that passed for a driveway. Cider Brook was quieter now that the immediate rush from the downpour had eased. He ducked under the yellow caution tape his fellow firefighters had strung up, the bitter, unmistakable smell of smoke and burnt wood still heavy in the sharply cooler air.

He pointed the beam of his flashlight at the mill door. It didn’t show any obvious damage from where he’d kicked it in earlier that afternoon.

A moth fluttered in the light and disappeared.

He’d bought the property a year ago when the town, which had seized it due to unpaid back taxes, had put it up for sale. His brothers, sister, father, mother, uncle, grandmother and everyone else who had voiced their opinions—all of them unsolicited—said he should convert the mill into a residence or, better yet, tear it down and build a new house. Then sell the property at a profit. He didn’t disagree that would be the practical thing to do. It made a hell of a lot more sense than thinking he would find pirate treasure out here.

He turned and shone his flashlight at the small millpond and spillway and across the brook to a stone wall that had once marked off farmland and now snaked into the woods. How could he sell this place?

Not that he knew what he would do with it.

He heard an owl hooting in the dark trees and turned back to the mill.

“I like the name Cider Brook. Pretty, isn’t it?”

Yeah, but it wasn’t what had drawn attractive Samantha Bennett to Knights Bridge.

Justin gritted his teeth and went into the mill. The smoke and burnt-wood smells were stronger. He shone his flashlight on the blackened wall and floor where the fire had done its damage. He hadn’t planned to stop at the mill today. He only had because of the storm’s path. He’d ridden it out in his truck. He hadn’t been in a hurry to get out here, and it was by chance he’d arrived in time to call in the fire before it devoured the mill.

And by chance he’d arrived in time to save Samantha.

She struck him as the sort who relied on miracles.

He’d just known that whoever had broken into his mill was in danger. He’d acted quickly, certain the situation was worsening and time wasn’t on his side.

It’d been a cinch to lift Samantha and carry her out to the brook. She was small but obviously fit—strong legs, flat abdomen, and she’d recovered immediately when he’d dumped her in the wet grass.

All the junk she’d stuffed in her safari jacket hadn’t seemed to get in her way.

He shifted the stream of light to the things she’d left behind. He hadn’t lied to her about her tent and sleeping bag. They were in a trampled, sodden heap. He pictured her stretched out in her sleeping bag. He had no doubt she hadn’t thought twice about being alone out here in the dark.

Why had she decided to come to Knights Bridge now?

Why alone?

He sucked in a breath. Picturing her in a sleeping bag wasn’t helping him. He squatted by her destroyed camping gear and maneuvered his flashlight beam to the edge of the tent and then past it to something that caught his eye. He held the light steady on a red-covered journal or notebook. It looked intact, as if it had been dropped or had fallen there after the fire. Had it fallen out of Samantha’s backpack when he’d grabbed it for her? He’d been in a rush. Preoccupied. He could easily not have noticed.

He picked up the notebook. The cover was a little wet, but the inside pages looked to be dry, with no sign of fire damage.

Definitely a journal of some kind.

He tucked his flashlight under one arm and opened to a title page.

Notes on Captain Benjamin Farraday, Pirate and Privateer.

Please return to Samantha Bennett.

Neatly printed on the lines provided were her email address, telephone number and a Boston post office box.

Justin stood back. “Well, well.”

He took the journal with him and headed back outside. He could drive to Carriage Hill and return Samantha’s journal to her.

Or he could hold on to it, at least for now.

Either way, she would discover it was missing at some point, and she would want it back.

He had no desire to read her personal notes. He wasn’t the sneaky type. At the same time...

“Pirates.”

Damn.

He heard vehicles out on the road, through the woods. In another minute, a truck and a Jeep drove into the small clearing. All four of his brothers got out of the vehicles—Eric, the eldest, and their three younger brothers, Brandon, Adam and Christopher.

They had a six-pack and wood for a fire.

“Just like the old days,” Brandon said. “Except then it used to be a keg.”

“Sloan solidarity,” Eric said. He’d changed into jeans like his younger brothers.

Adam, who also worked with Sloan & Sons, dumped an armload of cordwood into a fire circle on the edge of the driveway. “Christopher says you pulled this woman out of the fire in the nick of time.”

Brandon grinned. “Our brother, the hero.”

“I just was here at the right time to help,” Justin said with a shrug.

“How’d she get into the mill?” Christopher asked. “Don’t you keep it locked?”

“She either broke the lock or picked it,” Eric said. “Or it wasn’t intact—”

“It was intact.” Justin heard the abruptness in his own voice. Olivia would have scowled at him, but his brothers barely noticed. “Good that she got herself out of the storm,” he said, less irritably.

“Better the mill caught fire than she was struck by lightning,” Christopher said.

Justin nodded. “Agreed.”

They left it at that and got the fire going and the six-pack opened. In a little while, more of the crew who fought the fire turned up, all of them volunteers like Justin.

Time to decompress.

An hour later, the impromptu gathering broke up. Eric insisted on driving Justin’s truck back to the converted antique sawmill where Justin had an apartment a few miles away, on another stream. The mid-nineteenth-century sawmill was owned by Randy and Louise Frost, Olivia’s parents. They ran a custom millwork business up the hill, on the same property. Their younger daughter, Jessica, had vacated the sawmill apartment a few weeks ago, ahead of her wedding that Saturday. Justin was renovating the place in exchange for rent.

He and Eric got out of the truck. Stars glittered in the night sky, and a quarter moon had appeared above the dark silhouette of trees.

“A missing padlock isn’t much to go on,” Eric said, “but let me know if you have any concerns about this woman.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“You know more about her than you’re saying, don’t you?”

Justin debated a half beat, then said, “Some. Not much.”

“I see. Well, I don’t see, but I’ll leave you to it.”

Christopher pulled up in his Jeep. Eric hesitated, then climbed in without another word. He was engaged to a great woman, a paramedic. Christopher was seeing someone in Amherst. Justin doubted it would go anywhere.

He wasn’t seeing anyone. Hadn’t in a while. Which wasn’t like him at all.

He climbed the narrow stairs to the small apartment. He’d added a few things of his own, but most of the furniture belonged to the Frosts. He’d always lived in Knights Bridge and always would, but he didn’t need a permanent address at this stage in his life.

His head was clear. He’d only had one beer. Eric had insisted on driving him because of the close call today, for him and for the woman he’d found in his burning mill.

He tossed Samantha’s journal onto the coffee table and sat on the couch.

Notes on Captain Benjamin Farraday, Pirate and Privateer.

“Uh-huh. Pirates. No surprise, Samantha. No surprise.”

Justin picked up a small wooden box he kept on a side table and placed it in his lap. He removed the lid and set it on the couch next to him, then lifted out a small padded envelope. He opened the envelope and slid out a gold coin about three inches in diameter, with faded etching. He’d found it at the cider mill as a teenager and figured it wasn’t worth much. He’d never had it appraised, but he’d thought it was worth keeping, a memento of the mill’s past.

He wasn’t one to hang on to things—he could move in one trip with his truck—but the coin was one of the few possessions he had never thrown out, given away or sold.

Now he wondered if the old coin had something to do with Samantha Bennett and her Captain Farraday.

He returned the coin to its envelope and closed up the box again.

He would take a shower and get something to eat, but he doubted he would get much sleep.

Six

Samantha opened a small bar of pure goat’s milk soap handmade at The Farm at Carriage Hill and breathed in its light lavender scent. The packaging was as charming and sophisticated as the inn itself. Olivia Frost did have an artistic eye.

“I’m lucky I know how to match a pair of socks,” Samantha said aloud, turning on the water in the shower as hot as she could stand. A bath was tempting but out of the question. As tired as she was, she would go straight down the drain.

The private bathroom, off her pretty room at the top of the stairs, was small and perfect, with a sparkling white tub, pedestal sink and fluffy towels. Framed prints of herbs decorated the walls, and an oval mirror reflected her soot-smudged face back at her. All she could think was that she looked like hell. In Justin’s place, she would have suggested a night at Carriage Hill, too. Still, she couldn’t help but think she should have curled up with a blanket in the woods.

She peeled off her smoky clothes and noticed her right knee was slightly bruised. She figured she must have hit the deck in the midst of the fire with more force than she realized at the time. Her muscles ached all over, undoubtedly from tension. Justin hadn’t hurt her when he’d carried her out of the mill. He’d known what he was doing and had been efficient but also very gentle, even if it had been his property on fire.

She stepped into the tub, welcoming the hot water and steam. The goat’s milk soap was mild but worked well on her accumulation of dirt, mud, soot and sweat. A pleasant-smelling shampoo cut through the grime in her hair, and a dab of conditioner got rid of any remaining tangles in her short curls. She’d never been any good at fussing with her hair.

Clean and calmer, she wrapped up in a soft white towel and went back into the bedroom. She gathered up her smoky clothes and stuffed them into a garbage bag that she kept in her backpack for various purposes. It could even be used as an emergency shelter, but not a comfortable one, certainly not compared to The Farm at Carriage Hill. Her room was decorated in an attractive, soothing combination of vintage and contemporary furnishings and eclectic odds and ends. The queen-size bed was covered in soft white linens, throw pillows embroidered with herbs and wildflowers and a down comforter. A dresser, mirror and side chair were painted in shades of green that she wouldn’t have thought went together but somehow did.

She resisted the temptation to collapse onto the bed. She’d told Olivia she’d meet her downstairs for a light dinner. She had no idea if Dylan would be back from the house he and Olivia were building up the road. Olivia had explained that he was staying late, making a few calls and doing a bit of work at the construction trailer.

Samantha stood at one of the two windows that looked out toward Quabbin, no lights visible in the seemingly endless dark woods. She would have loved to have followed Cider Brook into the reservoir, but she suspected she would have ended up camping at the cider mill, even without the storm.

A hike, a wild thunderstorm, a fire.

Rescued by a taciturn, good-looking firefighter.

Secrets.

No wonder she was struggling to get her bearings.

Her phone vibrated with a text message. She sat on the edge of the bed and saw the text was from Caleb. Cider mill fire? Was that you?

Of course he’d found out. Samantha texted him back. Yes. Lightning.

You okay?

Yep. How’d you know?

Internet. Need me to fetch you?

All she needed now was to have Caleb Bennett burst into town. He wouldn’t be discreet. He never was—it wasn’t in his nature. He was larger-than-life, impossible to ignore and not the least bit subtle. He would do anything for her, but he wasn’t in New England because of her. He was here to visit colleges with his son.

Besides, she still had work to do.

No, thanks, she texted.

Where are you staying?

She debated, then decided on a vague answer. Knights Bridge.

Don’t get arrested.

Samantha didn’t respond. She dug through her backpack and pulled out a change of clothes that didn’t smell too much of smoke.

A fresh sweater, fresh jeans—she felt more like herself again.

She hung her safari jacket on the back of a painted wooden chair and felt the weight of its contents. She withdrew the documents pouch and set it on the bedside table, thinking of plucky Lady Elizabeth as she adjusted to life aboard her pirate ship.

Lady Elizabeth dreamed of castle gardens and the sweet scents of lavender and roses, but she woke to the smells of whiskey, rum and men. It wasn’t a nightmare. She was trapped in a claustrophobic berth on a pirate ship. Home was far, far away.

For poor Lady Elizabeth, it had been out of the frying pan of being kidnapped by her father’s enemy and into the fire of being rescued by a notorious pirate. After today, Samantha supposed she could identify with the eighteenth-century British aristocrat and her plight more than she had the first time she’d gone through the rousing handwritten pages.

Of course, she hadn’t been kidnapped and rescued on the high seas. If things didn’t work out for her at Carriage Hill, she could just call a cab or a car service and be back in Boston in a couple hours.

* * *

Steep, narrow stairs landed Samantha in an entry hall with the same wide pine-board floor that extended into the adjoining living room and dining room, each with painted wainscoting and fireplaces off the same center chimney. The living room was quiet and inviting with its casual sofa and chairs and end tables stacked with books on decorating, herbs and soap making. In her room at her grandfather’s house in Boston, she had dozens of books on pirates, privateers, eighteenth-century sailing ships and Colonial New England. She didn’t own a single book on anything remotely crafty or design-oriented, but she appreciated Olivia’s obvious talents.

She continued into the cozy kitchen. A big pot of soup was simmering on the gas stove. She’d enjoyed her helping of applesauce earlier and hadn’t thought she would want anything else tonight, except maybe a sip of Scotch, but now she realized she was starving.

The big dog burst through the back door into the mudroom, Olivia right behind him with his leash in hand. She’d introduced him as Buster when she’d shown Samantha to her room. He ran to her, wagging his tail. “He’s obviously taken to you,” Olivia said, hanging the leash on a hook. “We’ve been working on his socialization skills. He showed up here this past spring, about the same time I did. He was rambunctious at first.”

Samantha patted him. “He seems very friendly.”

“He does have his moments. We took a good walk down the road, but he would have stayed out longer if I’d let him.” Olivia shivered as she entered the kitchen. “It’s chilly out there. I wonder if today was the last gasp of summer. Buster’s going to love fall, I think. He likes to chase every leaf he sees.”

“That could get to be a challenge when the leaves really start falling.” Samantha stood back as Buster abandoned her and flopped down by the mudroom door. “I’ve never owned a dog. Too many moves.”

Olivia peered into the bubbling soup pot. “Where do you live now?”

Nowhere. “I’m on the road a lot. I’ve been in Boston lately.” Samantha stifled an unexpected yawn. “I’m more worn-out than I thought I’d be. Adrenaline as much as anything.”

“I imagine so.” Olivia grabbed a long-handled spoon from a pottery crock. “Most women in Knights Bridge would tell you that one consolation of being caught in a fire would be getting rescued by a Sloan.”

“It happened so fast, I’m not sure it would have made any difference who hauled me out of there.”

“Trust me. Better a Sloan than my father. He’s been a volunteer firefighter for thirty years. He’d have managed, but it wouldn’t have been the same as having Justin rescue you.”

Samantha eased onto a chair at the white-painted table in front of a double window, its curtains shut against the dark night. She could feel Justin’s arms around her. He hadn’t hesitated. “All the firefighters seemed to know what to do.”

“They’re a good crew.”

“It was my first fire.”

“And I hope your last,” Olivia said as she gave the soup a quick stir.

Samantha noticed a small basket of some kind of whole-grain bread already on the table, but her mind was on the events of the afternoon. She almost jumped at the memory of the fierce bolt of lightning and simultaneous clap of thunder.

“You okay, Samantha?”

“Yes, thanks. Sorry. I was thinking about the storm. I think the lightning struck before I got into the mill and the fire smoldered for a few minutes before it took hold. I wish I’d noticed sooner. By the time I did notice...” She sat up straight, focusing on her surroundings. “There was nothing I could do. Even if I’d managed to get out of the mill safely on my own—and I’m sure I would have—I never would have been able to call in the fire in time to save the mill.”

Olivia set her spoon crosswise over the bubbling pot. “It’s a great old place, but no one would have blamed you if it had burned up.”

“Does Justin work in town? Is that how he can serve as a volunteer firefighter?”

“He’s a carpenter. One of the Sloans of Sloan & Sons. They’re based up on Cider Brook above the mill. They’re doing the construction on the house and barn Dylan and I are building up the road.”

Samantha almost jumped out of her chair. Justin Sloan was a carpenter? She forced herself to contain her reaction. He wasn’t the only carpenter in town, obviously, and he hadn’t shown any sign he recognized her. A different carpenter—even a different Sloan—could have spotted her two years ago, described her to Duncan and ended up ruining everything for her.

Olivia watched her with obvious concern. Samantha pulled herself together. “How many Sloan sons are there?” she asked.

“Five.”

“I met three of them this afternoon. Justin, Eric and Christopher.”

“Eric is the eldest, then Justin, Brandon, Adam and Christopher. There’s also a sister, Heather, the youngest. She was born after the company was already named.”

“Five older brothers?”

“Yes, but don’t pity her. She can hold her own with anyone, including her brothers. Justin, Brandon, Adam and Heather all work full-time for Sloan & Sons. Brandon is also getting involved in adventure travel with Dylan. He’s married to my friend Maggie. They just moved back here from Boston.”

“Long story?”

Olivia laughed. “There are no short stories in Knights Bridge, I swear. The Sloans are a big family. Knights Bridge wouldn’t be Knights Bridge without them. What about you?”

“I’m an only child.” Samantha decided not to try to explain her family further.

Olivia got two pottery bowls out of a cupboard and set them on the butcher-block island. “It’s potato-leek soup. All right with you?”

“Perfect. Thank you, but please don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all. We have one restaurant in town and a couple more out by the highway, but you’re tired. If soup’s all right—”

“Soup is perfect. It smells wonderful.”

“It’s my own recipe. We also have apple cake.” She pointed at an iced cake under glass on a pedestal on the counter. “I’ve already had a taste. It’s outrageously fantastic. Maggie dropped it off before the storm. She and her sons picked the apples themselves. She’s a caterer, but it’s her grandmother’s recipe.”

Samantha felt herself relaxing in Olivia’s easy company. “How could I resist an invitation like that?”

Olivia smiled. “You’re not meant to.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Not a thing. Just relax. Maggie slipped a few handfuls of herbs in the soup. Parsley, thyme and chives, I think. We’re still harvesting herbs from the gardens out back. I’m lucky the house came with such well-established landscaping. Anyway, we’ve been drying herbs, freezing herbs, trying out new recipes with herbs. It’s fun.” Olivia brought the two bowls to the table. “We’re even trying our hand at our own herbal essential oils.”

“I’m lucky if I can tell parsley from basil,” Samantha said as she breathed in the fragrant steam rising from the soup.

Olivia went to the counter and opened a drawer, producing silverware and bright yellow cloth napkins. “I know what you mean. I’ve gotten better at it. Just to add to the fun, there’s more than one kind of parsley and basil.” She placed the silverware and napkins on the table and sat across from Samantha. “I’ve no doubt Dylan’s life would go on quite happily if he never heard me say ‘herb’ again.”

Buster wandered over from the mudroom and squeezed under the table. Samantha placed her napkin on her lap and lifted her spoon, and tried to concentrate on the smell of the soup instead of the memory of the fire.

“You’re done in, aren’t you?” Olivia set her own spoon down. “You don’t have to sit here, Samantha. Why don’t you finish your supper in your room?”

“I’m more tired than I expected.”

“I can make some chamomile tea and bring it up—with a piece of cake, of course. If I’d just survived a fire and could only eat one thing, it’d be Maggie’s apple cake.”

Samantha ate some of her soup. She had to rein in her emotions. Second-guessing her every move and every decision wouldn’t get her anywhere. “I can’t thank you enough, Olivia. I know I’m here on very short notice.”

“No notice, but that’s Justin for you. Everyone in Knights Bridge knows the easiest way to get along with him is just to do what he wants. It’s like that with all the Sloans. Even Heather.” Olivia smiled. “But we love them all.”

Samantha hoped her own dealings with the Sloans had ended that afternoon. She wanted to know more about the cider mill, but she would figure out a way to get information without involving its present owner.

“Knights Bridge seems like a great town,” she said.

“I love it,” Olivia said without hesitation. “I lived in Boston for a while, but I always wanted to come back home to Knights Bridge. Dylan still has a house in San Diego. Coronado, actually. We were just out there. It’s gorgeous.”

“Will you two divide your time between here and San Diego?”

“We’ll see. I’m trying not to launch myself too far into the future.”

Samantha stood up from the table, her legs steadier under her than she would have guessed they would be. The soup and conversation had helped. She hadn’t touched the bread. As good as it looked, her mind was now on cake and snuggling under the comforter in her pretty room upstairs.

Waiting until morning to meet Dylan McCaffrey seemed like a smart idea, too.

“You definitely look beat,” Olivia said, easing to her feet. “I’ll get you your cake.”

She went to the counter, lifting the glass lid off the round, double-layer cake, just the tiniest sliver already cut out of it. She grabbed a knife from a rack and cut a generous slice of the cake, setting it on a small plate.

Samantha stifled a yawn. “I guess I am falling over.”

“Please, go on up to your room and relax.”

“Tea, cake and a warm bed do sound great right now.”

“I’ll make tea and bring it up with the cake.” Olivia raised a hand, stifling any protest from Samantha. “I’m happy to do it. You’ve had a tough day. Relax and make yourself at home.”

Samantha was tempted to tell Olivia about her connection to Dylan’s father. She hadn’t lied, but she hadn’t been forthcoming, either. She was too rattled to trust herself to be able to explain properly. She didn’t want to end up causing more problems than she solved.

Best to head up to her room, keep to herself and call it a night.

* * *

After her cake and tea, Samantha changed into her flannel pajamas—which didn’t smell that smoky—and sat cross-legged on her bed under the comforter, her back against an array of fluffy pillows.

She breathed deeply, listening to an owl outside her window.

It was such a tranquil spot.

She knew how to settle in to new places. A ship sailing the Caribbean Sea, a friend’s apartment in Paris, her aunt and uncle’s house in the Cotswolds, her grandfather’s house in Boston and apartment in London. She had no home base of her own, but she’d always liked being able to pick up and leave a place without a lot of fuss. Her grandfather had enough possessions to keep her mind off anything she might want to buy for herself. She couldn’t figure out what he’d wanted even with a tenth of what she’d sorted through so far.

The owl went quiet. She couldn’t hear anything now, not a passing car, not even a breeze. She couldn’t see Duncan ever making his home in Knights Bridge. He’d seemed more suited to Los Angeles, where she’d first met him—after she’d heard about his interest in Knights Bridge and she’d ventured out here.

She lifted her documents pouch off the bedside table and opened it, pulling out the copy of the tri-folded, yellowed handwritten pages she’d found in her grandfather’s office closet. The original was still safe at his Boston house. As painstaking and tedious as it could be at times, Samantha had to admit that going through his cluttered house and apartment had brought her closer to him. She knew him better in some ways now than she ever had in his long life.

She smiled at the feminine cursive handwriting.

The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth

She had no idea how the captivating tale had ended up in her grandfather’s possession, or what it could possibly have to do with the real Benjamin Farraday or a painting of a nineteenth-century New England cider mill.

She put the pages aside and pulled out a 1903 map of the Swift River Valley, then an idyllic setting of picturesque towns and villages. She carefully unfolded the worn, yellowed sheet onto the comforter. The towns of Prescott, Enfield, Dana and Greenwich lay before her. By most accounts, they had been blissful places, but as early as the late-nineteenth century, engineers and politicians had eyed the valley as a potential site for a massive reservoir, given its abundance of streams, rivers and lakes. Less than a hundred miles from Boston, the valley’s upland location meant a reservoir there could deliver water through an elaborate aqueduct by gravity alone, eliminating the need for artificial filtration. The planners had been right. Damming Beaver Brook and the three branches of the Swift River that wound through the valley had solved Boston’s water problem for the foreseeable future. It had also dislocated thousands of people.

Samantha ran her fingertips over lakes, roads and landmarks that were long gone from the landscape. So few were left who remembered life in the lost towns. She touched hills where children once sledded that were now uninhabited islands surrounded by the beautiful waters of the reservoir. She traced the twists and turns of the middle branch of the Swift River, long before it had been allowed to overflow its banks and flood the surrounding valley.

She located the faded line that was Cider Brook.

What if she’d simply told Duncan McCaffrey the truth?

But she hadn’t, and not without reason.

Seven

Loretta Wrentham paced in her La Jolla living room. She didn’t want to fly back East to Knights Bridge. She’d been there recently, and it was a pleasant town and the people were nice—but she didn’t want to go again this soon. She would be flying out there for Dylan and Olivia’s Christmas wedding, and she had things to do at home.

Such as figure out what to do about this Hollywood private investigator.

Damn him.

His name was Julius Hartley, and he was a smart, sardonic, all-too-good-looking, all-too-knowing divorced father of two grown daughters. He was sitting on her butter-colored leather couch with one arm across the back and one leg thrown over the other as he watched her pace. He had on golf clothes and looked as if he’d just stepped out of an expensive country club. Loretta hated golf.

He was also a private investigator for a law firm in Los Angeles. She swore he knew where every skeleton in Southern California was buried, locked or cremated.

One of those skeletons had brought him to her attention in August and then led to her traveling with him to Knights Bridge.

It was all crazy, confusing, complicated and more fun than either of them had had in a long time.

Without pausing, Loretta threaded her fingers through her short gray hair. She’d stopped dyeing it when she’d turned fifty. Instead of thinking she was older because of the gray, people thought she was younger. Hell if she could figure out that one, but she was good with it.

Julius uncrossed his legs and put both feet flat on her floor. “What do you know about Samantha Bennett?”

Loretta stopped dead in her tracks. “Samantha Bennett? Why do you ask?”

He shrugged, all innocence. “I overheard you on the phone with Dylan.”

Of course. That made sense. Julius might not even have been eavesdropping, although she wouldn’t put it past him. But she’d shrieked. Samantha Bennett was the last name she’d expected to hear Dylan utter. She hadn’t uttered it herself in the two years since his father’s death.

“You have to fire her, Duncan. You have no choice.”

“I know, I know.”

Loretta composed herself. She hadn’t told Dylan all or even a lot of what she knew about Samantha. She needed time to get her bearings. She’d promised to call him later tonight or in the morning. He’d been intrigued but patient, obviously sensing that he’d stepped into another emotional minefield that involved his late father.

Samantha Bennett.

Of all the people from Duncan’s past to turn up, why her?

“You can tell me what’s going on,” Julius said. “I won’t tell Dylan.”

“I’m not keeping secrets. I’m just...” She reined in her irritation. She wasn’t one to be at a loss for words. “I need to think.”

“She’s a treasure hunter? This Samantha Bennett?”

Loretta gave a reluctant nod. “She specializes in pirates and privateers who roamed the East Coast and Caribbean in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.”

“Jack Sparrow.”

“Real pirates, Julius. Blackbeard, William Kidd, ‘Black Sam’ Bellamy. That ilk.”

“Cool.”

“It’s not cool. Samantha lied to Duncan about herself, and he fired her.”

“She lied? About what? And what does this have to do with you?”

Although Loretta hadn’t known Julius that long and had told him little about her past with the McCaffreys, he was adept at picking up on clues. “I wasn’t Duncan’s attorney if that’s what you’re asking. I work for Dylan. I never worked for Duncan.”

“I get that. Did you tell Duncan this Samantha lied and suggest he fire her?”

“I didn’t give him legal advice of any kind.”

“Not what I’m asking, Loretta.”

She knew it wasn’t. “Duncan discovered Samantha had sneaked into Knights Bridge between his visits. She didn’t tell him. Then she showed up in his office in Los Angeles. He hired her on the spot to work on his Portugal project. Once he found out she’d neglected to tell him some important details about herself, he couldn’t take the chance that she was spying on him.”

“Spying on him? To what end?”

“To get information she could use for herself.”

“Do an end run around him you mean? Get to some lost treasure before he did?”

“Possibly. Or just ruin his reputation.”

“Why would she want to do that?”

“I’m not saying she did.” Loretta stood by the open patio door and let the breeze hit her. She was hot. It was all this emotion. She turned back to Julius. “I’m saying Duncan couldn’t take that risk once he knew she hadn’t told him the truth about herself.”

Julius stretched out his legs and leaned back against the comfortable couch. He didn’t look emotional at all. “People lie all the time. Doesn’t always mean they’re up to anything underhanded.”

“Knights Bridge was too important to Duncan. I didn’t understand why at the time, but it wasn’t a part of his work as a treasure hunter. That Samantha inserted herself there and then lied about it was too much for him to ignore.”

Julius nodded. “I get that, too.”

“Then what don’t you get?”

“Why you’re pacing. Dylan’s a big boy. He can handle this woman if she’s up to something in Sleepy Hollow.”

Loretta plopped onto a chair across from him. She worked at her house—she had an office in a front room, with views of the street. She liked to see who was pulling into her driveway, and it allowed her to keep her living area separate. This room was home, where she relaxed and enjoyed looking out at her pool and the Pacific. Both were glistening now, with roses and bougainvillea along the pool fence adding splashes of bright red. She’d moved here before she’d known anything about ice hockey—before she’d met a driven young hockey player named Dylan McCaffrey. She’d worked with him throughout his years with the National Hockey League and then when he’d joined forces with Noah Kendrick and his high-tech entertainment company, NAK, Inc.

Dylan hadn’t heeded all her advice, but he’d done fine for himself. He was like a son to her. Noah was, too.

And now both of them had fallen in love with women from little Knights Bridge.

Loretta leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. She had to calm down. “There’s more. Samantha painted herself as a quiet researcher. Duncan hired her and took her under his wing.”

“I gather she isn’t a quiet researcher,” Julius said.

“She’s Harry Bennett’s granddaughter.”

Julius was silent a moment. “Ah. She’s not just any Bennett.”

“Her father is underwater explorer and salvage expert Malcolm Bennett. Her mother is Francesca Bennett, a prominent marine archaeologist, and her uncle is Caleb Bennett, a maritime historian and adventurer.”

“Didn’t Harry die in Antarctica?”

Loretta shook her head. “He survived a tough expedition fifty years ago and died three years ago at home in his bed at the ripe old age of ninety-six.”

“Duncan didn’t make the connection between his Bennett and the Bennetts?”

“He did not.”

“You’d think having a Bennett on his team would be an asset.”

“Maybe it would have been, but Samantha didn’t tell him—and he didn’t ask.”

“He didn’t check her out before he hired her? Why not?”

“He said he was distracted by his reasons for being in Knights Bridge—his search for his birth parents—but I think it had more to do with his nature. He didn’t like getting bogged down in details. He preferred to trust his instincts.”

“Did he have good instincts about people?” Julius asked.

“Sometimes. I don’t know.” Loretta sprang to her feet. “It’s a mess.”

Julius eyed her from the couch. “If Samantha slipped into Knights Bridge before she met Duncan, how did she know he was there?”

“She’s part of the treasure-hunting community.” Loretta realized she had resumed pacing in front of the patio doors. “Apparently word got out that he’d been to Knights Bridge. Everyone assumed it was for personal reasons, which it was.”

“So this Samantha heard he was there and tried to see him, missed him, and came out to L.A. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that she didn’t tell him. Duncan didn’t fire her because she’s a Bennett or because she sneaked into Knights Bridge. He fired her because she didn’t tell him the truth about herself. Trust is vital in the treasure-hunting world, given the stakes, the controversies.”

“It’s vital in any relationship,” Julius said.

Loretta frowned at him. “Yes. Right. I’m just pointing out its value in Duncan’s world.”

“He was worried this Bennett woman was a spy for her father or grandfather—”

“Her grandfather was already dead when she and Duncan met. He died the previous fall.”

“My point stands. Was she good at what she did for him?”

“Very good, apparently. She was in Portugal with him and his team right before he died. She was involved in planning that trip.”

“Not his fall, I hope.”

Loretta gave him a cool look. “Duncan had a heart attack. The heart attack caused his fall.”

Julius shrugged. “Don’t tell me it didn’t occur to you there was a connection.”

“You and I obviously live in different worlds, Julius, because you’re wrong, it didn’t occur to me. I knew this wouldn’t move your needle given the scandals and skulduggery you’ve unearthed up in Hollywood.”

“But this Samantha is sneaking around your Dylan, and that concerns you and therefore it definitely moves my needle.” He walked over to the patio doors and looked out at the pool, a classic kidney shape, its water sparkling under the blue sky. “How did Duncan find out what was up with Samantha? Did you investigate her for him?”

“Investigate isn’t the word I would use,” Loretta said, easing next to him. “I looked into her background once Duncan became aware she’d been to Knights Bridge. That by itself set off alarms. It wasn’t hard once I got started. She hadn’t lied so much as omitted things.”

“Why do you think she’s in Knights Bridge now?”

“Because Dylan’s there. Other than that, I don’t know.”

“Is she looking for treasure?”

“In Knights Bridge?”

Julius grimaced. “Right. What was I thinking? Goats, herbs, country roads, antique houses and hardheaded people. Although Duncan was after stolen British jewels. Think Samantha got wind of them?”

“I told you, I don’t know what she was up to then or now. I just know that she didn’t tell the truth, and Duncan fired her.”

“Did he give her a chance to explain?”

“Explain what? No. There was no point. He said he wanted her to go on her way.”

Julius looked at her. “Did you two discuss his work?”

His scrutiny made her feel self-conscious. It wasn’t like her. She shook off her discomfort and said, matter-of-fact, “I didn’t know Duncan that well. I’ve known Dylan for years, but I didn’t meet his father until a few months before his death.”

“Ah,” Julius said, knowing. “Regrets?”

“I don’t have a lot of serious regrets, but I’m in my fifties, Julius. You are, too.” She avoided his eye and watched the pool water ripple in a breeze. “If we don’t have regrets at our age, we haven’t been living.”

He slung an arm over her shoulders. “Does Dylan know about you and his father?”

She swallowed. “Yes, but we don’t discuss it.”

“Does that mean you’re not discussing it with me?”

“Tenfold.”

“Dylan had never heard the name Samantha Bennett until she showed up in Knights Bridge this afternoon?”

“That’s right. His father never told him about her. Neither did I. Why would I?”

Loretta didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she quickly relayed what Dylan had told her about the fire at an old cider mill up the road from Carriage Hill.

Julius grinned. “A cider mill? You’re kidding, right?”

“People could have been killed, Julius.”

“Yeah, but...” He shook his head. “All right, all right. I’m glad no one was hurt.”

“I haven’t told Dylan what I know about Samantha, but I will. Whatever she’s doing in Knights Bridge, he can handle her without my help.”

“You want to believe that, but you don’t.” Julius drew her close and kissed her on the top of her head. She was almost as tall as he was. “Let’s grab something to eat. You’re a desk lawyer, Loretta. You know contracts and money. You don’t have a sixth sense about people.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “And you do?”

“Damn straight. Come on. We can walk. It’ll be good for us.”

She grabbed a lightweight jacket, and they headed out. It was cool, but it would be cooler in Knights Bridge. She’d found she liked to check the weather there. She supposed it helped her feel as if she was still a part of Dylan’s life. The emotions of this new chapter in his life had hit her hard—harder than they would have, no doubt, if she hadn’t slept with his father during his last days. Duncan had died before their relationship had had a chance to move beyond a mad night of sex to wherever it could have gone.

Now, two years later, here she was holding hands with Julius Hartley. Was he a new chapter in her life, or was he a passing fling? A distraction?

“How can you walk in those shoes?” he asked her, interrupting her thoughts.

She glanced down at her strappy sandals. “They’re fine. What’s wrong with them?”

“The heels. Don’t they kill you?”

“I’m used to them. I like them. I think they make my legs look sexier, don’t you?”

“Sexier than what?”

She sighed. “Than without heels.”

“That’s one of those ‘do these jeans make me look fat’ questions women should never ask men, and men should never answer if they do.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Julius—”

“Your legs always look sexy.” He winked at her. “How’s that?”

“You sound like a prepared witness.”

“But you’re laughing.”

She tugged him closer to her. “Yes, I’m laughing.”

They walked a few blocks to her favorite seafood restaurant. It was early for dinner, but she’d worked through lunch, after a late rising thanks to Julius turning up last night. He said he’d had business in San Diego. She hoped she wasn’t out of her mind getting involved with him. She wasn’t worried about getting hurt. If he decided she was nuts and moved on, she would manage. She just didn’t want to hurt him.

They sat at a cozy round table overlooking the water below them. She gazed down at the waves. She loved this place. She’d grown up here and had moved back after she’d graduated from law school. She had no desire to live anywhere else. Zip, zero. As far as she was concerned, the hillside, seaside community of La Jolla, California, was paradise, never mind the high cost of living.

But she found herself picturing Dylan on the sunlit stone terrace at The Farm at Carriage Hill, with the flower and herb gardens, the shade trees, the open fields and the old stone walls.

The leaves were turning in New England, he’d told her. She should come back out there and see them.

She pushed back the image and focused on the handsome man across the small table from her. “Why do you think Samantha Bennett is in Knights Bridge?”

Julius didn’t hesitate. “To redeem herself.”

* * *

Julius left after they got back from dinner. He headed back up to his house in Beverly Hills or Hollywood Hills or wherever it was. Loretta hadn’t been there yet. It was his world. His daughters were there. His ex-wife. His clients and the law firm he worked for. She envisioned him with a Sam Spade sort of office but supposed that was nonsense.

She hated to see him go but at the same time was relieved.

She’d never married—she’d never wanted to marry—and she’d had damn few long-term relationships in her life. It hadn’t been a plan, it had just worked out that way. She wasn’t promiscuous. She’d had long dry spells between men.

“Like a decade,” she muttered as she went out to her pool. It was heated. She hated cold water.

She kicked off her sandals and dipped a toe into the water. She’d gone skinny-dipping with Duncan their one night together. Talk about madness. She in her fifties, he in his early seventies. They’d had a blast, laughing, enjoying life. She didn’t know why she’d fallen for him, but she had no regrets, not about that. She’d been his last love. They hadn’t fought, or really had a chance to get to know each other.

She hadn’t told his son because—well, because her relationship with his father was none of Dylan’s business. That was just a fact. It wasn’t good or bad. What she and Duncan had shared was about them. It wasn’t about Dylan.

With no indication that Duncan was in anything but excellent health, it had been a terrible shock when she’d gotten word of his death.

What a two years it had been since that dark day.

Loretta didn’t dare trust what she had with Julius. It wasn’t just lust, and that scared the hell out of her. Did she want to get serious with a man at this point in her life?

What if Julius freaking dropped dead, too?

She blinked back tears. How had her tidy life become so complicated?

“Damned if I know what I want.”

She splashed the water with her foot and almost fell into the stupid pool. Wouldn’t that serve her right? An independent, successful professional falling ass-over-teakettle into the pool over a man.

She was more raw than she’d realized after Duncan’s death and now Dylan’s engagement to a woman in this little New England town. She hated not knowing what to do about Julius. About her feelings for him. That wasn’t like her. She always knew what to do.

Duncan had known he had no choice, but he’d still disliked firing Samantha Bennett, then wondered if he’d done the right thing. “In my work, Loretta, I can’t take chances on someone who deliberately lied to me—whatever her reasons. But I’m not a heartless SOB, either.”

“She’ll be fine, but it’ll help that she only worked for you a short time,” Loretta had told him. She remembered how much she’d enjoyed their long calls and occasional video chats. They’d shared an intense intimacy that she’d never expected would last—but she hadn’t expected he’d die, either. “Did you ask her why she looked you up in Knights Bridge?”

“Not specifically, no. Maybe she would tell me, but it doesn’t matter. She needs to get on with her life, and I have work to do.”

Loretta sank onto a lounge chair, letting her feet dry in the fading sun. She had a damn good life here. She couldn’t relate to Dylan’s life in Knights Bridge. Maybe if she had some reason to be there—like he did.

She’d felt all crazily warm and fuzzy and maternal when he’d called to ask her what she knew about Samantha Bennett.

She groaned. “I’ve gone off the edge.”

Her phone vibrated on the table next to her lounge chair. She grabbed it and saw Julius had texted her. You’re angsting, aren’t you?

The man did have a sixth sense about people. She typed her answer. Obsessing. There’s a difference. Where are you?

Almost home. Stopped for gas.

She debated asking him to turn around and come back to La Jolla, but there was nothing to keep her at home except work that could wait. He’d been asking her to come up there. If he understood she wasn’t ready to meet his family...

She texted him back. Do you have wine?

I collect wine. Noah would approve.

Noah Kendrick, Dylan’s best friend and the billionaire founder of NAK, Inc., owned a winery on the central coast of California. He was there now with Phoebe O’Dunn, the Knights Bridge librarian. They would be returning to Massachusetts soon.

Loretta felt abandoned, alone—she didn’t know what the hell was wrong with her.

She responded to Julius. I’m on my way.

His answer came within seconds. I’ll be waiting with the Chardonnay.

Eight

Samantha awoke to sun streaming through her windows. She hadn’t pulled the curtains, but she’d overslept, anyway. She bolted upright, knowing it was after eight before she checked the time on the bedside clock.

Eight thirty-four.

She had planned to be on her way by now. On her way where she didn’t exactly know, but out of The Farm at Carriage Hill, away from the herbs and the big slobbery dog and the happy engaged couple.

Late last night, exhausted but unable to sleep, she’d decided she would get an early start. She didn’t need to meet Dylan over coffee and eggs. She could stick to her plan and accomplish what she’d come to Knights Bridge to do without a face-to-face with her ex-boss’s son.

With a groan, she sank against the padded headboard. She’d ended up deep under the comforter, finally and totally dead to the world after days of digging through her grandfather’s office and then her uncle and cousin’s arrival in Boston and then yesterday. The drive west, her hike, the thunderstorm, the fire, the rescue, the irritable volunteer firefighter. Then the gracious hostess, the warm applesauce, the soup, the cake. The big dog. The goat’s milk soap.

No wonder she’d had a hard time winding down and hadn’t fallen asleep until well after midnight. Hearing what she took to be Dylan McCaffrey’s voice out in the hall hadn’t helped.

Justin Sloan had to have known she would be more like a house guest at The Farm at Carriage Hill than an inn guest. She supposed he and Olivia both had tried to warn her, and she’d just been too shaken and rattled for it to sink in that her hosts lived here.

She stood up, the braided rug warm under her bare feet. Without warning, her mind flashed to the hiss and near-roar of the fire in the dark, claustrophobic cider mill.

She could feel Justin lifting her as she’d gasped for air. She could smell his shirt, his skin....

“Gad,” she said under her breath.

She’d dreamed about him, and now that she was awake she was going to keep thinking about him?

She shook her head. “I need coffee.”

Despite traipsing through the woods, her tense escape from the fire and her dreams, the stiffness and achiness she’d felt last night had eased and she wasn’t particularly sore this morning. She ducked into the pretty bathroom, her reflection in the mirror not as deadly as yesterday when she’d arrived.

She took another shower, getting any residual smoke smell off her, and quickly got dressed. She unloaded her backpack on the floor and went through every item for smoke damage. She would figure out what she needed to replace and stop at the country store in town. She wanted to go back to the cider mill this morning. It and the village were both within relatively easy walking distance of Carriage Hill.

She stared at the contents of her backpack on the floor with a feeling of dread.

She got down on her knees and went through every item again.

No journal.

She hadn’t thought about it until now. It was always with her. It must have been displaced in the mad dash from the fire.

She stood straight, her heartbeat quickening as she considered the possibilities. Had it burned up in the fire? Had it fallen out of her pack after Justin had rescued her?

Had one of the other firefighters found it? His cop brother?

Was it still in the mill? Would someone stop there this morning and find it?

She had no memory of the small cloth-bound journal beyond slipping it into her backpack yesterday morning before she left Boston. She was positive she’d had it with her when she’d shoved her pack into the backseat with Isaac.

Maybe she’d dropped it in her grandfather’s Mercedes.

She texted her uncle and asked.

He responded immediately. No journal.

Check under the seats. Please.

She paced, waiting for his next text. Not in the car. Burned?

I don’t know.

Uh-oh.

Yeah, no kidding. How’s Amherst?

The ghost of Harry Bennett haunts the ivy-covered buildings.

Only her uncle would take the time to type such a text. Samantha typed a quick response. No doubt. Good luck.

You, too, Sam.

Marginally calmer, she headed downstairs, arriving to an empty kitchen. A cool draft drew her into the mudroom and out to the stone terrace, where Olivia sat at a round wood table having coffee and toast. She smiled cheerfully. “Well, good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Great, thanks.” Samantha pushed aside her panic over her missing journal and pulled out a chair in the sun, taking a seat. “It’s a lovely day.”

“It is, isn’t it? I’m not letting a single reasonably warm, sunny morning go to waste. It’ll be snowing before we know it. Dylan played ice hockey for years, but he’s never done a real New England winter. Should be interesting.” Olivia rose, grabbing her breakfast plate but leaving her coffee mug. She wore jeans and an oversize, paint-spattered white shirt, her dark hair pulled back loosely, her casual attire a reminder that Carriage Hill was also her home. “We’re having our wedding here on Christmas Eve.”

“Do you hope it snows?”

“I hope there’s snow on the ground. I wouldn’t want a blizzard to keep people from traveling. What can I get you for breakfast? We have almost anything you can think of, including wild blueberries for pancakes.”

“I’d be happy to make my own breakfast—”

Olivia held up a hand, silencing her. “I wouldn’t dream of it. We’re still getting up to speed, but the larder is full, so to speak. So, what do you think? Cereal, muffins, toast, yogurt, fresh fruit, eggs—”

“Yogurt with fruit and toast would be fabulous. Thank you.”

“Done. I’ll bring it out to you.” Olivia grinned, heading to the mudroom door. “This is so much fun.”

When Olivia disappeared into the kitchen, Samantha breathed in the crisp air, hoping it would help settle her down. She wanted to enjoy her surroundings. If her journal was in the cider mill, she would find it before anyone else did. If it had burned up...well, then, it had burned up. If Justin or any of the other firefighters had found it, surely they would return it unread. They were professionals.

Who was she kidding? They would read at least enough to realize she was in their little town because of a long-dead pirate.

Buster rolled onto his back in front of a bench at the edge of the terrace. The yard was a mix of lawn and raised beds of herbs and flowers, with mulched paths that led to a garden shed and a stone wall and shade trees along the edge of a rolling field. A small hill rose across the field. Carriage Hill, presumably.

Samantha imagined a Christmas Eve wedding with freshly fallen snow, lights, a soft winter-blue sky. It would be beautiful. Then again, this place would be beautiful anytime of year—including now, with the autumn-tinged leaves, colorful mums and New England asters. She thought she could smell mint on the light breeze.

“My friend Maggie will be here soon,” Olivia said as she returned to the terrace with a breakfast tray. “We’re getting ready for my sister’s wedding here this weekend.”

Samantha sat up straight. “This weekend? Today is Thursday. You look so calm.”

“It’s not a huge wedding, and Maggie’s doing most of the heavy lifting, since the bride is my sister and I’ll be participating in the ceremony. Maggie’s unflappable. I’m more like the old saying about the duck—calm on the surface, paddling like crazy underneath.” Olivia laughed as she set the tray on the table. “But I’m calmer than I used to be, and it’ll all work out. Jess—that’s my sister—and Mark, her fiancé, are both from town, and the weather looks good for Saturday.”

“A New England fall wedding. It’ll be wonderful.”

Olivia unloaded a plate of whole-grain toast and small bowls of plain yogurt, fresh-cut fruit—apples, plums, peaches—and butter and jams. A coffee press, mug and cream pitcher came next, then the silverware and napkin.

“This is perfect,” Samantha said with a smile. “Thank you so much.”

“If you think of anything else you need, just let me know.”

“You’ll join me for coffee?”

“Happily.” Olivia sank into a chair, looking relaxed. “Maggie and I have a full day ahead of us.”

“I imagine so.” Samantha poured coffee, breathing in its strong smell. “Is your sister nervous about the wedding?”

“She says she’s too busy to worry. She works at my family’s mill in town. Mark is a local architect. Mark Flanagan. He did the plans for the house and barn Dylan’s building up the road.” She paused, then added with a smile, “The house and barn Dylan and I are building. Sometimes I still have to remind myself.”

“You two will live there when the house is finished?”

“Yes. We have so many plans.” Olivia took a quick breath, as if to keep a rush of anxiety at bay. “It’s been quite a year. A good one, but it’s come with a lot of changes.”

Buster stirred, and Samantha heard men’s voices in the kitchen. She resisted the temptation to jump up and run and instead buttered toast and spooned out yogurt and fruit. Then the back door opened, and Justin Sloan and another man walked out onto the terrace. Olivia got up and introduced Dylan, her fiancé. Not that it was necessary, given his resemblance to his father.

“Good to meet you, Samantha,” he said. “Sorry your first day in Knights Bridge wasn’t the best.”

She chose her words carefully. “It’s a beautiful day today. I can’t thank you and Olivia enough.”

“Not a problem. Glad to have you.”

Justin pulled out a chair and sat next to her. “You don’t look any worse for wear this morning.” There was just the slightest edge of suspicion in his voice. “What are your plans for the day?”

Samantha ate some of her fruit and yogurt and got her bearings before she responded. “I thought I’d resume my hike. I’m not positive yet.”

Buster rubbed against Dylan’s knee. He patted the big dog. “Take your time. There’s no rush on our account.”

“You’ve got a wedding to put on.”

“It’s under control,” Olivia said. “You’re welcome to stay.”

Samantha thanked them as she got to her feet, feeling like a total liar. When he’d fired her, Duncan hadn’t been mad so much as disappointed—harder to take in many ways than outright anger. “I can’t have you work for me, Samantha, but I wish you the best as you get on with your life.”

Dylan slipped an arm around his fiancée. It was easy to see why he’d fallen for Olivia. She was kind, generous and creative. She’d obviously had her struggles. Without knowing any details, Samantha sensed that Olivia’s return to her hometown had come with obstacles and a story, if one with a happy ending—The Farm at Carriage Hill and a Christmas wedding to Dylan McCaffrey.

Samantha stared down at her breakfast on the table. Her throat tightened with emotion. She didn’t belong at Carriage Hill, inserting herself into these people’s lives. “Thank you all so much for helping me out. The fire affected me more than I realized.” She was aware of Justin watching her, head tilted back, deep blue eyes narrowed with a certain skepticism. She couldn’t let him get to her. Couldn’t be distracted by wanting to convince him that she wasn’t up to no good. “I’ll grab my things and be on my way.”

Before anyone could respond, she bolted into the mudroom and through the kitchen, not stopping until she was back in her room. She shut the door behind her, leaned against it and caught her breath. Her head was spinning. She couldn’t blame smoke inhalation. She wasn’t experiencing any aftereffects from her close call with the fire. Physically, she was fine.

She shut her eyes, breathed deeply, trying to quiet her heart rate.

Meeting Dylan had thrust her back to the difficult days when his father had taken her under his wing and then died believing she was a liar and a spy.

Then there was Justin. Her taciturn rescuer.

She gave an inward groan. She wasn’t practically gasping for air because she’d been in the company of a McCaffrey, or even because of her missing journal. It was Justin and his suspicious deep blue eyes, his hard jaw and abrupt manner. She wished Olivia’s father had been the one to rescue her. At least then she’d have been able to keep a clear head.

She exhaled, standing up straight. “Damn.”

Of all times not to let herself be swayed by a good-looking man, regardless of what he thought of her. She glanced around the sunlit room. If only she could stay here all day. Read. Take a hot bath. Look out at the view of the forest with its changing fall colors.

Hide. Avoid.

That wouldn’t help her situation any more than running away would.

Dylan and Olivia seemed like decent people. Olivia’s sister was getting married here on Saturday.

They didn’t need someone stirring up the past.

Samantha stuffed her things into her backpack, made up the bed and scoured the bedroom and bathroom for anything she might have dropped—especially anything that could give away her history with Duncan McCaffrey. With a deep breath, she slung her backpack over one shoulder and headed downstairs.

She would find her journal. Then she would figure out what was next. Once she was on her own, at least she’d be able to think.

* * *

Samantha expected to find Olivia in the kitchen and perhaps her friend Maggie, and hoped to say thank you, make her goodbyes and be on her way. Instead she found Justin there, alone, leaning against the sink, his powerful arms crossed on his chest as he watched her grind to a halt on the other side of the butcher-block island.

“In a hurry, Sam?” he asked.

“Not really, no, but I am getting a later start than I wanted.” She glanced into the mudroom but saw no sign of Olivia or Dylan, or even Buster. She tightened her hold on the strap of her backpack. “It got quiet all of a sudden.”

As far as she could see, Justin didn’t move a muscle. “Dylan and Olivia went up the road to meet with their architect.”

“Mark Flanagan. The almost-brother-in-law.”

His eyes leveled on her. “You’re getting to know the players.”

She felt a rush of awareness that she couldn’t explain. Had to be the aftereffects of yesterday. She tried to keep any hint of her physical reaction to him from showing in her voice or manner. “Olivia and I chatted over breakfast. It’s a beautiful morning. I’m looking forward to a good walk.”

“Are you planning to finish following Cider Brook into Quabbin?”

“I’d like to try. I thought I’d start where I left off at the cider mill. I can collect my stuff at the same time.”

“No point. It’s ruined. I’ll toss it when I clean up.”

“I don’t mind—”

“The mill’s taped off until I go through it and decide it’s safe.”

The man did have a cut-to-the-chase way about him. Samantha debated what to say next. Normally she was one to plunge in and think and talk at the same time, but Justin’s directness combined with her missing journal had her rattled.

“I still want to go back there,” she said, firm but not argumentative.

He stood straight, lowering his arms to his side. “Why?”

“I had nightmares last night.” True, as far as it went. “It would help to see the mill on such a nice, sunny morning. I don’t have to go inside.” Assuming she found her missing journal out by the brook. If not, she would have to go inside the mill. She wanted that journal back—she needed to know what had happened to it, even if it meant asking Justin for his help. But she wasn’t there yet. “I won’t stay long.”

“I have some stops I need to make. I’ll give you a ride over there.”

Not what she had in mind. “Really, I don’t mind walking—”

“That’s good.” He pointed at her backpack. “Want me to carry that for you?”

“I’ll manage. I hiked with more yesterday.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Are you always this abrupt?”

His sexy look caught her off guard. “Not always.”

He went out the front door, obviously expecting her to follow him. Samantha could feel his padlock in her jacket pocket, but she’d slipped the documents pouch and her grandfather’s flask into her backpack. She’d meant to return the lock, but Justin’s manner had her second-guessing herself. Now she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Keep acting as if she didn’t have it, maybe.

She supposed she should appreciate his offer of a ride, but it felt off, too. It wasn’t just a grudging offer, and it wasn’t impromptu—because he was heading out on errands, anyway. He had waited for her in the kitchen. Keeping an eye on her? Suspicious of her?

If she didn’t accept his offer of a ride out to the mill and kept arguing and finding excuses, she would look as if she had something to hide.

Which, of course, she did.

She would also come across as ungrateful and rude, although she wasn’t sure Justin would even notice.

There was also nothing to stop him from driving out to the cider mill and waiting for her while she walked away.

Hoisting her backpack onto one shoulder, she headed outside. Justin had left the passenger door to his truck open and was behind the wheel. Presumptuous, but Samantha realized she had little choice at this point and continued out the stone walk. A few red leaves had fallen from a nearby tree and lay scattered on the lush grass. Chickadees swooped from pine branches. She wished she could relax and enjoy the gorgeous day, but meeting Dylan and now the prospect of driving to the cider mill with Justin had her feeling unusually self-conscious. She didn’t like skirting the truth and wasn’t one to waffle, but she needed to find her journal and regroup.

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