In Amish country, not everything is as simple as it appears

After a terrible betrayal, Allison Standish flees Philadelphia for the small Amish village of Laurel Ridge to claim an unexpected inheritance. Allison intends to sell the mansion housing various shops on Main Street—until she meets Nick Whiting, a single father and tenant of Blackburn House, who challenges everything she believes about her estranged grandmother and the Amish community.

Strange stipulations in her grandmother’s will soon bring distant relatives and seething townsfolk to Allison’s door. As anonymous threats escalate, Nick grows protective of Allison, and she finds herself falling for the handsome carpenter… But then she discovers her grandmother’s death may not have been accidental, and someone wants Allison gone. Permanently.

Praise for Marta Perry

“With her crisp storytelling, strong suspense and unique, complex characters—both Amish and Englisch—Perry is sure to hook readers in. Add to that combination an intricately woven plot, with several twists, and fans won’t be able to put Search the Dark down.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Perry’s story hooks you immediately. Her uncanny ability to seamlessly blend the mystery element with contemporary themes makes this one intriguing read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Home by Dark

“Perry skillfully continues her chilling, deceptively charming romantic suspense series with a dark, puzzling mystery that features a sweet romance and a nice sprinkling of Amish culture.”

—Library Journal on Vanish in Plain Sight

“Marta Perry illuminates the differences between the Amish community and the larger society with an obvious care and respect for ways and beliefs…. She weaves these differences into the story with a deft hand, drawing the reader into a suspenseful, continually moving plot.”

—Fresh Fiction on Murder in Plain Sight

“Leah’s Choice, by Marta Perry, is a knowing and careful look into Amish culture and faith. A truly enjoyable reading experience.”

—Angela Hunt, New York Times bestselling author of Let Darkness Come

“Leah’s Choice is a story of grace and servitude as well as a story of difficult choices and heartbreaking realities. It touched my heart. I think the world of Amish fiction has found a new champion.”

—Lenora Worth, author of Code of Honor

Where Secrets Sleep

Marta Perry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

Welcome to the first book in my latest Amish suspense series. Since so many readers of Amish fiction write to me about quilts, I decided that an Amish quilt shop would be an ideal centerpiece for the new books. But where would I put the quilt shop? Once again, my own experiences gave me the answer. Blackburn House, a lumber baron’s mansion turned into a building housing small shops and businesses, is based upon a similar mansion in a town in northern Pennsylvania that is now a delightful bed-and-breakfast inn. So if you ever happen to find yourself in Ridgway, Pennsylvania, be sure to stop at The Towers to see the original.

As always, my imaginary town has become very real to me in the course of the writing, and I’m already excited about the next story in the series. I’ll enjoy revisiting familiar places, browsing in the quilt shop and catching up on the characters from this first book.

Please let me know how you feel about my story. I’d be happy to send you a signed bookmark and my brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. You can email me at marta@martaperry.com, visit me at facebook.com/martaperrybooks or martaperry.com, or write to me at HQN Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Blessings,

This story is dedicated to my granddaughter, Estella.

And, as always, to Brian, with much love.

He who has no money is poor;

he who has nothing but money is even poorer.

—Amish proverb

Table of Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dear Reader

Dedication

Epigraph

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

ALLISON STANDISH WAS swept with an overpowering urge to throw the nearest heavy object or scream at the top of her lungs or, at the very least, slam the door. She did none of those things, clinging instead to the maxim she’d hammered out for herself years ago: if they see you lose control, they win.

She actually managed to pin a stiff smile on her face. “Sorry I interrupted.” She turned and walked steadily toward the door of Greg’s loft.

It was Diane, her boss, who rushed after her from the bedroom, wrapping a sheet around her abundant curves. “Allison, wait. This isn’t what it looks like.”

Allison’s temper nearly slipped its leash at the trite remark. “It’s exactly what it looks like. No wonder you were so eager to see me get on the road.”

“Now, Allison.” Diane reached for her with one hand while she grabbed the wandering sheet with the other.

The sheet was one of those Allison had picked out to go with the bedroom furniture she’d helped Greg choose. She’d even gotten him her professional designer’s discount.

“Let’s be adult about this,” Diane continued. “There’s no reason why we can’t continue working together.”

“Listen to her, baby.” Greg appeared in the bedroom doorway, wearing a hastily donned T-shirt and shorts.

“Shut up.” Diane tossed the words back over her shoulder.

Greg ran a hand through the shoulder-length black hair that inevitably attracted female attention. If he’d said something to her then...

But he didn’t. He subsided, looking sulky. Diane had that effect on a lot of people.

“Come on, Ally.” Di’s voice turned coaxing. “These things happen. Take your week off. By the time you come back to the office, this will just be a memory. You have a good thing going. Don’t ruin it.”

For a man. Di didn’t say the words, but they were implied. Di wouldn’t dream of sacrificing one single step of her career for a man. That was how she’d become manager of the most prestigious interior design firm in Philadelphia.

Allison found she actually could manage a smile at that. “Sorry. I guess I’m not really that adult.” This time she did slam the door.

She’d gotten all the way to the car before reaction set in. It took her three tries to unlock the car door, and she slid behind the wheel, relieved that she didn’t have to trust her legs to hold her up any longer. She clutched the steering wheel, willing herself not to be sick.

A rusty meow from the backseat demanded attention. If Hector had to be confined to the cat carrier, he considered the least she could do was keep the vehicle moving.

“In a minute,” she muttered. If cats were supposed to sense one’s mood, Hector was deficient in that ability.

Diane had been similarly concerned to get her moving this afternoon, suggesting Allison leave the office early so she could beat Philadelphia’s rush-hour traffic. Clearly she hadn’t anticipated that Allison would stop by Greg’s loft to say goodbye before setting off for Amish country.

She nearly hadn’t. Hector had been recalcitrant about getting into the cat carrier, wedging his fat orange-striped body under the dresser just out of her reach the instant he’d seen the carrier. She’d finally had to resort to a can of tuna to snag him.

Then, with cat carrier and suitcase stowed in her compact, she’d had, she thought, just enough time to give Greg a goodbye kiss before heading for the wilds of Lancaster County and the property she’d so surprisingly been left in her grandmother’s will.

She’d probably known the truth when she’d spotted Diane’s Volvo parked in front of Greg’s building. Her head just hadn’t been able to convince her heart. She’d had to see for herself.

Well, she’d seen, all right. Now she just had to figure out what she was going to do with her life.

Hector complained again. Loudly.

“All right, all right.” She started the engine and pulled onto the street as cautiously as a sixteen-year-old learning to drive.

At least she had a breathing space before making any tough decisions. She’d already planned to spend a week in Laurel Ridge arranging to rid herself of the white elephant her birth father’s mother had so surprisingly left her. But now she didn’t have any reason to rush back.

Allison joined the steady stream of traffic heading out of the city. There would be other jobs. One thing she could say about Di: her code, whatever it was, might allow her to poach a friend’s man, but she wouldn’t stoop to withhold a glowing reference, even if it meant Allison would be decorating multimillion-dollar homes for one of her competitors.

As for Greg—well, apparently he didn’t live by any code at all except the whim of expediency. Allison must have had blinders on not to see that. Still, it was easy to be dazzled in the early stages of love, or whatever had passed for love between them.

Several hours later, Allison had begun to think she’d also had blinders on when she’d read the map and decided she could reach Laurel Ridge before dark. The April evening had quickly faded, and only the faintest glow on the western horizon remained. She seemed to have been wandering past fields and forests on a two-lane county route for hours, and the sole vehicle she’d passed in miles had been an Amish buggy.

The GPS she relied on was not helpful. Its metallic voice hadn’t contributed anything in the past half hour but a persistent “Recalculating” that was nearly as annoying as Hector’s raucous complaints. When the cat started sounding like a rusty hinge, it meant the situation was getting desperate.

Her tired brain played with the idea that Laurel Ridge didn’t exist, that her legacy was one last spiteful act on the part of the grandmother who’d never acknowledged Allison’s existence while she was alive.

Pondering the possibility, Allison nearly missed the sign. She stopped, backed up and read the words she’d been looking for. Laurel Ridge, 2 Miles. Relief swept over her, and she put the car in gear.

“Cheer up, Hector. The end is in sight.”

A doubtful scratch at the carrier’s door was his only response.

A few minutes later she was driving down Laurel Ridge’s main, and maybe only, business street. Storefronts were dark and foot traffic nonexistent. Apparently Laurel Ridge shut down early. The only sign of life was a café and, across the street, a bed-and-breakfast with a porch light left on. Probably for her, since she’d booked a room there for the week.

As she pulled to the curb, Allison’s gaze was caught by the building next to the bed-and-breakfast. In contrast to the homey Victorian charm of the white clapboard inn, this building loomed over the street, three stories of Italianate classic architecture dwarfing the smaller buildings around it. She could just make out the brass plate attached to the wrought-iron gate. Blackburn House. So this was her inheritance.

An Italianate mansion dating from the 1850s. The attorney’s voice, dry and pedantic, sounded in her mind. It belonged to Laurel Ridge’s founding family. Your late grandfather purchased it from the Blackburn family fifty years ago. He had it zoned commercial and divided to form several shops and offices.

The attorney’s voice had sounded disapproving, either of the property or, more likely, of her.

Allison had mentally translated his description into old and dilapidated, with the architectural integrity of the original house compromised by ill-conceived renovations. But from the outside, at least, the building looked well kept, its paint flawless, small lawn smooth and green, and early spring daffodils in bloom along the front walk. A porch wrapped around the sides of the building, and a round tower anchored each end of the front.

Allison slid out and hauled the cat carrier from the backseat. “There it is, Hector. What do you think of it?”

Hector’s snarl was probably meant to express his displeasure with his confinement, but it echoed her feelings quite well.

At least she ought to be able to realize some profit from the place when she put it on the market. Aside from a few random gifts that had been totally unsuited to either her age or interests, her father hadn’t contributed much but a name and an accumulation of genes to her life. Maybe his mother had decided to make a last gesture toward rectifying his failure with her bequest.

“We may as well have a look. Don’t you think so?” Talking to the cat was becoming a habit. Was that a sign that she’d eventually turn into an old maid with no one in her life but cats? At least Hector didn’t betray her or smash her dreams to bits.

Holding the cat carrier in one hand and fishing for the keys the lawyer had sent her with the other, Allison advanced on the door of Blackburn House.

* * *

NICK WHITING STEPPED OUT into the cool April evening, the lock clicking behind him on the door to the old Blackburn carriage house, now the workshop of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. The only way he’d convinced his father to go home in time for supper was to assure Dad he’d stop back later to check on the shipment of brushed pewter cabinet knobs that had been guaranteed delivery today.

It was important for Nick to be home for supper with Jamie, important to supervise his son’s first-grade homework and to go through the bedtime rituals with him. When you were six, that sort of thing mattered.

Not that Mom or Dad wouldn’t have been happy to take over, but where his son was concerned, Nick didn’t take shortcuts. Jamie might have lost out in the mother department, but he’d always know he could rely on his dad.

So he’d settled Jamie in the twin bed in the room Nick and his brother had shared as kids, tucking him under the tractor quilt that was Jamie’s favorite. And then he’d driven the mile back into town to the shop.

The package had been leaning against the door, probably having arrived soon after they’d left. He stowed it away in the workshop, pleased the supplier had come through. This meant they could finish Mrs. Phelps’s new kitchen cabinets tomorrow, unless she changed her mind yet again. He’d lingered in the shop for a few minutes, looking over the finished cabinets one last time. He liked checking the progress of the work on hand, enjoyed running his palm over the warm maple and the elegant curves of their custom cabinets.

Nick grinned into the dark. He’d seen his dad do the same thing often enough. It must be a Whiting family trait, one that had somehow skipped his brother, Mac. Double-checking the door, Nick headed for his car, thinking about the wedge of cherry pie Mom would have saved for him.

A light from one of the windows of Blackburn House caught his eye as he rounded the corner of the building, and he paused. First floor—it was in the bookstore. Ralph or his clerk must be working late, maybe unpacking a new shipment of books. Even as he thought it, the light switched off. Five steps later the light reappeared, in the quilt shop this time.

He stopped, frowning. Sarah Bitler wasn’t likely to be in her shop at this hour. Sarah was Amish, and she didn’t like driving her buggy along the country roads after dark. Apprehension slid along Nick’s skin like a touch, and he reached into his pocket for his keys.

The light went out and the pattern repeated as another came on, this time in his showroom. Someone was getting into the businesses on the first floor of Blackburn House. Yanking his keys out, Nick ran for the back door.

A prowler? It could be the custodian, he supposed, but Fred Glick was usually gone by this hour, and making a final pass through the building wasn’t characteristic of his lackadaisical approach to his job.

The rumors that had been making the rounds in town popped into his mind. Laurel Ridge couldn’t seem to decide whether it was being plagued by a prowler, a Peeping Tom or a sneak thief. Maybe now he’d get the answer to that question.

Nick held the knob firmly as he unlocked the back door, wary of any betraying creak as he eased it open. Stepping inside, he considered his brother Mac’s reaction if Nick actually caught the prowler. Mac, Laurel Ridge’s police chief, had been skeptical from the start about the rumors, saying it was probably a manifestation of cabin fever after the long winter.

Nick slipped past the storerooms at the back of the building and slowly opened the door that led to the front part of the house. The wide hallway that ran from this point to the front of the building was deserted, but a patch of light lay on the marble floor. Staying in the shadow cast by the wide center staircase, Nick moved silently forward. To judge by the location of the light, the intruder was in their showroom. He heard the sound of movement, as if something brushed against a cabinet.

If he went to the showroom door, he’d be seen instantly. But he could slip in the door that led from the hallway to the office behind the showroom, and he might be able to get close enough to see without being seen. Pulse racing, Nick crossed to the office door and fumbled for the key. He realized he was enjoying this small adventure, and he had to laugh at himself. Maybe a guy never outgrew all those cops versus bad guys scenarios of childhood.

Holding his breath, Nick pushed open the door and sidled into the office. No one was here, but a stream of light spilled from the open door into the showroom. He worked his way around the desk and groped the wall next to the door. He paused there for a moment and then cautiously peered into the showroom.

The rows of cabinet doors on display made an effective screen. He couldn’t see the guy from here, but he could hear footsteps, followed by a soft thud as something bumped one of the cabinets.

Nick held his breath and moved soundlessly farther into the showroom, taking cover behind a Peg-Board displaying hardware styles. The footsteps came nearer. Frowning in concentration, Nick counted the steps, estimating the prowler’s location. One step, two—he must be within a foot now, so close Nick imagined he could hear a breath.

Muscles tense, he waited. The instant he saw movement, he lunged, grabbing the form. Several things happened at once. He realized he was clutching a female, he felt her swing something and he heard the crack as it hit his leg with numbing force. Another crack, a banshee shriek and an orange ball of fur plummeted toward the floor.

The cat turned on a dime, hissed and spat at him, spine arching. The woman, yanking free of his grasp, looked as if she’d like to do the same. Nick had a quick image of shining auburn hair, pale creamy skin and bright green eyes that seemed to shoot sparks of rage.

“What are you doing? Are you insane?” She held what he now realized was a cat carrier, its door hanging by one hinge. She raised it threateningly, and he had no doubt she’d hit him again at an unwary movement.

He raised both hands, palms out, and took a step out of range. “Take it easy. I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing in my shop?”

“Your shop?” she echoed.

Nick saw the doubt enter her face, and a delicate pink stained her cheeks. The green eyes were framed by uncompromising brows, and her heart-shaped face had a stubborn cast along the line of her jaw. As for her lips...for a moment he was distracted, and he forced himself to focus.

“That’s right, my shop. I’m Nick Whiting. This is the office and showroom of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. I repeat, who are you? How did you get in? Or maybe I should just call the police.” He sketched a gesture toward the pocket that held his cell phone.

“That’s not necessary.” Her chin lifted. “You’re Mr. Whiting? I’m Allison Standish.” She said it as if it should mean something to him.

It did. “You’re Ms. Standish? The long-lost granddaughter Evelyn left this place to?”

“I haven’t been lost, Mr. Whiting.” Her tone was cool. “But, yes. I’m the new owner of this building, so I have every right to be here.”

He raised an eyebrow, wondering if it would infuriate her. “You may or may not be the owner of Blackburn House, but this is my shop. According to my lease, I’m supposed to be notified in advance if the owner wants access.”

Nick had no idea if the lease actually said that, since it had been negotiated by his father years ago, but if it didn’t, it should.

“I see.” Her tone was icy. “I suppose I should have a look at all the leases, shouldn’t I?”

Naturally she would, possibly to his sorrow. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned it. He took the opportunity for a long look at her. Sleek chin-length hair the color of polished mahogany, earrings a delicate tangle of silver and jet, jacket of butter-soft leather and a silk shirt that molded full breasts, a skirt that flirted with her legs and a pair of high-heeled boots that looked capable of kicking if necessary.

Well. With this woman taking over Blackburn House, there might be a lot of changes coming.

* * *

ALLISON MADE A concentrated effort to collect herself. Her nerves, already shredded by the events of the day, hadn’t been up to this additional assault. It was taking every bit of control she had to keep her courage up with this obnoxious character. If he was typical of the tenants she’d have to deal with, the sooner she sold this place, the better.

She bent to pick up the cat, smoothing her hand over Hector’s ruffled fur. Poor thing. He’d had a bad day, as well. It was a shame he hadn’t managed to run his claws into Whiting’s leg.

Glancing up under her lashes, she assessed the man. Light brown hair, cut in a short, almost military style, and tanned skin. He had a jaw that proclaimed his stubbornness, and at the moment it was set like granite.

He met her gaze, and his eyes were a shade somewhere between gold and brown that reminded her of topaz. His gaze seemed to grow intent as he realized she was assessing him, and she looked down, trying to ease an affronted Hector into the cat carrier. He snagged the dangling door with one paw.

“Look at this. You’ve broken my cat carrier.” Tears stung her eyes. Ridiculous, but this really was the last straw. “How can I walk into the bed-and-breakfast carrying a cat in my arms? I can’t expect the owner to accept that. She wasn’t eager to have a cat on the premises as it is.”

Whiting knelt next to her, and a flicker of alarm went through her at the quick movement and his unexpected closeness. She caught her breath. How did she know he was really who he said he was? She shouldn’t be lingering in an empty building in a strange town alone with a man she didn’t know.

“You hold the cat. I’ll deal with the door.” His tone warmed, filled with amusement, as if he’d guessed what she was thinking.

Speechless, Allison gathered Hector into her arms and eased a little away from him. She watched Whiting’s hands as he worked on the carrier. They were square, strong, workman’s hands, a little scarred but deft and capable. In a moment he’d popped the door back into place.

“That should do it.” His hand moved toward Hector, who reacted with a hiss. Whiting retreated prudently and held the cage door instead while she stooped to bundle Hector inside. “I don’t think that cat likes me.” He rose, putting a hand under Allison’s elbow to help her up.

“It’s the traveling he doesn’t like. He’s had a rough day.” As she had.

“Looks like he’s not the only one.”

It was all she could do not to wince. “If that’s your idea of a compliment, I don’t think much of it.”

Whiting grinned, the sun lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “My mother says I have all the finesse of a bulldozer. I just meant— Well, you’ve had a long drive from Philadelphia, and it’s late to be inspecting a building, besides being assaulted by a stranger who breaks your cat carrier with his leg. I’ll help carry your stuff over to Mrs. Anderson’s place.”

“How did you know that’s where I’m going? Or that I’ve come from Philadelphia?”

Allison was instantly suspicious, but the gaze that met hers was guileless.

“You said you were staying at a B and B. There’s only one in town. And everyone has been buzzing about the unexpected relative scooping a piece of the pie.”

“Oh.” She felt foolish, which was probably what he’d intended. “Thanks, but I can manage my own things.” She straightened, grasping the carrier and her bag. “Good night.”

He nodded. Waiting until she’d left the showroom, he switched off the light, locked the door and strode off toward the rear of the building.

That was that, she thought, rather surprised that he’d given in so easily. He looked like the kind of person who’d keep pushing, as if being female meant she couldn’t manage to carry anything heavier than a feather fan. She made her way to the front door, paused a moment to admire the frosted patterned glass that must have surely been original to the building and let herself out, locking the door behind her.

By the time she reached her car, Nick Whiting was waiting there for her. She glared at him. “I thought we’d already established that I can manage my own bags.”

“You can, but you don’t have to.” He leaned against the car, blocking her entry, seeming immovable.

Allison wasn’t going to stand here all night arguing. She shoved past him unceremoniously, pulled out her suitcase and laptop bag, and clung to the handle when he attempted to take the suitcase from her.

“I can manage,” she repeated.

He raised one eyebrow, a trick she found annoying. “Come on, give me a break. It would reflect badly on my parents if I didn’t help you.”

“No one will know,” she snapped.

The grin transformed his face. “You’re not used to small towns, are you? Somebody always knows.” Before she could react, he seized the bag from her hand and strode off toward the bed-and-breakfast.

Allison had to hurry to keep up with his long, lithe stride, and she scolded herself for noticing how he walked or anything else about him. Hadn’t she just learned a painful lesson about the chasm between looks and character in a man?

When they reached the door, Whiting put the bag down and pressed the doorbell before she could reach it.

Allison fixed a smile on her face. “Thank you. You’re actually right about one thing. I don’t know anything about small towns, and I don’t intend to find out. I plan to sell Blackburn House as soon as possible.”

Thoughts of financial security, maybe starting her own business, flickered through her mind.

Nick Whiting seemed to withdraw, even though he didn’t move. “Sell? I don’t think that’s what Evelyn would have wanted.”

She was startled to hear his familiar reference to the grandmother who was little more than a name to her, and annoyed that he presumed to speak for the woman.

“Since I never knew Evelyn Standish, you can hardly expect her wishes to be important to me.”

Allison turned away, trying to ignore his frowning disapproval, and marched into the bed-and-breakfast when the door opened. But even though she didn’t look, she could sense him standing there, frowning after her.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE SHOULD HAVE known there would be strings attached, Allison told herself the next morning as she stared across the polished mahogany desk at Jonas Litwhiler, her grandmother’s attorney. She knew perfectly well that no one gave you something for nothing. So why was she feeling oddly hurt at this reinforcement of her preconceptions about her grandmother?

Litwhiler, perhaps made uncomfortable by her silence, cleared his throat. “You understand, Ms....er...Ms. Standish? The bequest from Mrs. Standish is conditional on certain requirements being fulfilled.”

“I understand.” She leaned back, trying to demonstrate an unconcern she didn’t feel. “I’m waiting to hear what those requirements are.”

“Yes, I see.” Litwhiler fiddled with the delicate china cup and saucer that sat on a small, doily-covered tray at the side of his desk. Coffee, by the smell of it. As if reminded, he gestured toward the cup. “Would you care for coffee? It won’t take a moment.”

“No. Thank you.” Let’s just get on with it.

Jonas Litwhiler was the image of an old-fashioned small-town attorney—white hair, white shirt, conservative tie, dark suit. The only surprise to his appearance was the white carnation in his lapel. Even his offices were a masterpiece of dark paneling and Oriental carpets, located in another of the Victorian houses in which Laurel Ridge seemed to specialize. He looked as if he’d strayed into the contemporary scene from a 1930s black-and-white movie.

“According to the trust set up by Mrs. Standish, the ownership of Blackburn House passes to you completely if you run it successfully on your own for a period of one year.”

So many questions crowded Allison’s mind that she didn’t know which one to spit out first. “Can I sell it?”

An expression of profound disapproval settled on the attorney’s face. “Not until you’ve completed the year satisfactorily.”

It was all very well for him to be disapproving. He hadn’t had his entire life turned upside down in the past twenty-four hours. “And who decides if I’ve been successful? You, I suppose?” If he was acting for the other heirs as well, that struck her as a conflict of interest.

“No.” The answer was short, and he looked as if he’d just sucked on something sour. “If Mrs. Standish’s accountants declare that Blackburn House has been run at a profit for one year, the matter has been decided.”

She suspected his reaction meant that he’d been offended to have that decision taken out of his hands. Still, it seemed to indicate that Evelyn Standish had tried to be fair, according to her definition of fairness.

“And if I fail or choose not to accept the challenge?”

“Ownership passes to Brenda Standish Conner, your father’s cousin,” he said promptly.

She nodded, vaguely aware he’d mentioned the cousin in their telephone conversation. Apparently she and her daughter had lived with Mrs. Standish. They’d probably expected to scoop the lot. Well, they might still do so.

“Didn’t it occur to Mrs. Standish that I’d have a career and a life elsewhere?” Even as she asked the question, Allison realized it wasn’t true in the sense that it had been the previous day, though she did still have an apartment and friends in Philadelphia. And nothing could reconcile her to uprooting her life to a place like Laurel Ridge.

“I don’t believe Mrs. Standish was concerned about your career. In any event, I don’t feel comfortable discussing Mrs. Standish’s reasons for her actions.”

Something about his acid tone suggested to Allison that her grandmother hadn’t seen fit to ask his advice.

Allison took a steadying breath, trying to compose her thoughts. She’d come into this meeting unprepared, it seemed to her. She eyed the attorney, wondering how much of the truth he’d care to share.

“Is it actually legal to attach such conditions to a bequest?”

His grip tightened on the pen he held, and he put it down precisely on the desk blotter. “You can contest the will if you like, of course. It will be expensive, and in my opinion, you will lose.”

Allison wasn’t sure she’d like to take his word for that. Maybe she should consult another attorney. But it would take time, and meanwhile she’d be stuck in Laurel Ridge. Maybe she’d been right in her first assessment, and this was just a final insult on the part of the grandmother who’d ignored her existence. Evelyn Standish didn’t fit anyone’s idea of the doting grandmother.

“Didn’t you say there was a partnership in a quilt shop in the bequest?” That was the shop she’d seen briefly the previous night, before her run-in with Nick Whiting.

“That comes under the same one-year provision, except that in the case of the quilt shop, ownership will pass to Sarah Bitler, the current owner.”

It had begun to sound as if there were a lot of people who’d be happy to see her leave town.

Litwhiler riffled through a sheaf of papers. “I think that about covers it. You’ll find the business accounts in Mrs. Standish’s office in Blackburn House. Funds for operating expenses and any necessary repairs are provided.” He hesitated. “You’ll also find that an apartment adjoins the office. A separate account has been set up for any renovations you’d care to do. Mrs. Standish thought you might want to live there, should you decide to stay.”

If there was a question in that comment, Allison ignored it. She wouldn’t commit herself to anything until she’d had a chance to consider the options.

As for the apartment— She thought again of her apartment in Philadelphia, of the time and care she’d put into making it the perfect home. “Could I rent this apartment?” she asked abruptly. “Or is it tied up with conditions, as well?”

“No, no conditions.” He looked surprised, as if that hadn’t occurred to him. “If you stay, you can do as you like with it.”

“I’ll give it some thought.” She slipped the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and slid to the edge of her chair.

“You...you don’t want to give me an answer now?” He seemed disconcerted, as if this interview hadn’t gone as he expected.

“Not without considering all my options.” She rose, looking down at him across the massive stretch of mahogany.

Litwhiler stood abruptly. “There’s another option I’ve been asked to put before you.” He seemed to be picking his words carefully, wearing a faint expression of distaste.

“Yes?” She raised her eyebrows, feeling as if the balance of power had shifted slightly in her favor.

“Brenda...Mrs. Standish Conner, I mean, feels perhaps...” He let that die out, as if it hadn’t been the right approach. “Mrs. Standish Conner asked me to say that in the event you did not care to accept the terms of the bequest, she would be willing to make the sum of over one hundred thousand dollars to you.”

Allison fought to keep her face expressionless, while her mind raced. One hundred thousand. She could do a lot with that amount. On the other hand, she’d guess that was a fraction of the actual value of the building. Even in a town the size of Laurel Ridge, a fully occupied commercial building had to be worth far more.

She adjusted her bag deliberately and turned away. No wonder Litwhiler looked uncomfortable, quite aside from the fact that he seemed to be representing one heir against another. The offer was an insult to her intelligence.

“Shall I tell Ms. Standish Conner you’ll consider her offer?”

Allison took a couple of steps toward the door and turned to smile back over her shoulder at him. “I’ll consider it,” she said. “But first, I believe I’d better take some legal advice of my own.”

It wasn’t a bad exit line, she decided. She walked quickly out of the office.

* * *

NICK WOULD ALWAYS rather be working in the shop than the office. On this April morning, with sunshine pouring through the big windows in the front of the showroom, it was almost bearable to be stuck in the office.

The sunlight showed a faint rim of dust on one of the display cabinets, and he wiped a cloth over it. One of the disadvantages of an old building—the dust must seep through the walls or drift down the chimney.

One aspect of his partnership deal with Dad, made when he’d come home after the disastrous end to his marriage, was that he’d take care of the sales and paperwork, letting Dad concentrate on what he loved best—working on the cabinets. At the moment, Dad was focused on the pine jelly cupboard he was making for Mom’s birthday. It was only fair that Dad should have his choice, and Nick didn’t resent taking on the book work.

But today he was having trouble getting down to the tax records that waited for him in the office. His mind was too preoccupied with Allison Standish and the changes that were undoubtedly coming to Blackburn House. How difficult was she likely to be? It wasn’t that they couldn’t move the business elsewhere if they had to, but it would be inconvenient and expensive, most likely.

Nick glanced across the wide center hallway and spotted Sarah Bitler pausing in the door of her quilt shop. Seeing him, she smiled and raised her hand.

Taking that for an invitation to talk, Nick seized the chance to delay the taxes a bit longer. He crossed the marble hallway to join her.

“Morning, Sarah. Quiet today?”

“So far.” Sarah brushed an invisible bit of thread from the blue apron that matched her dress as well as her eyes. Her normally serene face was alive with excitement. “Have you heard? The new owner is in town. She checked into the bed-and-breakfast last night.”

“Yes, I know.” He hesitated, not sure he wanted to discuss the woman with Sarah when his own impressions were so negative.

“I hope she comes in today,” Sarah hurried on, oblivious to his discomfort. “I’m so excited to meet her.”

Well, he could hardly keep it from Sarah. “You won’t be the first. I met her last night.”

“You did? But how? Why? I assumed she went straight to the bed-and-breakfast, and Mrs. Anderson said it was nearly nine when she checked in. Mrs. Anderson thought she must have gotten lost.”

“I don’t know about that, but I spotted her wandering around Blackburn House when I came back to the shop to take care of a delivery. I suppose she wanted to have a look at her new acquisition.”

What had Allison Standish made of Blackburn House? Apparently not much, since she was so eager to get rid of it.

“And you came in to tell her Wilkom,” Sarah said.

He had to grin. “Not exactly. I saw the lights going on and off in the bookstore and this place and our showroom, and I figured it was the prowler everyone has been talking about.”

“Nick, you didn’t!” Sarah shook her head. “A prowler wouldn’t be turning on the lights, knowing he could be seen from the street.”

“You’re too practical, Sarah. I didn’t even think of that. Just got caught up in the moment, I guess. I thought I’d catch him in the act. So I slipped in, hiding in the shadows like we used to when we were kids playing hide-and-search.” He could laugh at his actions now. “Then I jumped out and grabbed her.”

“No— Nick, how could you? Did you hurt her?”

“It was the other way around. She rammed the case she was carrying into my leg.”

“Serves you right,” Sarah said severely. “I hope you didn’t give her the wrong impression of us.”

He shrugged. As far as he could tell, Ms. Standish had already had a negative impression of Laurel Ridge and all its inhabitants before she arrived.

“Poor thing. Coming all this way alone to be greeted like that.” Sarah’s tender heart asserted itself.

“She wasn’t exactly alone,” Nick said with a vivid memory of the cat hissing at him. The animal would have been happy to sink its claws into his flesh. “She had a cat in the case she hit me with.”

“Well, I’m not one to believe in keeping animals in the house, but after all, I live on a farm. A woman on her own in a city apartment might be lonely, poor thing.”

That was Sarah all over, always seeing the best in everyone. He was afraid she was going to be disappointed in Allison Standish, and he wasn’t sure how to warn her. It was annoying that so many people had to depend on the whims of this stranger.

“Evelyn loved the quilt shop.” Sarah was obviously following her own train of thought. “But she was always content to be a silent partner. Ach, I couldn’t expect anything else, she was such a busy woman. Maybe Allison will want to be more involved. I hope so.”

“I hope you won’t regret what you wished for.” There was no point in trying to sugarcoat the facts for Sarah. At least he ought to try and prepare her for the woman who was now her partner. “Look, Sarah, I wouldn’t count too much on Allison Standish if I were you. I can’t picture the woman I met working in a quilt shop. She struck me as a snobbish yuppie who can’t wait to shake the dust of Laurel Ridge from her feet.”

He realized that Sarah was staring past him, a horrified expression on her face. He swung around. Allison Standish stood not more than five feet behind him, well within earshot. She’d undoubtedly heard him.

Well, what difference did it make? She’d told him herself that she was eager to sell up and leave.

“And here she is,” he said. “Good morning, Ms. Standish. What did you do with the cat?”

She blinked, apparently not expecting that question. “As it happens, Mrs. Anderson turned out to be a cat person. As soon as her tabby established her dominance over Hector, they settled down together.”

“She likes to be the boss, I take it.” He felt a momentary sympathy for Hector. “Well, you’ll be wanting to meet your new partner. Sarah, this is Allison Standish. Allison, Sarah Bitler.”

Allison’s eyes widened as she took in the fact that Sarah was Amish. Then she extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Sarah. I saw a bit of the shop last night.” Her glance swept back to Nick. “Speaking of last night, you must have thought it was amusing when I told you I planned to sell the building as soon as possible.”

Nick realized he was staring at her blankly. “Why would I find it funny? A sale could have serious consequences for all of us.”

“So you don’t know.” There was an edge to her voice. “I’m surprised. I thought you knew all about everything having to do with my inheritance.”

“Listen, I’m sorry. I gave you the wrong impression last night.”

She seemed to ignore what he said, preoccupied with some issue of her own that had her fuming. “You may as well know. I’m sure it will be all over town shortly. It turns out my inheritance has strings attached. I can’t sell or do anything else except run the building for an entire year.”

* * *

THE AMISH WOMAN was staring at Allison with a puzzled expression.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “We were told you inherited Blackburn House and Evelyn’s share of the quilt shop.”

Apparently everyone in town had known her grandmother better than she had. Allison pushed aside the sense that she’d lost something of value. How could she mourn a relationship that had never existed?

Sarah turned to Nick Whiting. “Did you know about this, Nick?”

He shook his head, frowning a little. He seemed honestly confused, although Allison wasn’t inclined to take anything at face value where Nick was concerned.

Seen in daylight, her impression of his rough-hewn good looks was confirmed. Attractive enough to cause a quiver in the stomach, if you went for men who wore jeans and flannel shirts to work. She didn’t.

“Evelyn always was wily about keeping her secrets.” His frown dissolved in a reluctant smile. “She certainly put one over on all of us this time. Including you, I guess.” His smile included Allison, but she thought she detected an edge of malice in the curve of his lips. “Evelyn tied your hands, did she?”

Sarah gave him a quelling look. “That’s enough, Nick. This is no way to get acquainted with the new owner.”

Somewhat to Allison’s surprise, he took the reproof with a nod. “Right you are. Guess I’ll get to work and let you two sort it out between you.”

Before she could deny there was anything to sort out, he had turned and crossed the hall to his showroom.

And little though Allison wanted to admit it, she was trapped in a situation she hadn’t foreseen, with no knowledge of who she could trust. She needed information before she could attempt any decisions, and Sarah might be able to supply it.

At the moment, Sarah was watching her with a slightly anxious expression. “Will you come into the shop?” She gestured to the quilt store. “Ach, it seems strange to invite you in when it’s half yours, anyway.”

Allison responded with a smile. She’d already broken her cardinal rule several times with Nick Whiting by letting him see her reaction to him. There was no point in compounding the problem by letting Sarah see her as anything but pleasant and professional. She’d realized when her father walked out on her and her mother that there was a lot to be said for being independent, and a big part of independence for her had meant hiding her emotions, especially the negative ones.

“I’d love to have you show me around the shop. There’s so much I don’t know.”

“Komm.” Sarah led the way, a tiny bell jingling as they opened the door. They moved into an aura of bright colors and soft textures that seemed to envelop and comfort at the same time.

The shop was in what must have been a parlor in the original mansion. The front windows were angled to form a bay with a bench under them. Sarah must have been responsible for the quilted cushions that turned it into an inviting seating area. The wallpaper, if not original, was a good copy of the flowered style so common in Victorian homes. Allison hadn’t had much occasion to decorate homes of this period, since most of Diane’s business had been with the busy young corporate execs who moved into a house, decorated in the latest style, then sold and moved on when they reached the next step of the corporate ladder.

But she knew something good when she saw it, and the fireplace was a masterpiece of High Victorian with its intricately carved and mirrored mantelpiece that dwarfed everything else in the room. Sarah had wisely not tried to change the intrinsic charm of the room but allowed her quilts to make their own statement.

“Didn’t you know that your grandmother intended for you to have this?” Sarah’s gesture took in the quilt shop and beyond it, the whole building.

“I hadn’t the slightest idea until her attorney called me.” It was pointless to hide the fact, since probably everyone in town would know the details before long. Evelyn Standish had apparently been someone important in Laurel Ridge. “As far as I know, she never saw me or attempted to make contact.”

Sarah’s blue eyes darkened with sympathy. “I’m so sorry. I can’t understand any grossmammi doing that.” She flushed slightly. “Ach, I’m sorry. Sometimes the Deutsch word just comes out when I’m talking Englisch. And the other way around, too.”

That little tidbit caught Allison’s imagination. “You mean you use Englisch words when you’re speaking dialect?” The instant she’d asked the question she wondered if Sarah would take offense, but Sarah responded with a quick smile that showed a dimple in each cheek.

“For sure. I guess you could say Pennsylvania Dutch is an old dialect. Dates from when the Amish came here in the 1700s. So when new things come along and we don’t have words for them, we just use the Englisch words.”

Allison nodded, relaxing in the face of the other woman’s friendly attitude. It would be foolish to let herself be put off by the fact that Sarah’s clothes were old-fashioned and her hair pulled severely from a center part and confined under a white covering at the back of her head. Those externals didn’t affect the warmth of her smile.

“You haven’t seen much of the Amish, ain’t so?” Sarah’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“Am I being obvious? To be honest, you’re the first Amish person I’ve ever talked to.”

Sarah’s dimples showed. “You’re not the first Englischer I’ve talked to, that’s certain sure. Mostly around here the Englisch and Amish know each other pretty well.”

“I could see that you and Nick Whiting know each other.” She hoped her tone didn’t give away her impression of him.

Sarah paused, her hand on a double bed in the front of the shop. It was completely covered by colorful quilts laid one on top of another. “Nick’s family lives on the property next to my parents’ farm, so we’ve been friends since we were small.”

So naturally her sympathy would be with Nick. She’d spoken to him as she would to a brother.

Well, that was enough of betraying an interest in Nick Whiting. He’d already made his attitude toward her presence plain.

“These quilts are all for sale?” she asked, touching the blue-and-white one on top.

“Ja, this is what we have in stock now.” Sarah seemed happy to turn her attention to the quilts. “I always display them this way so folks can see how they look on a bed.” She flipped the top quilt back to display the next, an intricately designed one that glowed in jewel tones. “The maker’s name and the price are on a numbered tag in the corner of the quilt, and I keep a card file with all the information about it.”

It seemed a simplistic method of keeping track of stock in the twenty-first century, but maybe that was what Sarah was comfortable with. “They are beautiful.” Genuine admiration filled Allison’s voice. “Works of art.” She stroked the detailed quilting on the border, each stitch put in perfectly by hand.

“You have that in common with your grandmother, then,” Sarah said. “Even though she didn’t do much in the shop, she really loved the quilts.”

Somehow she was surprised that they’d had anything at all in common. “How did the two of you become partners?”

Sarah’s smile became reminiscent. “I worked for Mrs. Standish when I was a teenager—cleaning the house and such. When I didn’t marry...” She shrugged. “Well, most Amish are pairing off by the time they hit their twenties. Evelyn was...” Again she hesitated. “Evelyn asked me what I wanted to do, and I told her my hope was to start a shop to sell the things Amish quilters made.” Sarah lost her hesitancy, her blue eyes sparkling. “Women like my mamm, who didn’t have a gut place to market their quilts. And she offered me this.” A sweep of her arm encompassed the shop.

“So you became partners.” That argued a generosity on the part of her grandmother that surprised her. Evelyn Standish might have been more complicated than Allison’s impression of her.

“She put up the money to get started, and I paid her back out of the profits.” Sarah sounded more knowledgeable than Allison would have expected. “I have my copies of our agreements if you want to see them, but I’m sure Evelyn’s will be in her office upstairs.”

Allison nodded. “The attorney mentioned the office to me. I suppose I’ll have to go through it before I can make any decisions.”

“Decisions,” Sarah repeated. “But didn’t you say that you can’t sell for a year?”

“Meaning there’s no decision to make?” Allison shrugged. “I can always walk away. Go back to my life in Philadelphia and let Blackburn House go to Brenda Conner.”

Sarah actually looked disappointed. She’d have thought the woman would be only too happy to see the last of her.

“I hope you don’t. I’ve always wanted to have an active partner in the business.”

“Me? I don’t know anything about quilts.”

“You appreciate them,” Sarah said. “I saw your expression when you touched them.” She smiled. “It’s like mine.”

“I know what goes into them. I’m an interior designer by profession, so naturally I have an appreciation. But—” Before she could add that she had no desire to spend the next year of her life in Laurel Ridge, they were interrupted.

“Hey, Sarah, do me a favor, will you?” Nick stood in the doorway, holding a large dog of indeterminate breed by a piece of rope that looked inadequate. Even as Allison watched, the dog made a dive for the nearest display rack, which was hung with an assortment of baby crib quilts.

“No!” Allison’s instinctive cry was echoed by Nick, and he hauled the dog back by the rope. The animal didn’t seem to show any resentment of the handling. It sat on Nick’s foot and looked up at him with an adoring doggie expression, tongue lolling.

“Is this bring-your-dog-to-work day?” she asked tartly.

“Not my dog,” Nick replied, his face relaxing in a grin that invited her to share his amusement. “A beauty, isn’t he?”

Her expression must have spoken for her, because he chuckled.

Sarah hurried to interpose herself between them with the air of one who was used to being a buffer between fractious personalities. “I see Ruffy showed up again. Mr. Sheldon must have let him slip out of the house.”

“Who is Mr. Sheldon, and why is his dog here?” Surely, as what she supposed was provisional owner of the building, she had the right to ask.

“Randall Sheldon had an office upstairs before he retired,” Nick said.

“And Ruffy used to come to work with him every day,” Sarah contributed. “Ruffy doesn’t seem to understand retirement. He keeps trying to come to work.”

By this time the dog was sniffing at Allison’s boots, probably smelling Hector on them. She stepped back. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to call this Mr. Sheldon to pick him up?”

“No need.” Nick hauled the animal to him, forestalling an effort to pursue Allison and the interesting smell of cat. “I’ll take him home. Sarah, I’m expecting Mr. and Mrs. Pierce in to look at cabinets. Will you tell them to start looking around? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Of course,” Sarah said. “Give my best to Mr. Sheldon.”

Nick nodded. “Heel, Ruffy.” The dog promptly sat down. “Come. Walk.” No response. Nick finally had to drag the animal across the polished marble to the front door.

Sarah had already turned back into the shop, and Allison followed her, unable to resist a comment.

“With that casual attitude toward his customers, I’m surprised Whiting has any business at all. Why didn’t he make the owner come and get the dog?”

Sarah seemed surprised. “Because that’s not the kind of person Nick is. He knows Mr. Sheldon regrets retiring, and he doesn’t want him to have to come in for the dog.” She smiled a little. “You might not know it to look at him, but Nick has a tender heart.”

Allison felt as if she’d been put in the wrong, no matter how gently. And the incident just emphasized her feeling that she’d wandered into a world she didn’t understand.

“Still, you wouldn’t leave your shop unattended, would you?”

Sarah seemed to consider. “Well, usually there would be someone else around. Sometimes my mother is here, sometimes members of the quilting group. But if I had to, I could trust Nick to keep an eye on things.”

It was a different attitude—that was all she could think. She would no more walk off and leave a shop full of valuable merchandise than she’d take flight.

“Of course, if I had a partner here, it wouldn’t be a problem.” Sarah’s smile teased her.

“I...I’m not sure that’s possible,” Allison muttered, feeling ill-equipped to cope. She’d assumed knowing more would help her decision become clear. Instead, everything she learned just seemed to make it more difficult.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE REALLY OUGHT to go through the building and introduce herself to the other renters, but Allison decided she needed a break from other people’s expectations. Lunch and a little time to decompress—that was the solution.

Telling Sarah goodbye and trying to ignore the trace of disappointment in her blue eyes, Allison headed across the street toward the café she’d noticed the previous night.

The Buttercup Café lived up to its name, painted inside with a yellow so sunny it made Allison blink. In that instant, she realized something else. The room had fallen completely silent at her entrance, and every single person in the café, with the exception of a toddler banging on a high chair tray, stared at her.

Feeling her cheeks warm, Allison moved forward. The middle-aged woman behind the counter, seeming to rouse herself, hurried to greet her. Amish, Allison noted. Like Sarah. There must be a lot of them in the area.

“Table for one, Ms. Standish? Right over here.” Somehow Allison wasn’t surprised that the woman knew her. Apparently, from what she’d heard so far, anonymity wasn’t an option in Laurel Ridge.

At Allison’s nod, the woman gestured to an open table and then pulled the chair out, her ample cheeks bunching with her smile. Her eyes seemed to take in every detail of Allison’s appearance from behind the wire-rimmed glasses she wore. With her white hair, rosy cheeks and round figure, she reminded Allison of a china figure of Mrs. Santa she’d once had. But the woman’s gaze was both curious and cautious, unlike the loving expression of her Mrs. Santa.

“I’m Anna Schmidt, owner, chief cook and just about everything else at the Buttercup. I’d recommend the chicken potpie. It’s the special today, and I made it fresh this morning.”

Allison had intended to order a salad, but she sensed it might be more diplomatic to agree. “That sounds lovely.” She handed the menu back. “Just water to drink.” She’d resolved to cut down on caffeine, although possibly this stressful time wasn’t the best for healthy changes.

Allison glanced up, caught an elderly man staring at her and fished in her bag for her cell phone. Maybe she’d have to resign herself to being a subject of curiosity for a time—not that she’d intended to stay long enough to become familiar to the denizens of Laurel Ridge.

Propping her arm on the bright yellow-and-white tablecloth, she checked her messages. Nothing from either Di or Greg. Maybe that was just as well. She opened a text from Leslie, her closest friend. An attorney, Leslie’s reaction to news of an unexpected legacy had been to advise caution.

Don’t sign anything without reading it thoroughly. That was the gist of it.

The text was brief. Call and tell me all about it.

Smiling, she responded. Nothing ever as it seems. Talk later, okay?

She couldn’t expect Leslie to rush to Laurel Ridge to represent her, but Leslie would be generous with legal advice. If there was a way out of this tangle, Leslie would find it.

Anna Schmidt returned a few minutes later, bearing a steaming bowl of what appeared to be a chicken stew rich with square noodles whose uneven sides declared that they were homemade. The woman lingered until Allison took a cautious first bite. At Allison’s involuntary exclamation of pleasure, she beamed.

“Never had real homemade chicken potpie, ain’t so?”

“No, I haven’t. It’s delicious.”

“Your daadi love my chicken potpie. I was certain sure you would, too.” Still smiling, Anna turned away to attend to another customer, leaving Allison bemused.

Odd, that she hadn’t even thought of her father since arriving in Laurel Ridge. The more she considered it, the stranger it seemed. Hugh Standish had walked out of her life when she was six. She’d trained herself not to dwell on him, because doing so inevitably led to pain. That was yet another good reason for not taking up a new life in this place.

Allison had just about succeeded in dismissing her father from her thoughts by the time she returned to Blackburn House later that afternoon. She’d brought Hector along in the carrier, deciding she’d relieve the innkeeper of his presence.

Before she talked with Leslie this evening, she really needed to have a better grasp on the economics of the situation. She couldn’t expect advice if she didn’t have the facts, and Leslie was a glutton for details. She’d want to know the assessed value of the property, the taxes, the expenses and the amount of rent that came in each month before venturing an opinion as to the best course of action for Allison. The logical place to look for those answers was in the office her grandmother had maintained upstairs.

Early spring daffodils curtsied in the cool breeze that swept across the lawn in front of Blackburn House. Care of the grounds was undoubtedly her responsibility. She could only hope her grandmother had a service in place to deal with such things.

The stained-glass detail in the transom pane above the front door glowed as a slant of sunlight hit it, and the brass door handle echoed with a gleam of its own. The meticulous care that had been taken of the building seemed to indicate that Evelyn Standish had been fond of the place. Odd, surely, that it didn’t bear her family’s name.

Allison went inside, the cat carrier dangling from one hand, and nearly ran into Nick, who was just turning away from the door to his showroom, keys in his hand.

He smiled, eyes crinkling, and nodded toward the cat carrier. “You’re not going to attack me with that again, are you?”

She couldn’t seem to stop herself from responding to that smile. “I was just defending myself, remember?”

“True enough.” He reached out to test the cat carrier door, earning a hiss from Hector. “Is it holding together all right?”

“Fine, thanks.” She glanced at the door to his showroom. It bore a hand-lettered placard. Out now. Leave a note or try the workshop in back. That reminded her of her disapproval.

“Closing early today?”

Nick blinked, as if not understanding her for a moment. Then he shrugged. “I can’t waste time sitting there hoping someone will come in. If anybody does, they know to look for us back in the shop.”

She couldn’t help frowning a little as she glanced at the shop door. “Wouldn’t you get more business if you kept the showroom open?”

His brow lifted in that infuriating manner. “Know a lot about cabinetmaking, do you?”

“No, but—”

“Then maybe you ought to let me run my own business while you tend to yours.” He strode off toward the back of the building, obviously having had enough of her.

She clutched the cat carrier and stalked to the stairs. All right, fine. She’d take care of her own business. That’s what she planned to do right now. Avoiding the gaze of the bookstore proprietor, who had come hopefully to the entrance to his shop, Allison hurried upstairs toward her grandmother’s office, heels clicking on the marble stairs.

* * *

NICK, PROPELLED BY what he considered righteous indignation, stormed to the back door, but before he could reach it Ralph Mitchell darted out of the bookstore and intercepted him. Ralph’s thin pale face was anxious, his nose twitching so that he looked like an elderly rabbit.

“You were talking to her. What’s she like? What’s she going to do? Did she tell you?”

Nick curbed his annoyance with Allison and tried to look reassuring. “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s decided yet what her plans are for the building.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Ralph about the restrictions to Allison’s ownership, but he held back. Ralph’s reputation as a gossip was well deserved. He talked to everyone who visited Blackburn House, to say nothing of all the people he encountered on his daily trips to the post office and the bank. He collected tidbits of information everywhere he went, sometimes sewing them into a fantastic array of speculation, but more often than not into something very close to the truth.

Ralph would undoubtedly find out about Allison’s provisional ownership from someone, but it didn’t have to be him.

“But how can you be sure? If she sells, what’s going to happen to us?” Ralph was close to wringing his hands. “You know Evelyn hasn’t raised our rents in years. How could we find comparable places for our businesses at those prices?”

“We probably couldn’t.” That was the truth, and Ralph knew it as well as he did, but it was hardly reassuring. “Look, we don’t know anything yet. For all I’ve heard, Ms. Standish may intend to just turn the business over to a property manager to handle and head back to her job in the city. That would be the easiest thing she could do.”

“True.” Ralph pushed his glasses back up on his nose with a characteristic gesture. Usually they clung to the end of his nose and he peered over them nearsightedly. “Still, I don’t understand why she hasn’t come to talk to me yet. It makes me nervous.”

That was a good question. As far as Nick could tell, Allison seemed inclined to avoid her responsibilities here.

“I’m sure she’ll be around to see you soon.” He patted Ralph’s slumped shoulder. “No need to start worrying before you have to, right?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Ralph sounded reluctant. “But do you think—”

“Gotta go. Dad’s expecting me, and I’m late.” He moved as he spoke, knowing if he didn’t, Ralph was capable of keeping him there talking and speculating all afternoon.

In a couple of minutes he was clear of the building, and he blew out a breath of exasperation. He felt sorry for Ralph, but the man’s timidity and gossipy nature about drove him crazy.

Dad, on the other hand, was so calm that Nick sometimes wondered if he caught all that was going on around him. When he reached the workshop he found his father already well into the next job they had on hand, humming tunelessly while he worked. He was what Nick would be in another thirty years, he supposed—lean, leathery, with tanned skin, wrinkles around his eyes, going a little gray at the temples.

Nick tossed his jacket in the general direction of the hook on the wall and joined him. The new cabinets were cherry, and the wood a challenge but a joy to work with. He smoothed his hand down the fine grain.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Dad shrugged. “No problem. Somebody come in the showroom?”

“Nothing like that. I had another little run-in with Allison Standish.”

“Was that a good idea?” His father’s voice was mild.

“I didn’t start it.” Nick wished the words back the minute they were out of his mouth. It sounded like what he and Mac used to say when they’d been squabbling. “Anyway, the woman is being unreasonable. She hasn’t even talked to the rest of the tenants in the building yet. Ralph is in a state about it.”

“Ralph’s always in a state.”

True enough. “I couldn’t blame him this time. Seems to me she’s trying to impose her big-city standards on Laurel Ridge, and that’s not how things are done here. The least she could do is to talk to everyone and let them know what’s happening instead of standing back looking down her nose at us.” He frowned down at the screwdriver in his hand and wondered what he’d picked it up for.

“Hmm.” Dad took a careful measurement, wrote it down and then measured again. Only then did he glance at Nick. “So, besides being obnoxious and superior, what’s Allison Standish like?”

He shrugged, for all the world as if he hadn’t paid attention. “Red hair. Well, more coppery-colored, I guess you’d say. Green eyes. Sort of a heart-shaped face and fair skin. She’s got a way of looking up at you that...” Never mind about his reactions. He certainly didn’t want to discuss them with his father. “Not much like her grandmother, that’s for sure.”

“You hardly noticed her, right?” Dad’s eyes were twinkling.

“It’s not like that,” he said with as much dignity as he could manage. “I’m just concerned about all of us. She could do a lot of damage through not understanding how small towns work.”

Dad didn’t respond. He just kept on working, but Nick felt sure there was something more. As the silence stretched, he had to speak.

“Well?”

Dad gave him a considering look before turning back to the piece of cherry work he was shaping. “Seems to me you might be jumping to some conclusions based on appearances.” He paused, probably to let that sink in. “The way I see it, the woman’s been thrown into a stressful situation she probably never expected. Maybe we have to give her a chance to find her balance.”

He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. Nick knew exactly what Dad was hinting at. He thought Nick had an unfavorable opinion of Allison because she reminded him of Sheila.

His first impulse was to deny it. Loudly. But he had too much respect for his father’s judgment to reject it out of hand. Maybe there was a fragment of truth to the idea. He couldn’t deny that Allison seemed to be everything that Sheila had wanted to be.

He and Dad worked side by side in silence for a few more minutes. The feel of the cherry wood beneath his hands soothed him.

When he finally spoke, much of his irritation had disappeared. “Why do you suppose Evelyn left Blackburn House to a stranger?”

Dad shrugged. “That stranger is her granddaughter, you know.”

“The way I heard it, Evelyn never showed the least interest in Allison, so it doesn’t sound as if she cared whether she had a granddaughter or not.”

“Evelyn Standish was never one to show her feelings,” Dad commented, holding the piece he’d been working on up to the light. “I doubt anyone knew what she thought of her son’s child.”

“Not even Brenda?”

“Especially not Brenda.” Dad’s tone was dry.

“From what I’ve heard, Brenda expected her aunt to leave everything to her. I imagine she’s none too happy about this turn of events.”

Dad shrugged. “Allison’s her own blood. Her son’s child.”

“Hugh Standish, you mean.” Nick frowned, trying to remember what he’d heard about the man. “He had left town before I was old enough to know much of anything about him. From what I’ve heard, he wasn’t much missed.”

“Funny thing, that was.” Dad paused, staring absently at the window that looked toward Blackburn House. “Old Mr. Standish was the soul of honor. Evelyn, too. And Hugh was as twisty as they come, even as a child. Long on charm and short on character.”

“So he left.”

Dad nodded. “He left. Married, had a child, then left them, too. Seems he spent his life leaving people. I’d guess that’s why Evelyn bequeathed Blackburn House to Allison. Kind of making up for Hugh.”

The resentment Nick had been feeling toward Allison seeped slowly away. He still didn’t like her behavior. But maybe her family story was enough of a reason for him to give her a break.

* * *

ALLISON ENDED UP spending the afternoon in her grandmother’s office, becoming more and more engrossed in what she found there. The office itself was something of a surprise—stripped down, businesslike, with none of the frills one might expect from a wealthy woman.

Hector had his own opinion of the office. When she’d put him down, he’d prowled the room eagerly at first, intent on his search for any sign of his hereditary enemy, the mouse. Finally, disappointed, he’d leaped on top of the file cabinet. He established himself there, sphinx-style, his paws tucked in front of his white bib. The only sign of life was the occasional blink of his eyes.

Allison’s first task had been to get a grasp on the financial situation. Evelyn’s records were clear and organized, and it didn’t take long for Allison to discover that her supposition had been correct. Blackburn House was worth considerably more than her cousin was offering, even though the rents Evelyn had charged seemed ridiculously low.

Still, Allison had to admit that she had no idea what typical rents might be in a town like Laurel Ridge. Something else she ought to find out.

Once she had jotted down every detail she thought Leslie might need to give her an informed opinion on how to proceed, Allison leaned back in the leather swivel chair, considering.

Searching through the office had given her a guilty sensation. She didn’t belong here, but by her actions, Evelyn had grafted her on to the family tree.

Maybe that was an apt expression. She’d felt grafted on to another family tree when her mother had married Dennis Goldman. Dennis was a dear, of course, and he’d always done his best to treat her exactly as he did the two half brothers he and Mom had produced. She loved them all. She knew they loved her. Still, she’d always felt like the odd man out. The cuckoo in the nest, in a way.

Unfair, to feel that way, but she’d figured out a long time ago that a person couldn’t argue with her feelings. One just had to accept them and move on.

And speaking of feelings, what was she to think of the grandmother who’d appeared so suddenly, reaching out from the grave, it seemed? She’d formed an opinion of Evelyn Standish long ago—imperious, proud and strong-willed. Nothing she’d learned since she’d arrived in Laurel Ridge had changed that opinion.

But being privy to the woman’s business life had certainly added to the picture she’d formed. Evelyn had been a good businesswoman, meticulous if a bit old-fashioned in her methods.

She had been capable of surprising generosity. There was the partnership with Sarah for one thing. And apparently Evelyn had also carried the bookstore through a couple of dry periods, carefully noting the dates on which she’d been paid back. Without interest, it seemed. Generous, yes. So how did a woman who was so giving to others justify ignoring her only grandchild?

Sighing, Allison brushed her hair behind her ears and massaged the back of her neck. That was a riddle to which she’d probably never know the answer.

A glance at the window showed her that it was getting dark already. Allison checked the time and began gathering papers together. Get a bite to eat first, and then go back to the inn. By the time she’d done that, Leslie should be home from the office and ready to talk.

The building had grown dark and quiet around her while she worked. She’d been vaguely aware of the occupants of the other offices leaving, hearing the sound of voices and the clatter of heels as they went down the stairs. She ought to be alone in the building, but she could hear the distinct sound of movement.

Puzzled but not alarmed, she went to the door and opened it. For a moment all was silent. Then there was the sharp sound of a footstep, and then another.

Allison couldn’t seem to prevent the frisson of alarm that rippled along her nerves. If every office and shop in the building was closed, who was here?

The custodian, of course. She nearly laughed out loud. She’d just been looking at the building records. There was a custodian, even though she hadn’t met him yet.

Well, no time like the present. Leaving the office open and the lights on, she moved quickly down the hall toward the stairs. “Hello?” Her voice echoed as if she’d called into a canyon.

Nothing. No one answered.

“Mr. Glick? Is that you? It’s Allison Standish.”

Still nothing, but the footsteps were clearer and more hurried now, coming from the hall below. Allison hustled to the top of the stairs and looked down.

From this vantage point she could see the entire front half of the hallway that bisected the building, with the quilt shop on her left and the cabinet showroom on the right. Nothing moved there.

Annoyed now, she hurried down the steps. How rude, not to answer when she called out. Surely anyone who belonged in the building would know who she was, even if they hadn’t met yet.

Anyone who belonged. She stopped three-quarters of the way down, clinging to the bannister. Someone, maybe Nick, had said something about a prowler.

Allison reached for the pocket of her jacket and found it empty. Her cell phone was lying on the desk upstairs.

She should go back to the office and call the police. But then she’d look remarkably silly if her prowler turned out to be someone who had every right to be here.

Allison took another tentative step down, undecided, and heard a rush of footsteps followed by the bang of the back door. The noise galvanized her into action. She ran down the stairs, swung around the newel post at the bottom and raced for the back exit. She couldn’t possibly catch the person, but maybe she could get a glimpse of him.

The back door was closed but not locked. She yanked it open, charged forward and nearly ran into Nick Whiting, who grasped her by the elbows.

The tinge of fear transformed into anger. “What do you mean by sneaking around the building that way? Were you trying to alarm me?”

Nick’s open face tightened. “Is fighting mad always your first response? I wasn’t in the building. I was just coming out of the workshop when I thought I heard someone call out. I came to see what was wrong.”

That sounded logical. Besides, the person she’d heard was going out. He or she wouldn’t turn around and come back in, would they?

Only if they wanted to make you think they were just arriving on the scene, a little voice commented at the back of her mind.

Allison pulled away from Nick’s warm grasp, aware of his strength. “What are you doing here this late, anyway?”

“Working,” he said briefly. “I went home to put my son to bed, and then I came back to work for an hour or so.”

“Son?” She wasn’t sure why she was so startled. Of course someone like Nick would be married. He ought to wear a wedding ring. “I didn’t know you were married.”

His strong features tightened again. “I’m not. My son, Jamie, is six. We live with my folks.”

Allison’s mind seethed with questions, none of which she dared ask. Better stick to the point. “I heard someone in the building. Whoever it was, he didn’t answer when I called. You had mentioned something about a prowler.”

“So you decided to go after him alone?” His eyebrow rose in that gesture she was beginning to dislike.

“Certainly not. I heard him go out of the building. I was just hoping to get a look at him.” A shiver went through her. “Did you see anyone?”

“Not a glimpse, but anyone could have gone around the corner before I got to where I’d see him.” He gave her a measuring look, as if assessing how much she was to be trusted.

She did her best to ignore it. “Do you suppose he broke into any of the offices?”

“I’ll have a look,” Nick said. “You stay here.”

That sounded tempting, but her pride intervened. “I’ll go with you.”

Exasperation was written clearly on his face, but he didn’t argue. Together they moved through the ground floor, checking doors. She hated admitting that she wanted to stick close to him. Somehow that rough-hewn appearance of his was very appealing right now. He looked as if he could handle anything.

The shops were all locked, dark and, she supposed, normal.

“My keys are upstairs in Evelyn’s office. We could look inside,” she offered.

“I don’t think there’s much point. If someone had broken in, it would be obvious.” Nick flicked a light switch, bathing the back part of the hallway in its glow. The storerooms were locked and dark, as well.

Allison eyed Nick’s face as they went up the stairs side by side. His jaw was set, and his gaze was intent. He looked tough and determined, and she would definitely stack him up against any prowler.

There was that word again. “Why did you think there might be a prowler?”

He looked startled for an instant. “You mean when I saw you last night?” He shrugged. “There have been rumors making the rounds about a prowler in town, but no one seems to have seen anything definite.”

“If that’s the case, this should be reported to the authorities. I’ll call 911—”

“No need,” Nick said. “Consider it reported. As it happens, my brother, Mac, is the police chief. And oddly enough, I’m the mayor.”

“You? The mayor?”

Nick grinned at the doubt she made obvious. “Yes, me. Don’t be impressed, though. In a town of eight thousand people, being the mayor is as much a popularity contest as anything else.”

“I see.” She studied his face, wondering just how serious he was. “What, exactly, does the mayor of Laurel Ridge do?”

Nick shrugged. “Goes to a town council meeting once a month. Declares it Safety Week or Blueberry Day. Serves as a judge for the annual Pet and Toy Parade.”

Was he serious? Apparently so. “I’m sure you’re well suited to judging the Pet and Toy Parade, whatever that is.”

“Hey, that’s a serious event here.” He assumed an injured look as he checked office doors and rattled handles on the second floor. “And judging isn’t a piece of cake, especially when the contestants might cry if they don’t win. Or bite the judge.”

Her lips quirked as she thought of Hector’s reaction to him. “As I said, well suited.”

“The owners of last year’s contestants in the most colorful pet competition nearly came to blows.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t a pretty sight, believe me.”

His gaze met hers, his golden-brown eyes bright with amusement, and Allison felt an unexpected lurch in the area of her heart.

No, she told herself firmly.

“Since everything seems secure, I’d better pack up and get over to the—” She opened the office door, and Hector streaked out, moving so fast he was nothing more than an orange blur.

Nick jumped back, then gave an unsteady laugh. “I think that cat’s out to get me. What’s he so upset about now?”

Allison’s hand froze on the knob. “Look.” In the far corner of the room was a door that she’d assumed led to a closet. It had been closed and she’d thought locked when she left.

Now it stood wide-open, revealing a flight of wooden stairs that led up into darkness.

Nick’s hand closed on hers, and he drew her back from the door. “I take it you didn’t have the attic door open?”

“I didn’t even know that’s what it was.” She shivered. “We’d better call the police.”

Nick took a cell phone from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “I’m going to have a look. If you hear anything odd, press 9-1-1.”

She clutched his arm. “What do you mean, odd? Like you being knocked over the head? Let the police do it. You don’t need to be macho about it.”

“I’m not.” He took both her hands in his. “Look, if I call in, that means whoever’s on duty will rush over here in the patrol car, siren wailing. It would probably be Johnny Foster—eighteen, eager and inclined to trip over his own feet. Let me see if there’s any sign up there first, and then I’ll talk to Mac quietly. No point in setting the whole town gossiping about you your second night here.”

Much as she hated to admit it, his words made a certain amount of sense. “All right. But be careful.” She frowned. “I thought the sound I heard came from the other end of the building.”

“Could have,” he said. “The attic stretches clear across, and there’s a stairway in each corner. Whoever was up there, he might have heard you go out of the room and slid down this way, then on downstairs by the back stairway.”

She blinked. “I didn’t even know there was a back stairway.”

He grinned. “You’d best explore your new property. But not now.” He squeezed her hands, crossed the room quickly and disappeared up the dark stairway.

Allison stood where she was, clutching the cell phone. If he didn’t come back in a few minutes, she was calling, no matter how much fuss it made.

But Nick reappeared, dusting himself off, before panic had her pushing the buttons. “He left the door open onto the stairway at the other end of the building. That must be how he got in. But there’s nothing upstairs but a lot of junk people have left there over the years. What was the point?”

She shivered, rubbing her arms. “If it was to scare me, he succeeded.” She scooped together the notes she’d made and stuffed them into her bag. “Right now all I want is to find Hector and get out of here. Do I need to stay around and talk to your brother?”

“Not tonight.” His attention seemed to be elsewhere, and she suspected his mind was busy with something he didn’t intend to share. “I’ll get Mac, and we’ll have a quiet look around. He can stop by casually tomorrow to have a word with you.”

Hands full of papers, she looked at him. “You’re going to a lot of trouble for me.”

He smiled, eyes focusing on her for a moment. “Just doing my duty to the voters, that’s all. Come on. I’ll help you find that dratted cat.”

CHAPTER FOUR

BY MIDMORNING THE next day Allison had met, as if by accident, with McKinley Whiting, Laurel Ridge’s police chief. Mac, as Nick had referred to him, was a slightly younger, slightly darker version of Nick, with the same straight nose and regular features but dark brown hair and dark eyes.

He’d been polite, he’d looked around, and he’d left Allison with the impression that he didn’t take the situation seriously, despite his assurance that he’d keep an eye on the building.

Following his visit she’d made the rounds of the upstairs offices, meeting in turn a Realtor, an investment adviser and an attorney. By the time they’d all exchanged pleasantries and each one had asked about her plans for the building, Allison had felt the need for escape, so she’d slipped downstairs to the quilt shop.

Once again, the warmth and color of the place enveloped her, and Sarah’s smile was the friendliest thing she’d seen yet today.

“Allison, wilkom. I’m glad you stopped in.” Sarah was sorting a stack of quilted place mats, apparently rearranging her display.

“Those are lovely.” Allison touched the tiny, intricate blocks that made up the pattern, each of them not more than an inch square.

“That’s postage-stamp quilting, worked in a Sunlight and Shadows pattern.” Sarah moved her hand over the design, which almost seemed to ripple. “My mother made these.”

“She must be a very accomplished quilter to do such fine work.” Each tiny piece was joined to the next by stitches so small and even that they were almost invisible.

“Denke. Thank you, I mean.” Sarah’s fair skin seemed sun-kissed today, as if she’d been doing something in the spring sunshine that had brought out a faint dusting of freckles. “Mamm will be in one day this week to set up a quilting frame in the corner. Once the weather is fine, we start getting more visitors from out of town, and they like to see a quilt in progress.”

“And it encourages them to buy,” Allison said, appreciating the marketing angle.

“Ja, that, too.” Sarah smiled on the words, her eyes sparkling. “Never underestimate the craftiness of a Pennsylvania Dutchman in making money, that’s what folks say.”

“I guess it applies to the Pennsylvania Dutch woman, as well.” Allison, feeling relaxed for the first time that day, picked up one of the place mats. “Let me help you arrange these.”

“Denke,” Sarah said again, and Allison stored the word away, realizing it meant thanks.

They worked in silence for a few minutes. Allison glanced at the other woman’s face. Sarah had an air of calm and stillness about her that seemed to say she could be relied upon, and Allison longed to talk to someone about what had happened the previous night. But she didn’t know how Sarah might react. Would she be frightened at the thought that someone had been in the building? Or disapproving of the action Allison had taken?

“Are you feeling as if you know your grandmother any better now?” Sarah shot her a questioning glance. “I thought her office might answer some of your questions.”

“Well, it cast a new light on her in some ways,” Allison admitted. “I hadn’t realized she was such a businesswoman, for one thing.”

Sarah nodded. “She was, that’s so. After her husband passed and your...your father left, I suppose she didn’t have much else to occupy her. Evelyn never was one to be idle. She just dug in and started handling the business herself.”

Allison eyed her. “You wouldn’t remember my father, I suppose.” Sarah probably hadn’t been born when Hugh Standish had said goodbye to Laurel Ridge.

“No, but you know how folks talk.” There was something a little apologetic in her tone.

“I don’t imagine they had anything good to say about him,” Allison said.

“Ach, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right. I know better than most people how unreliable he was.”

Sarah nodded, blue eyes softening. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It’s been a long time. I don’t think about him much anymore.” Except for the occasional bad dream. “I’m glad to get a better picture of what his mother was like.” At least, she thought she was.

“I wish...” Sarah began and stopped abruptly at the sound of someone entering the shop. She looked up, a welcoming smile on her face that seemed to stiffen.

“I see you’re making yourself right at home.” The voice belonged to a fortyish woman who stared at Allison as if memorizing every detail of her appearance. “That is...well, I suppose half of the shop does belong to you and...” She seemed to lose herself in a welter of words, the challenge that had sounded in her first statement sagging under the weight of her qualifications.

Sarah came to the rescue. “Allison, this is Brenda Conner, your cousin.”

“Brenda Standish Conner,” the woman corrected, straightening the shoulders that had begun to droop. She stared at Allison again, her smile flickering nervously on and off and on. “I was your father’s cousin. You wouldn’t know, I suppose.”

The truth of the matter was that she’d never heard of a cousin until the business of Evelyn’s will came up, but it didn’t seem polite to say so. Brenda could never have been beautiful, but she might have had a fresh-faced charm before her round face had settled into those lines of discontent. She seemed somehow faded, as if life had drained her, and the classic gray suit might have looked stylish if it hadn’t turned her complexion a similar shade of gray. It hung from her sloping shoulders as if it had been made for a larger woman, or at least one who stood up straight.

“Mr. Litwhiler mentioned your name to me.” And relayed your not-so-generous offer. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m afraid I know very little about my father’s family.”

That admission seemed to please Brenda, for some reason. She stood up a little straighter and fingered the rope of pearls that hung around her neck. “No, you wouldn’t. Your father never valued his family heritage, so he wouldn’t be likely to pass it on to you.”

Allison’s response was a noncommittal sound. Did Brenda know that Hugh had walked out on Allison and her mother when Allison was six? Or was that just a strike in the dark? She probably wouldn’t believe it if Allison told her that she didn’t remotely care about the Standish family heritage, whatever that might be.

“Speaking of Jonas Litwhiler, I believe he passed on to you a certain offer I made.” She cast a glance at Sarah, as if expecting her to disappear. Sarah went on stacking place mats on the shelf.

“He did, yes.” Allison tried to keep her voice neutral.

“He tells me you didn’t have an answer yet, but now that you’ve had a chance to think about it, I’m sure you’ll agree that accepting is the best solution for everyone.” Brenda reeled that off as blandly as if she’d memorized the words. “If you’d just give me your approval, we can get on with the paperwork.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Allison felt a certain amount of pleasure in saying the words. Brenda needn’t think it was going to be as easy as she’d undoubtedly hoped. “I’m consulting with an expert as to the value of the building, and I can’t give you an answer until I receive that information.” The expert in question happened to be a college sorority sister of Leslie’s whose family owned a real estate office somewhere in central Pennsylvania.

“Well, but—” Brenda hadn’t expected that answer. “Of course, you might find someone who would say the building is worth more, but the amount I mentioned is all I can afford at the moment. Besides, you have to consider the cost to you of staying here in Laurel Ridge for an entire year.”

“I’ll take all of that into consideration.” She produced the smooth, professional tone she used when an estimate for vertical blinds came in unexpectedly high. “I’ll let you know my decision as soon as possible.”

“Yes, well, that’s... I guess that’s all right.” Brenda cleared her throat, seeming to brighten a little. “Meanwhile, I thought you should meet some people in Laurel Ridge while you’re here, so I’ve arranged a little get-together this evening at seven. Perhaps you’ll be interested to see the Standish house. Anyone can give you directions. And you’ll meet my daughter, Krysta.” She held that out as if it were an irresistible lure. “I’ll see you then, shall I?”

Allison was tempted to say no, just to see her reaction. But the truth was that she was curious about the place where her father grew up. Surprising, since she’d thought she didn’t care.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”

When the woman had left, Allison glanced at Sarah, who seemed to be pretending she hadn’t overheard anything.

“I wonder if I’m making a mistake in attending her party? It’s pretty obvious what Brenda wants.”

“What do you want?” Sarah said, with an air of facing up to facts.

Allison folded another place mat and put it on the shelf, considering the question. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “But I admit, I’m curious about the place where my father grew up.”

“Then you should go. Family is more important than just about anything, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.” Even when you felt like the odd man out. “My father left when I was six.”

“I’m sorry.” Sarah reached out to clasp her hand in an impulsive grip. “That must have been hard.”

She nodded. Funny, that she was talking to a stranger about something she seldom mentioned to anyone. But Laurel Ridge seemed to have that effect on her. Maybe small-town living did have something to recommend it.

“Seeing the Standish house might help you understand him better, ain’t so?” Sarah hesitated. “But Brenda...well, I think you should be careful. She’s not like your grandmother.”

Allison nodded. Sarah had obviously admired Evelyn, and Brenda...well, even she could see that Brenda was trying to emulate Evelyn Standish and only coming off as a pale copy.

* * *

“DO YOU HAVE any homework to do tonight?” Nick glanced at Jamie as they walked down the street from the elementary school to the workshop, where Mom was going to pick him up after her dentist appointment. The backpack his son wore looked too heavy for him, but Nick knew better than to offer to carry it. He’d already made that mistake, and Jamie had been offended.

“One page of number problems.” Jamie hopped, two-footed, over a crack in the sidewalk. “And spelling words to practice.”

“Sounds good.” He ruffled his son’s wheat-colored hair, and Jamie grinned up at him. “I’ll be home in time to help you, right?”

“Right.” Jamie shifted the backpack slightly. “Race you to the workshop.”

He was off and running before he’d finished saying the words, giggling. Nick let him get several yards ahead and then jogged after him.

Mac was headed for the shop from the other direction, and Jamie ran straight at him, confident his uncle would catch him. Mac grabbed him and tossed him into the air, caught him and set him down again.

“What are you up to, sport?” Mac plopped his police officer’s cap on Jamie’s head.

“Racing my dad. I beat him. I won!” He grinned at Nick.

“You’re too fast for me,” Nick said, feeling a little lurch in his heart as he looked at his son. One day that really would be true. Jamie would go on to do things Nick couldn’t even imagine.

“Gotta see Grandpa,” Jamie declared, giving back the hat, and fled into the shop, letting the door bang behind him.

“I’m thinking we come in well behind Dad in the pecking order as far as Jamie is concerned,” Mac said, grinning.

“No doubt. Grandpa’s helping him make a birdhouse. We can’t compete with that.” Nick clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You coming in?”

“Just for a minute,” Mac said. “And I’ll have you know I put together that model plane with Jamie last week. I was king of the walk then.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” Nick teased. “He told me that Grandpa is a champion carpenter. He knows because Grandpa told him.”

“Hey, I let him wear the police chief’s hat,” Mac protested. “That should count for something.”

“Not in a burg like Laurel Ridge. Now, if you were hunting down bank robbers, he might be impressed.” He followed his brother into the shop. Much as he loved riding his little brother, he was conscious of gratitude. Jamie had a good man to idolize in Mac. Mac was a lot like Dad—solid, dependable, honorable. When he and Jamie had come home to live, they’d been absorbed into the family as if they’d never been anywhere else.

“So, what brings the police chief here this afternoon? Looking for bad guys?” He leaned against the workbench, studying Mac’s strong-boned, impassive face.

“I talked to Allison Standish this morning,” Mac said, his straight brows lowering slightly. “She told me her version of what happened last night.”

“I don’t suppose it was much different from what I told you,” Nick observed.

The frown didn’t lift. “Look, how seriously should I take this woman? Do you think she really heard anything or was it just an overactive imagination?”

That wasn’t an option that had occurred to him. He’d taken it for granted that Allison’s account was accurate. “I doubt it,” he said slowly. “Mainly because she was really scared and angry when she ran into me. She wasn’t faking it.”

“If you say so, I’ll buy that she was scared. But what are the odds on overactive imagination? Did you actually hear anyone?”

Nick frowned, considering. “Didn’t hear anything, no. But I did find that door to the attic standing open, so it looked as if someone had been in there.”

“No reason why she couldn’t have opened it herself, is there?”

“No, but the one at the other corner of the building had been left open, too. And why would she say it if it wasn’t true?” Far be it for him to support the woman who might put him out of business, but he didn’t see any reason for Allison to make up that story.

“Imagination,” Mac said. “Not being used to the sounds an old building makes. Trying to draw attention to herself. Take your pick.”

Nick pushed down the voice that wanted to deny it heatedly. “Could be, I guess, but that doesn’t seem sufficient reason. I’d say she’s not the hysterical type. Or easily scared.”

“What about the way the building was left in Mrs. Standish’s will? I’ve been hearing rumors around town. What happens if Allison doesn’t claim the building?”

“From what I understand, it goes to Brenda Conner. That might give Brenda a reason for trying to scare Allison away, but no reason that I can see for Allison to invent such a story.” Was he really defending her?

Mac mulled that over for a couple of minutes. “Seems like there might be a lot of people with a reason to want Ms. Standish gone.”

“True. Maybe even me.”

“You? Why you?”

Nick shrugged. “I guess I might figure Brenda would be easier to deal with.”

“Pretty vague, don’t you think?” Mac spread his hands out, palms open. “The story doesn’t amount to much of anything, even so. A bunch of solid citizens aren’t likely to be prowling around to scare her, even if they aren’t happy about her ownership. But I’ll keep an eye on the place, anyway.”

Nick nodded. It might be just as well if he did the same.

* * *

ALLISON PAUSED AT the entrance to the bookshop, glancing around, caught as always by the sheer pleasure of being surrounded by books. Though she had to confess that she bought most of her books online in recent years, there was still nothing like a visit to an actual bookstore to get the juices flowing.

A display of regional history books and pamphlets attracted her attention, but before she could reach the rack she was intercepted.

“Ms. Standish!” A man came hurrying from the back between the racks of books, his white hair ruffled and his expression both eager and apprehensive. “I’ve been expecting you to stop by. I’m Ralph Mitchell.”

“Of course.” She extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mitchell. I’m sorry I didn’t get in sooner. There’s so much to deal with...” She let that trail off, hoping it was an acceptable excuse.

“Naturally, naturally. And you must call me Ralph. Everyone does.” He pumped her hand, his eager eyes seeming to take in every detail of her appearance so intently that it was as if he memorized it.

Allison did a little noticing of her own. Mitchell looked so much like the popular concept of a bookshop owner that he was almost a caricature. Wire-rimmed glasses slid down a pink nose, and he peered anxiously over the top of them. His white hair was worn a little long, and it stood up as if his head was lost in a cloud.

“It was such a shock to all of us to lose our dear Evelyn.” His voice actually shook a little, and his hands trembled. “She was very good to us.”

“I’m sure she was.” Allison’s thoughts flickered to that loan her grandmother had made to the bookshop owner. Perhaps they had been close friends, and he was genuinely mourning her.

“You have my deepest sympathy in your loss,” he added.

She nodded, not sure what to say. The truth was that her grandmother had never been anything to her but a name, so how could she be expected to mourn her? There probably wasn’t a soul in Laurel Ridge who hadn’t known Evelyn Standish better than she had.

“You have a lovely shop here,” she said, feeling a change of subject might be the best response. “You seem to be well stocked for a small-town store.”

“We try, we try,” he said, glancing around with satisfaction. “Evelyn was a great reader, you know, and she encouraged me to branch out a little in what I carried.”

The quilt shop, the bookstore—her grandmother seemed to have had a variety of interests and had been willing to back up those interests financially.

“I hope you plan to continue as Evelyn would have wanted,” he said, his tone wistful. “It’s not easy for an independent bookshop to compete with the chains and the online stores, but Evelyn felt a bookshop was important to the community.”

“Yes, I’m sure she did.”

Mitchell was putting her on the spot, and she didn’t like it. “I really haven’t had time to gather all the information I need to make plans yet. My grandmother’s bequest came as a surprise to me, you understand.”

“Ms. Standish.” A peremptory male voice sounded from behind her. She was certainly in demand today. Allison turned.

“I’m Thomas Blackburn. I’d like to speak with you.” The man was probably about the same age as Ralph Mitchell and his hair was just as white. But there the resemblance ended. Mitchell looked like nothing so much as a slightly anxious rabbit, while Blackburn—tall, erect, faultlessly dressed—had hawk-like features with eyes that pierced and judged.

“Mr. Blackburn.” She acknowledged his words with a nod. “I’m sorry, but I was talking with Mr. Mitchell—”

“Oh, no, no,” Ralph said quickly. He stepped back, as if longing to efface himself. “We can chat another time. Really. I must...must get back to...to my inventory.”

She could have insisted, but it was obvious Mitchell preferred to slip away in the face of Blackburn’s commanding air.

“Fine.” She smiled at him and then gestured Blackburn to the stairs. “Shall we go up to my office?” It was the first time she’d referred to the office as hers, but she decided she needed a bit of bolstering with Blackburn staring at her so disapprovingly.

They went up the steps in silence. Blackburn seemed to know the way to the office as well as she did. She unlocked the door, crossed the room and sat down behind her grandmother’s desk. Blackburn took the visitor’s chair, planted his elbows on its arms and leaned forward.

“I don’t believe in mincing words, Ms. Standish. Blackburn House is Blackburn by rights. Blackburns built it, Blackburns lived in it. I want it in Blackburn family hands, where it belongs.”

Allison leaned back in the chair, feeling as if she needed to be a bit farther from the power of that commanding presence. “I understand that the building was purchased by my grandfather a number of years ago.”

“Selling was a foolish action on the part of my father.” Blackburn dismissed the sale with a wave of a large hand. “He was under a certain amount of financial stress at the time, and frankly, your grandfather took advantage of him.”

Despite the fact that she had no reason to defend the grandfather who was completely unknown to her, Allison found the comment annoying. “The sale was obviously perfectly legal. I’m not sure why you’re bringing it up now.”

Blackburn’s face twitched in an unconvincing smile. “I merely wanted to show you that I’m serious in my desire to buy Blackburn House. My son and grandson carry the Blackburn name, and it should be their legacy.”

Not yours. He didn’t say the words, but they were implied by his tone.

“Did you discuss this subject with my grandmother?” Allison wasn’t quite sure where the question came from—maybe from the fact that she was sitting in her grandmother’s chair.

Blackburn’s face tightened until it looked as if it might be carved on a monument. “I made repeated offers to Evelyn Standish. She seemed to take pleasure in thwarting my wishes.” His face reddened. “She even talked about changing the name to Standish House.”

Allison struggled to hide her amusement at this example of small-town rivalry. Somehow she could imagine her grandmother doing just that. She’d probably enjoyed clashing with Blackburn. But Allison just found the old man’s insistence disturbing, particularly when she had no choice but to say no to him.

“I’m afraid selling is not possible right now, to you or to anyone else,” she said quickly. “The terms of my grandmother’s will—”

“I know all about the will.” Blackburn looked as if he were gritting his teeth. “Evelyn enjoyed making things as difficult as possible for people. However, that’s not insurmountable.”

“I’m not going to contest the will—” she began, but he shook his head.

“No, not litigation.” He smiled slightly. “That benefits no one but the attorneys, I find. I have already spoken with Brenda Standish Conner. She is willing to sell to me.”

The arrogance of that took her breath away. “Brenda is not the owner of Blackburn House, provisional or otherwise.”

He didn’t seem impressed by the statement. “I understand that she has already made you an offer to relinquish your claim.” He held up a large hand to quell her protest. “A ridiculous offer, as I’m sure you agree, but that’s Brenda all over. Always looking for a bargain, and perfectly willing to cut off her nose to spite her face. However, I’m sure you’ll agree that staying in Laurel Ridge for a year is an onerous requirement for an ambitious young professional like yourself. As for seeking to run the place at a profit for a year—well, so many things can go wrong in managing a building like this one. Unexpected repairs could eat up your profits very quickly.”

Allison was beginning to feel her back stiffen at the automatic assumption everyone seemed to make that she didn’t belong here. And how did he know she was an ambitious young professional, anyway? “What exactly are you proposing, Mr. Blackburn?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Naturally you’d like to gain a tangible profit from your inheritance and get back to your own life. In return for your agreement to Brenda’s offer, I will increase the offer. Shall we say double?” He drew a checkbook from his breast pocket, clearly prepared to write a check here and now.

Allison had the sensation that she was being pushed toward a precipice. She shoved her chair back, rising. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Blackburn.”

“Not?” His face reddened. “Do you understand what I’m offering you, young woman?”

“I understand you’re trying to pressure me into a decision before I’m ready. As a businessman, you should understand that I need to investigate all the possibilities before taking any action.”

Blackburn stood, towering over her and looking even more like a bird of prey. “Suppose I tell you that my offer will not remain on the table indefinitely?”

Since he’d already betrayed how much he wanted to regain the property, his argument wasn’t as convincing as he might have thought.

She smiled. “I’ll pass your offer on to my attorney. You’ll be hearing from us in due course.”

He glared at her for a long moment, his face so red that she wondered just how high his blood pressure might be. “You’ll regret this, Ms. Standish.” He stalked to the door.

The best word to describe his exit was stormy, Allison decided. Once the door had slammed behind him, she took a long look at her actions.

Was she burning bridges by her refusal to act before she was ready? She didn’t think so. If Blackburn wanted the building as much as he seemed to, he wouldn’t give up that easily. Probably he’d hoped to push her into a decision before she had a chance to think it through.

She wouldn’t be pushed, but she would have to make plans for her future and the future of Blackburn House. Soon.

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