“Welcome to Savannah. Your home-if Baxter Manning isn’t making the biggest mistake of his life in believing you.”

Corrie stiffened at the flash of steel under Lucas’s lazy drawl.

“If Mr. Manning wants to invite me here, I can’t see that it’s any of your concern.”

“Anything that affects the family concerns me. Especially a con artist trying to convince an old man she’s his long-lost granddaughter.”

“I’ve told the lawyers and Mr. Manning. Now I’ll tell you. I don’t want anything from him.”

“No secret dreams of being the missing heiress, coming into all that lovely money?” He smiled slowly, his eyes intent on her face, as if he tried to see beneath the surface. “Then we have to make sure you enjoy your time here, don’t we?”

MILLS & BOON

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MARTA PERRY

has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to travel articles to magazine stories in twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for Love Inspired.

Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.

Marta Perry

Tangled Memories

You know me inside and out,

You know every bone in my body;

You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,

how I was sculpted from nothing into something.

—Psalms 139:15

This story is dedicated to my grandson,

Bjoern Jacob Wulff, with much love from Grammy.

And, as always, to Brian.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

For twenty-nine years, Corrie Grant had thought she’d never know who her father was. Now she knew, and no one would believe her.

No one, at this point, was represented by a pair of smooth, silver-haired attorneys with Southern drawls as thick as molasses. They looked about as expensive as this hotel suite, where she sank to the ankles in plush carpeting. The denim skirt and three-year-old sweater she usually wore for her monthly shopping trip had definitely not been right for this meeting. She hadn’t known Cheyenne, Wyoming boasted a hotel suite like this.

She slid well-worn loafers under her chair and straightened her back. You’re as good as anyone, her great-aunt’s voice echoed in her mind, its independent Wyoming attitude strong. Don’t you let anyone intimidate you.

“I’ve already told you everything I know about my parents.” Her words stopped one of the lawyers—Courtland or Broadbent, she didn’t know which—in mid-question. “I came here to meet Baxter Manning.” Her grandfather. She tried out the phrase in her mind, not quite ready to say it aloud yet. “Where is he?”

“Now, Ms. Grant, surely you understand that we have to ascertain the validity of your claim before involving Mr. Manning, don’t you?”

Courtland or Broadbent had the smooth Southern courtesy down pat. He’d just managed to imply that she was a fraud without actually saying it.

She gripped the tapestry chair arms, resisting the impulse to surge to her feet. “I’m not making any claims. I don’t expect anything from Mr. Manning. I just want to know if it’s true that his son was my father.”

Twenty-nine years. That was how long Aunt Ella had known about her mother’s marriage and kept it from her. Corrie could only marvel that she hadn’t pressed for answers earlier. She’d simply accepted what Aunt Ella said—that her mother had come home to Ulee, Wyoming, pregnant, at eighteen. That she’d died in an accident when Corrie was six months old. That her mother had loved her.

Pain clutched her heart. Was that any more true than the rest of the fairy tale?

The attorneys exchanged glances. “You must realize,” one of them began.

She shot to her feet. “Never mind what I must realize.” Coming on top of the struggle to stretch her teaching salary and the meager income from Last Chance Café to pay Aunt Ella’s hospital bills and funeral expenses, she didn’t think she could handle any further runaround. “I’m done here. If Mr. Manning is interested in talking to me, he knows where to reach me. I’ll be on my way.”

She was halfway to the door when the voice stopped her.

“Come back here, young woman.”

She turned, pulse accelerating. The man who’d come out of the suite’s bedroom was older than either of the lawyers—in his seventies, at least. Slight and white-haired, his pallid skin declared his fragility, but he stood as straight as a man half his age.

“Mr. Manning.” It had to be.

He lifted silvery eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to call me ‘Grandfather’?”

“No.”

He let out a short laugh. “Fair enough, as I have no intention of letting you.” He extended his hand to one of the attorneys without looking. The man gave him the copies she’d brought of her mother’s marriage certificate and her own birth certificate.

“The birth certificate doesn’t name a father.” He zeroed in on the blank line, his gaze inimical.

She’d learned, over the years, to brace herself for that reaction whenever she had to produce a birth certificate. You’re a child of God, Aunt Ella would say. Let that be enough for you.

Not exactly what a crying eight-year-old had wanted to hear, but typical of the tough Christian woman who’d raised her. Ella Grant had taken what life dished out without complaint, even when that meant bringing up an orphaned great-niece with little money and no help.

“According to my great-aunt, when I was born after my father died, my mother was afraid her husband’s family would try to take me away. Later, she decided that they had a right to know.” She kept her gaze steady on the man who might be her grandfather. “You had a right to know. She left for Savannah to talk to you about me when I was six months old. She died in an accident on the trip.”

An accident—that was what Aunt Ella had always said. It was what Corrie had always believed, until she’d been sorting through Aunt Ella’s papers after her stroke. She’d found the marriage license and a scribbled postcard, knocking down her belief in who she was like a child’s tower of blocks.

He made a dismissive gesture with the papers. “Grace Grant never returned to Savannah after my son died.” His voice grated on the words. With grief? She couldn’t be sure. “If you are her daughter, that still doesn’t guarantee my son was your father.”

Her temper flared at the slur, but before she could speak, one of the lawyers did.

“A DNA test,” he murmured.

Manning shot him an annoyed look. “From what I’ve learned, that’s not likely to be conclusive with the intervening generation gone.”

“Nevertheless—” The lawyer’s smooth manner was slightly ruffled. Obviously the attorneys would prefer that he let them deal with this situation.

“I have no objection to a DNA test.” Why would she, if there was even a chance that it would answer her questions?

Who am I, Lord? I know I’m Your child, but I have to know more.

Manning tossed the papers on the table, bracing himself with one hand on its glossy surface. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t get anything from me in any event.”

“I don’t want anything.” That was what they seemed incapable of understanding. “All I want is to know something about my father. Nothing else.”

His mouth twisted. “Do you really think I’ll believe that?”

The truth sank in. Manning didn’t believe her, and he wouldn’t help her.

“No, obviously you can’t.” She wouldn’t offer to shake hands. If her father had been anything like this man, maybe she was lucky he’d never been a part of her life. “I can’t say it’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Manning, but it’s been interesting.”

She turned toward the door again, holding her head high. Aunt Ella wouldn’t have expected anything less. But the disappointment dragged like a weight pressing her down, compounding her still-raw grief.

“Just a minute.” Manning’s voice stopped her again. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Proposition?” She turned back slowly, not sure she wanted to hear anything else he had to say.

A thin smile creased his lips. “I won’t claim you as a grandchild, understand that. I won’t give you anything. But you may come and stay at my house in Savannah for a few weeks.” The lawyers were twittering, but he ignored them. “If you mean what you say, that will give you a chance to learn something about my son.”

“If you don’t believe I’m your grandchild, why would you want me there?” She eyed him, wondering what was in his mind.

His smile grew a bit unpleasant. “Ever heard the expression, ‘putting a cat among the pigeons’? I suppose not. Never mind my motives. They are not your concern.”

“Mr. Manning, we really don’t think this is a good idea.” Courtland and Broadbent exchanged glances.

Manning transferred his grip from the table to the back of the chair, leaning heavily, obviously tiring. “You make the arrangements. She can go now, while I’m still out of town. Lucas will take care of her.”

“Lucas?” She grasped at the unfamiliar name, trying to make sense of this.

“Lucas Santee. He was married to my niece’s child. He runs my companies.”

“The young woman hasn’t agreed to go.” And the lawyers obviously hoped she wouldn’t.

“She will.” Manning sent her a shrewd glance. “Won’t you?”

She didn’t like his attitude. Didn’t like the feeling that he was manipulating her for some reason she couldn’t understand. If she acted on instinct, she’d walk right out the door and go back to Ulee. She had plenty there to keep her busy until school started again.

But she wouldn’t, because if she did, she’d never know the answers to the questions that haunted her. I hope this is what You want, Lord.

“I’ll go,” she said.

Corrie leaned against the leather seat of the town car that had been waiting at the airport in Savannah. From the window, everything was so much softer, more verdant than she’d expected. Palmettos lined the road, and beyond them she could see rank after rank of tall, straight pines.

“Too bad the azaleas are past their prime.” The grizzled driver, Jefferson, he’d said his name was, turned from the highway onto a residential street. “I always say you haven’t seen Savannah until you’ve seen it with the azaleas blooming.”

She watched the city flow by—streets lined with cream-colored walls, wrought-iron fences, twisted live oaks draped with silvery Spanish moss. Flowers bloomed everywhere, so lush and colorful they almost looked artificial. The houses seemed to hide behind their colorful barrier, as if holding secrets closed to her.

“Does the family live in this section of town?”

Jefferson nodded. “Not far. This here’s the old part of town.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the left. “River Street’s over that way. You’ll want to see that while you’re here. Right now I’m to stop and pick up Mr. Lucas, then take y’all to the house.”

Corrie’s nerves tingled. Manning had said Santee ran his company. What else did he run? Santee obviously intended to vet her before exposing the rest of the family to her. She felt a tingle of apprehension. “Are we picking him up at his office?”

“At the construction site. They’ve been having problems at the new building. Nothing Mr. Lucas can’t handle. He can handle anything.”

That was another view of Lucas Santee. He could handle anything. Maybe the implication was that he could handle her, too. In a moment she’d have a chance to decide for herself just how much of a challenge Lucas Santee was going to be.

Thanks to the briefing the lawyers had reluctantly provided, she knew that a number of Savannah businesses bore the Manning name. Lucas Santee ran the largest, the construction firm, and oversaw the rest since Manning’s retirement.

The driver stopped the car next to a wooden construction barrier. “Here we are, miss. I’ll just go find Mr. Lucas.”

Jefferson disappeared into the construction site, but Corrie was too restless to wait. She was keyed up and ready. The plane trip had been a prelude. Her quest was about to start. She slid out of the car and followed Jefferson on to the construction site.

The three stories of what was going to be a new bank, according to the sign, were at the stark girder stage. The building loomed over her, surrounded by heavy yellow construction vehicles.

She didn’t see Jefferson, so she smiled at the nearest worker. “Where’s Lucas Santee?”

The man gave her the once-over before pointing to the third level of the building. “Up there. The suit.”

Actually, Lucas Santee had shed his suit coat, but Corrie understood. The other man was short, round and rumpled in workmen’s overalls. Santee’s shirt was dazzling white, and his dark slacks had a knife-edge crease she could see from here. He stood confidently on a girder, as self-assured as if he stood in a boardroom.

Santee said something that looked emphatic, motioning to the building around him. The other man appeared to object, but Santee cut him off with a quick, definitive gesture.

Santee stepped into the open cage of an elevator. With one hand braced against the metal on either side, he descended. Was he looking her way? She couldn’t be sure.

The cage jolted to a stop, and he stepped out lightly. He took a suit coat from the outstretched hand of one of his lackeys and handed over the yellow hard hat he’d been wearing.

Jefferson leaned close, murmuring something, and Santee sent a sharp glance at her before turning back to his men. He kept her waiting a few more minutes while he conferred with several people. Finally he detached himself from the group and started toward the car. He stepped from the shadow of the building, and the late-afternoon sun hit him like a spotlight.

Golden, that was the only word that came to mind. The sun tipped brown hair with gold. Even his tanned skin seemed to have a golden sheen. He covered the space between them in an unhurried, controlled stride.

Corrie’s nerves tightened. He reminded her of a mountain lion. There was that same sense of feline grace, of muscles rippling under smooth, golden skin, of danger hidden under a shining surface.

Santee stopped a few feet from her, surveying her from top to toe. Looking for Manning family resemblance? Or just trying to intimidate her?

“Ms. Grant,” he said finally, his voice a lazy baritone drawl. “I’m Lucas Santee.”

He held out his hand, and after an infinitesimal pause, Corrie took it. His fingers were warm and callused against her skin, surprising her. Surely he didn’t actually work with those hands.

“Guess I should say welcome to Savannah,” he said. “Your ancestral home, if Baxter Manning isn’t making the biggest mistake of his life in believing you.”

Corrie stiffened at the flash of steel under the lazy drawl. She pulled her hand away. “If Mr. Manning wants to invite me here, I can’t see that it’s any of your concern.”

Santee’s eyebrows lifted. “Anything that affects the family concerns me. Especially a con artist trying to convince a sick old man she’s his long-lost granddaughter.”

Somehow it sounded even more insulting in his molasses-slow drawl, though she ought to be getting used to the doubt by now. “I’ve told the lawyers and Mr. Manning. Now I’ll tell you. I don’t want anything from him.”

“No secret dreams of being the missing heiress, coming into all that lovely money?”

“Obviously the money is important to you. Not to me. I agreed to this visit to find out about my father. Nothing more.”

He smiled slowly, his eyes intent on her face, as if he tried to see beneath the surface. “Then we have to make sure you enjoy your time here, don’t we?” He took her arm, the warmth of his grip penetrating her sleeve. “Jefferson’s waiting,” he said. “Shall we go?”

Corrie had expected a bigger battle, and this swift surrender took her off guard, leaving her with nothing to say. She slanted a look at Lucas Santee’s face as he walked beside her to the car.

No, not surrender. Round One might have ended, but behind that smooth facade Lucas Santee was gearing up for future battles. This had just been a minor skirmish.

He held the door and then slid onto the leather seat next to her. The car purred onto the street.

Corrie stared out the window, acutely aware of the man beside her. Obviously she hadn’t thought this through enough. She hadn’t anticipated the hostility of people who feared she was trying to take what was theirs.

She straightened, pressing her back into the cool leather. These people had had it easy all their lives. Maybe that was behind Baxter Manning’s odd attitude—he wanted to expose them to the uncertainty most people lived with.

She glanced at Santee and found him watching her. His eyes were an odd shade of brown up close, with flecks of gold that made them look like amber.

“Plotting your strategy?” His voice was pitched for her ears only, even though Jefferson had closed the glass partition. “Thinking about how you’re going to worm your way into the heart of the family, so to speak?”

She felt anger color her cheeks. “I’m not trying to convince anybody of anything.”

“Right. You’re willing to travel across the country to move in with people who’ll hate you on sight, but you’re not trying to convince anybody you’re Baxter Manning’s grandchild.” His fingers closed around her wrist. “Try that story on someone who might believe it, sugar.”

Corrie stiffened. His intensity grated on her, but she wouldn’t let him think he intimidated her.

“Your opinion doesn’t really matter, does it?” she said. “The only thing that matters is what Mr. Manning believes.”

His grip tightened until she thought he’d leave fingerprints on her skin, and fury darkened his eyes. “Baxter Manning wants to think he’s found an unknown grandchild, but you and I know differently, don’t we?”

“Do we?” Corrie raised her eyebrows. At least she’d managed to dent that facade of his.

“I don’t know who you really are, Corrie Grant. But I’ll find out, I promise you that.”

It didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a threat.

He’d let this woman ruffle him, Lucas realized, and that shouldn’t have happened. Dealing with her was going to be a delicate matter, particularly since he hadn’t been able to tell what Baxter really thought of her from their brief phone conversation.

That was typical of Baxter, of course. He’d run his companies and his family with an iron hand all his life, and he didn’t intend to let advancing age or illness stop him. He’d been maddeningly vague when Lucas tried to find out what he really thought of Corrie Grant.

Take care of her, he’d said. Let her see what she can find out about Trey. That’s what she says she wants to do.

Trey Manning. He had a few vague memories of Trey, the golden boy who’d been a prep school athlete when Lucas had come to the Manning house as a child. Trey had been the only person who’d ever successfully stood up to Baxter, and look how that had ended.

And now this woman had come, claiming to be Trey’s daughter. Worry gnawed at him. Baxter was too old and, he suspected, too ill to be on guard. So he had to protect the family.

The thought sent a wave of weariness over him. That had become a full-time job since Julia’s death, and he didn’t expect it would ever end.

The car drew smoothly to the curb and stopped. He roused himself and opened the door, holding it for Corrie. “Welcome to Savannah,” he said again, knowing she understood how little he welcomed her.

Corrie slid onto the sidewalk and just stood for a moment, looking at the graceful sweep of steps with their glossy black wrought-iron railing. Visualizing herself owning the place, perhaps? Or feeling reluctant to go in and face what waited for her there?

“This is Mr. Manning’s house?”

“It is.” He almost imagined that was a bit of awe in her clear blue eyes, but that hardly seemed likely. An accomplished fraud would surely have boned up on the place.

Maybe it was those big blue eyes that had caught Baxter’s attention. Trey had had the blue eyes and curling blond hair, too. But not the freckles that dusted Corrie’s lightly tanned cheeks or the snub nose that made her look like a classic girl next door, if the girl next door happened to be a con artist.

“I didn’t realize…” She stopped, as if unwilling to share whatever she didn’t realize with him.

“That it was so old?”

She slanted a sideways glance at him, nodding.

“The house was built in 1835 in classic Regency style and restored in the early sixties when the historic district was in the midst of a wave of preservation.” He launched into the familiar recital. If you lived in Savannah’s historic district, you could do it in your sleep. “The compound has four town houses, built around a shared courtyard. Baxter lives here, and Eulalie Ashworth, his niece, has the next one.” He nodded to the adjoining house, identical in design and decor.

“I see.” She looked as if she were trying to take it all in. Maybe she never had been out of Wyoming. If so, Savannah was going to be a shock.

“The two houses that face the alley are smaller but similar in design. My son and I live in one. The other one is rented to a family friend, Lydia Baron.” He paused for an instant. “That was originally Trey’s house.”

He thought there was a small intake of breath, but otherwise she didn’t react. Maybe she was tougher than she looked.

“Shall we go in?” He gestured to the curving stairway.

Corrie hesitated. Then, with her face wooden, she started up.

He followed, running his hand along the polished rail. He couldn’t help but love introducing his city to a stranger, even an unwelcome one like Corrie. Savannah was bred in him. For all the city’s faults, he’d be a foreigner anywhere else.

“The main floor in many of Savannah’s historic homes is on the second floor—the parlor floor. The downstairs is called the garden level.”

She paused in front of the glossy black door. Heavy pots of alyssum stood on either side of it, perfuming the air. “I understand Mr. Manning hasn’t returned yet.”

Corrie, naturally, would be more concerned with the man she hoped to impress than with the decor.

“Not yet.” He reached past her to turn the brass knob. “But I’m sure some of the family is waiting to meet you.”

And ready to behave, he hoped. He’d warned all of them not to give this woman any ammunition to use against them with Baxter. He could just hope they’d paid attention.

He opened the door. They stepped into the long entrance hallway, rich with the mingled aromas of polish and potpourri. Two people waited for them: Eulalie, his mother-in-law; Deidre Ashworth, his sister-in-law. He shot Deidre a warning look.

“Eulalie, this is Corrie Grant.” He smiled reassuringly at Eulalie, knowing she was torn between her innate Southern courtesy and her fear that Corrie would somehow supplant her two children. “Corrie, this is Eulalie Ashworth, Mr. Manning’s niece. Who may, or may not, be your…let’s see, second cousin.”

“Of course she is not our cousin.” Deidre took a step forward, hands curling into fists as if she’d like to throw Corrie out bodily. “She’s a fraud, and she’s not welcome in this house.”

TWO

Corrie froze for an instant. Obviously she should have been ready for direct hostility, but she wasn’t. What had happened to that Southern hospitality she’d heard so much about?

She stiffened her spine. Aunt Ella had taught her how to behave, and she wouldn’t shame her. She held out her hand to the older of the two women, trying to manage a smile.

Eulalie Ashworth was as soft and round and fluffy as a mound of cotton candy. She also looked perplexed. She studied Corrie’s hand as if it might be a deadly weapon and then took it. Corrie felt soft, powdery skin and smelled a whiff of lilac scent.

“Welcome to Savannah…” Eulalie began, but the younger woman interrupted.

“She’s not welcome. I don’t see any reason why we should be polite.”

“An accusation no one could possibly make about you, Deidre.” Lucas smiled, but Corrie thought his amber eyes held a warning. “Corrie, this is Eulalie’s daughter, Deidre Ashworth.”

Deidre obviously wouldn’t take her hand. Her eyes flashed with anger, and her dark hair fairly sparked with electricity. Midtwenties, at a guess, she was sharp, thin, brittle and beautifully dressed.

“Deidre. Mr. Manning mentioned you.”

Deidre lifted arched black brows. “Not calling him Grandfather already? How subtle of you.”

“I’ve already told Lucas. Now I’ll tell you.” She darted a glance at Lucas. He leaned broad shoulders against the newel post of the soaring staircase, watching her with a sardonic expression. “I don’t want anything except to find out about my parents.”

“As I said, how subtle.” Deidre was clearly not impressed. She swung on Lucas, as if he were to blame. “Do we really have to have this creature in our house?”

“Deidre, please.” Eulalie’s cheeks turned as pink as her dress. “Think what Uncle Baxter would say.”

Deidre glared at her mother. “Uncle Baxter must have entered his second childhood. We should have him declared incompetent.”

Corrie’s head began to throb. Maybe Baxter Manning had overestimated his control over his family. If they didn’t cooperate, she’d find out nothing.

“This is Baxter’s home.” Lucas’s voice hadn’t lost its lazy timbre, but there was steel underneath. “It’s up to him to say who stays here. And need I remind you who owns the house you live in?”

For a moment the fury in Deidre’s face was so out of control Corrie thought she’d strike him. Her hands clenched until the veins stood out. “You’d take Uncle Baxter’s side, of course. You always do. But then, you know which side your bread is buttered on, don’t you, Lucas?”

If the barb hurt, Lucas didn’t show it. “It’s common sense, Deidre, which you seem to be sadly lacking.”

The side door into the hall swung open.

“Grandma, is she here yet?” A small figure ran into the hallway. The boy threw himself at Lucas. “Is she, Daddy?”

Lucas caught the child, lifting him high in the air. For an instant Lucas’s face was open, and the love when he looked at his son touched a surprising chord in Corrie.

Was that what she really wanted from this trip? Some sign that the father she’d never known would have loved her?

“Please, Lucas. Put Jason down.” Eulalie fluttered toward them, hands outstretched as if to take a baby. “That’s not good for him.”

Not good for him? The words startled Corrie. Was something wrong with the boy? He looked like a normal six-year-old, fair and a little skinny, as active kids often were at that age.

But Lucas set him down immediately, something that might have been guilt flickering in his face. He brushed the boy’s silky blond hair back from his forehead gently.

“He’s all right. Corrie, this is my son, Jason. He’s eight.”

Corrie mentally adjusted her image of the child. He was a bit small for eight. He came forward to shake hands solemnly.

“Hi, Jason.” At last, someone who didn’t seem to be out to get her. She smiled at him.

“Hello, Cousin Corrie.”

Deidre jerked as if she’d been shot. “Don’t call her cousin, Jason. She’s not your cousin.”

“But Grandma said that Uncle Baxter said—”

“Just call me Corrie, okay?” She wouldn’t let a child be pulled into their quarrel. “I’m glad to meet you, Jason.”

His mother had been Deidre’s older sister—she knew that from the briefing the attorneys had given her. Julia, her name was. She’d died three years earlier.

Jason studied her, brown eyes grave. “You don’t look like a cowgirl.” He sounded disappointed.

Eulalie drew in a scandalized breath, but Corrie just smiled. Cowgirl was probably the least of the things the family had been calling her.

“Well, even cowgirls get a little dressed up to travel. My boots are in my luggage.”

Jason’s small face lit with a smile. “Maybe we can go riding while you’re here. My daddy’s a good rider. He’s won lots of ribbons.”

That was an unexpected sidelight on Lucas. “He’s probably better than I am, then.”

“Jason, you know you’re not allowed to ride,” Eulalie said. She frowned at Corrie, as if this were her fault.

“If we might get the conversation off horses, maybe we could decide what we’re doing.” Deidre poked furiously at the silver bowl of lilacs on the drop-leaf table.

“There’s no decision to be made. We’re going to do exactly what Baxter asked.” Lucas’s gaze rested on Corrie with a challenge. “I’m sure things will work out just as they should.”

In other words, he intended to expose her for a fraud.

She met his look defiantly. “Things usually do.”

His eyes darkened. For a moment the air between them sizzled with antagonism and some other emotion Corrie didn’t care to name. It was as if there was no one else in the room.

Lucas took a deliberate step back. Once again, Corrie had managed to get under his guard. He didn’t like it. He wouldn’t allow it.

Eulalie fluttered toward the archway, breaking the spell. “I don’t know why we’re all standing here in the hall. Come into the parlor, and we’ll have tea. I’m sure Corrie needs refreshment after her long trip.”

Deidre looked as if she’d like to slam out of the house. At his warning frown, she glared back, but then she turned and followed Eulalie.

He’d known from the moment Baxter told them about Corrie that Deidre would cause trouble. He sometimes had trouble remembering the lively little girl she’d been when he’d first started seeing her sister. Deidre had grown into a perennially dissatisfied young woman, and he didn’t know why.

He followed the women into the front parlor, holding Jason’s hand, and watched Corrie to see what she’d make of the place. She paused as she reached the edge of the Kirman carpet and looked the length of the room—actually adjoining parlors, divided by white Ionic columns that supported the central arch. The period furniture Baxter had collected over a lifetime was a fitting complement to the matching marble fireplaces.

“Beautiful.”

He was probably the only one who heard the breathed comment. “Home, sweet home,” he murmured.

He saw the color come up under her tan, but she didn’t look at him. She crossed instead to the brocade love seat and sat, head held high.

Eulalie poured Earl Grey from the Revere teapot. Obviously she’d decided to treat Corrie as an honored guest, since she’d had Baxter’s housekeeper get out the fragile china cups that had come to Savannah on an eighteenth-century merchant ship. Either that, or she was attempting to make Corrie feel like a fish out of water.

It was hard to tell. Eulalie had her Savannah lady face on, and no one did it better. She passed a cup and saucer to Corrie. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

Corrie balanced the fragile cup and saucer, looking as if tea-party conversation was beyond her. She took a breath and seemed to rally. “Not bad. Long.”

Deidre put two spoons of sugar in her cup, ignoring her mother’s frown. Eulalie didn’t need to worry. Deidre wore off everything she ate with that endless fidgeting of hers. Julia had been exactly the opposite—calm, serene, never troubling herself about anything that didn’t directly concern her.

“Where does one fly from to get out of Wyoming?” Deidre’s voice was edged with sarcasm.

He’d have to have another talk with her. There was a line between wanting to expose Corrie as a fraud and giving her an excuse to complain to Baxter about them.

“Actually, I flew out of Rapid City, South Dakota. That’s the closest airport to Ulee.” Corrie seemed to have her temper well in hand.

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of Ulee, Wyoming.” Deidre made it sound like the back of beyond, which he supposed it was. Still, plenty of people thought of Savannah as a quaint backwater, notable only for its antebellum charm.

Corrie put her cup down with an audible click. “That’s where my mother and father met and married,” she said. “I should have thought that would occasion plenty of comment.”

Of course it had. He hadn’t been old enough to care at the time, but he’d heard plenty about it later. Trey, taking a summer off to tour the country, had met a waitress in the wilds of Wyoming and married her in less than a month, then foolishly expected his father to welcome her. He should have known better.

He was mildly amused at the expression on Deidre’s face, but maybe it was time to intervene. He didn’t care to be treated to another example of Deidre’s temper.

“Has anyone seen Ainsley? I expected him to be here.”

“I—I am here, Lucas.”

Ainsley paused in the archway, looking as if he’d like any excuse to turn and go away again. Lucas couldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid the fireworks Deidre enjoyed, but he did wish Ainsley would sometimes act like a responsible grown-up instead of a shy kid.

“We missed you at work today.” He tried to keep his voice even, but some of the exasperation he felt probably came through. Pushing Ainsley into a job as Lucas’s assistant when he was just out of college wasn’t the smartest move Baxter had ever made. The boy wasn’t cut out for the business world.

Ainsley’s gaze evaded his. “I told your secretary I wasn’t well.”

“You seem to have recovered.”

“I thought I’d go for a walk, okay?” Ainsley flared up, sounding like a sulky teenager. “I always do that when I’m getting over a migraine.”

“Of course you do, dear.” Eulalie patted the love seat. “Sit here and let me pour you some tea. Everyone knows how you suffer from migraines.”

The look Eulalie shot at Lucas dared him to disagree. He wanted to. You’ve spoiled Ainsley with your constant coddling, and now you’re doing the same with my son.

But he couldn’t say that. He’d been wrong about Julia, and the guilt would hang around his neck for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t risk being wrong about Jason.

“This is Corrie,” Eulalie went on. “I knew you’d be back to meet her.”

Ainsley nodded, polite but disinterested. He’d seemed detached from the fierce family discussions that had raged since Baxter broke the news.

Lucas glanced at Corrie, to find she was leaning toward his son, listening to something Jason was saying, undoubtedly about horses. The tenderness on her face jolted him.

Corrie didn’t have any right looking at his son that way. And Baxter didn’t have any right foisting this stranger off on the family. The least he could do was come back and deal with her himself.

“Jason.” The desire to get his son away from Corrie was probably irrational, but he couldn’t help himself. “It’s time we were getting home, son.”

The animation faded from Jason’s face as he slid off the seat. “Goodbye, Cousin Corrie. I’ll see you later.”

Deidre’s lips tightened, but he silenced her with a glance. He didn’t require Deidre’s input. He could take care of his son himself.

The way you took care of Julia? The small voice in his mind inquired.

He turned to thank Eulalie, but she had become involved in arbitrating a heated exchange between Ainsley and Deidre, much as she’d done when they were small. Corrie’s eyes met his, and he realized from the amusement in them that she was thinking much the same thing.

That jolted him. She shouldn’t look at him as if they understood each other.

“Thank you for introducing me to…” There was the faintest hesitation in her voice, as if she balked at thinking of them as her family. “…to Mr. Manning’s family,” she went on smoothly. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

He leaned toward her. “Of course you will. I wouldn’t think of missing dinner on your first night here. At Eulalie’s house, at eight. We’ve invited someone who knew Trey well.”

And who won’t like your pretence any more than we do.

Corrie’s polite smile seemed to stiffen. “I’ll look forward to it.”

He could imagine. “Not so easy, is it?” He lowered his voice, not that the others would notice. They were well away with their own quarrel by now. “Always on your guard, pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“I don’t have to pretend.” Her chin lifted, and her eyes challenged him.

“I guess we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

Before she could answer, Ainsley’s tenor voice soared out of the babble.

“Stop trying to make me over. I’m not Trey, and Uncle Baxter is never going to treat me as if I am.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Lucas felt the despairing frustration that his wife’s family so often brought to the fore. It was as if he were the only adult in a roomful of children. Why didn’t they just hand Baxter’s inheritance to the woman on a silver platter?

Eulalie’s eyes were bright with tears. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ainsley. All I want is for you to be happy.”

For a moment he thought Ainsley would flare out at his mother, but he retreated into sulky silence instead. Surprisingly, it was Corrie who returned them to a semblance of normalcy.

“I’d really like to freshen up from the trip, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

Recalled to her hostess duties, Eulalie hustled to her feet. “I’ll show you to your room.”

He stepped back to let Corrie pass him. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

And maybe by then he’d have at least a preliminary report from the private investigator who was supposed to be finding out everything there was to know about Corrie Grant.

“That’s the lot of them.” Corrie leaned back on the four-poster bed, cell phone cradled against her ear. She’d just finished giving Ann Moreno a rundown of her reception. If she hadn’t been able to confide in her closest friend, she’d have burst. “And every one of them would like nothing better than to run me out of town.”

“You didn’t go to Savannah to make them like you,” Ann said. “What matters is finding out about your parents.”

She could always count on Ann for a sensible approach, and she felt a wave of longing to be sitting across from her at a scrubbed table in the café, chatting over the coffee cups.

“I just hope someone’s willing to talk about them. So far I haven’t seen any signs of that.”

“It’s early days yet. You’ll work it out. Meanwhile, don’t worry about anything here.”

“Thanks, Annie. I couldn’t do this if you hadn’t taken over the café.”

“You’d do the same for me, if I ever discovered I was a lost heiress.” Ann’s chuckle was warm. “Not that it’s very likely. You take care, honey.”

Corrie hung up, comforted. Someone, at least, had confidence in her. She glanced at her watch. Time to get dressed for dinner at Eulalie’s.

If someone back home said come on over to supper, she knew what that meant. Here, she wasn’t sure. She began to dress, hoping a denim skirt would do.

A nap and a shower had helped. She no longer felt so tense. She could even enjoy the bedroom, with its four-poster bed and cool white walls. The floral print of the bed skirt was echoed in the drapes on the many-paned windows that looked out onto the courtyard, seeming to invite the greenery in.

Taking her well-worn Bible from the suitcase, she put it on the mahogany bedside table and opened it to Psalms. The single, faded photograph of her parents she’d found among Aunt Ella’s papers looked back at her.

She picked it up, studying the young faces. Gracie smiled at her brand-new husband, her eyes soft with love. Laughter lit Trey’s lean face as he looked at his bride. They’d been newlyweds, ready to leave for Savannah so that Gracie could meet his family. What had happened in a few short months here to bring them to such a tragic end?

She had to know. She tucked the photograph back inside the Bible and closed it. She would know.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, she paused at the top of the graceful curving staircase. Sunlight streamed through French doors that opened onto a balcony from the spacious upper hallway, and pink roses in a silver urn perfumed the air.

Father, I know You’ve brought me here for a reason. Please, lead me to the people who have answers.

She went down the curving stairway, running her hand along the polished railing. Her soft footsteps on the carpet made little sound, and the crystal chandelier in the downstairs hall tinkled once in response and then was still.

“I hope being alone in the house won’t bother you,” Eulalie had said. “Mrs. Andrews does sleep in, but I’m afraid she’s so deaf she wouldn’t hear anything softer than the last trumpet.”

Corrie had already met the housekeeper, who’d regarded her with the deepest suspicion and pretended to be unable to hear anything Corrie said. If Lucas and company thought the possibility of being virtually alone was enough to scare her away, they’d better think again.

The long downstairs hallway bisected the house, leading onto a glassed-in porch that overlooked the garden. She went through it and down the curved, wrought-iron stairs. A small brick patio was flanked by flower beds overflowing with peonies and old-fashioned roses, and the railing supported such a lush growth of ivy that it threatened to take over the stairs.

The wall of Eulalie’s house formed the backdrop of the flower beds. Lovely, she supposed, but the place made her feel claustrophobic. Why did they want to live in such close quarters? Even the air was close, heavy with moisture. She could feel her hair curling in reaction.

She followed the brick pathway toward Eulalie’s door. A fountain splashed softly in the middle of the garden, and beyond it, half-hidden by the foliage, were the other two houses, a little smaller, less grand than the two that faced the street.

One of them had been the house where her parents lived during their brief time here together. It was rented to an old family friend, according to Lucas. If she could see it…

But what would that tell her after thirty years? It couldn’t tell her if they’d been happy there, or if Trey had known about Gracie’s pregnancy. Would he have been glad?

The door swung open, as if someone had been watching. The sight of Lucas cut short a line of fruitless speculation.

“Corrie, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”

That should have sounded welcoming. It didn’t.

An interminable hour and a half later they’d moved from Eulalie’s formal dining room to an equally formal front parlor. Like Baxter’s parlor next door, this one was furnished with antiques, but the effect in Eulalie’s room was crowded, rather than spacious, as if she hadn’t been able to resist the attraction of just one more crystal vase or china figurine.

The dinner guest Lucas had mentioned now patted a spot next to her on a plush love seat. “Come and sit next to me, Corrie. We must chat.”

There was nothing Corrie would like better, because Lydia Baron was the family friend who rented Trey’s house. Trey and Gracie’s house, she mentally corrected. Surely her mother had had the right to think of it as hers when she’d lived there.

She sat down, aware of the comparison between her denim and the silk dress the other woman wore. Lydia must be about Eulalie’s age, but in contrast to Eulalie’s soft, faded charm, Lydia had a brisk, down-to-earth manner and a slim, athletic frame that a younger woman might have envied. Her gray hair was short and stylish, and bright blue eyes sparkled in a tanned face.

“What are you thinking of all of us, I wonder?” Lydia sounded amused. “Pitchforked into the midst of Baxter’s dysfunctional family as you are.”

“Dysfunctional?” She’d pegged Lydia as forthright, but this seemed a little too blunt, even for a family friend.

“What can I say?” Lydia lowered her voice, but Corrie doubted anyone heard them over the wrangle Deidre and Ainsley had just begun. “You can see for yourself. No one’s happy.”

Corrie looked over that comment for hidden traps. She’d like to believe she’d found someone who’d be honest with her, but it hardly seemed possible that Lydia would take her side against the family.

“Brothers and sisters often argue, I guess. I don’t have any siblings, so I can’t say for sure.”

“Ainsley and Deidre fight with each other because they don’t want to hurt their mother’s soft heart. They’re afraid to take their quarrel to the real source of their unhappiness. Baxter Manning.”

Here was blunt speaking with a vengeance. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said cautiously.

“Baxter has to rule the roost, surely you’ve figured that out about him. Ainsley must have a job with the company, because that’s what Baxter expects, even though the boy would rather dabble with his drawings.” She dismissed Ainsley with a glance. “Meanwhile Deidre, who actually might accomplish something in the business, is left clerking in a genteel shop, waiting to make the proper marriage.”

Corrie blinked. “Do you mean they listen to him? That sounds like something out of the last century.”

“Baxter is something out of the last century. And since he controls the purse strings, everyone has to do what he wishes or risk losing his support. There are periodic rebellions, but so far no one has actually broken away.”

Corrie’s gaze sought out Lucas. He’d propped his tall figure against a cherry armoire and frowned across the room at her.

“That doesn’t include Lucas.”

“Even Lucas.” Lydia’s eyes were bright with what might have been either interest or malice. “In theory Lucas runs Baxter’s companies, but in actual practice he can’t make a single decision without being second-guessed.”

Lucas didn’t impress her as a man who’d allow himself to be dictated to, but she didn’t really know him, did she? And if he had his way, she never would.

“And then there’s you.” Lydia’s smile held an edge.

“What about me?”

“Didn’t you realize, my dear? Baxter doesn’t care a snap if you’re his long-lost granddaughter or not. He’s sent you here as a threat, to show the others what might happen to all that lovely money if they don’t do what he says.”

THREE

Corrie took a deep breath as she reached the bottom of the stairs, leaving Eulalie’s dinner party behind. All she wanted now was out, away from all those people with their inimical faces and their crosscurrents of emotion. Then the steps behind her creaked, and she realized that Lucas had followed her down.

“Haven’t you baited me enough for one night?” She was too annoyed to try to be polite.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just on my way home myself. Did you like getting the lowdown on all of us from Lydia?”

She still hadn’t decided what she thought about the woman’s comments and wouldn’t tell Lucas in any event. “Lydia was kind enough to ask me to drop in on her. She realized I might want to see where my mother lived when she was here.”

“Did she now? I wonder what’s going on in that shrewd brain of hers.”

She glanced at his face in the low light from the fixture at the bottom of the stairs, but it didn’t give anything away. Beyond him, the family room was dark with shadows. “Is she shrewd?”

“Definitely.” He leaned against the door frame, apparently ready to talk. “She runs half the cultural boards in Savannah practically single-handed, and she took the demise of the symphony like a death in the family.”

“You said she was an old family friend. Is that why Mr. Manning was willing to rent Trey’s house to her? I’d think he probably wouldn’t want a stranger living in such close quarters.”

Lucas shrugged, glancing through the glass pane in the door toward the dark garden. Lights shone along the walks that divided the houses. “I suppose. Are you picturing it as yours?”

Exasperation swept through her like a wind off the mountains. “I’m telling you for approximately the hundredth time, I don’t want anything. I’m just trying to understand why you all live so close together.”

“I don’t know why Lydia decided to rent the house. The families were always close, so maybe she felt at home here. Eulalie lives here because Baxter took her in when she married someone with more charm than money. We all preserve the fiction that she keeps house for him.”

Lucas was being surprisingly open. Because his family had annoyed him with their constant bickering? Or was this yet another trap he was setting for her?

“And why do you live here?”

He frowned absently. “Baxter offered us the house when Julia and I married. She wanted to be close to her mother, and I was working twelve-hour days at the business. It seemed like a good idea. Why do you care? Are you storing up tales to spill to Baxter?”

“No. Why are you telling me? Are you trying to trip me up?”

He gave a reluctant laugh. “You’re something, Corrie Grant. If that’s who you really are.”

“That’s what my birth certificate says.”

He was very close, the garden level very quiet. The faint sound of voices drifted down from the floor above. “Birth certificates can be faked.”

“And fakes can be found out. Mine isn’t. Why can’t you see…”

She looked up and met his eyes. Whatever else she’d intended to say seemed to get lost, and her breath caught.

Lucas—she didn’t even like him. So why should her heart be pounding and her breath ragged just because he stood so close, looked so intently?

He felt it, too. She could see it in the sudden darkening of his eyes.

She shook off the sensation. She was tired. Jet-lagged. She hadn’t felt a thing. “I am exactly who I say I am,” she said shortly. “Go ahead, investigate. You won’t find anything else.”

“Maybe not.” If he’d felt anything, it was gone now. “You can be sure I’ll try.” He went quickly out into the garden, the door banging behind him.

She waited a moment or two, giving him time to get clear of the path. Then she stepped outside and took a deep breath of scented garden air. It was still muggy, but it felt good after the welter of emotions she’d been through today.

A wrought-iron bench curved beneath a magnolia tree as if it had grown there. She sank down on it, not ready to go in yet.

That sudden little spark of attraction had been a shock—one that neither of them expected or welcomed. Well, it was gone now, drifting away as if it had never been.

She sat for a while, barely thinking, just letting the peace of the garden seep into her. She’d questioned why they all lived here, but this garden in itself was a reason.

Finally, realizing how late it must be getting, she made her way slowly toward Baxter’s house. Her feet made little sound on the brick path, and a dense growth of shrubbery enclosed her. Maybe that was why, when the voice came, it startled her so much.

“…she’s my problem, not yours.”

It took a moment to realize the voice belonged to Ainsley, another moment to understand that he was talking on a cell phone. He didn’t sound stammering or diffident now.

“I know that.” His voice was sharp. “Just stay out of it. This is my problem, and I’ll take care of it.”

He might mean anything, she assured herself, but his “she’s my problem,” seemed to ring in her ears. She was probably the only problem facing Ainsley right now, and the threat he thought she represented to his inheritance.

She felt chilled in spite of the warm, humid air. It was disturbing to be the target of so much ill will. Softly, not wanting another confrontation tonight, she slipped down the path and through the garden door.

Baxter’s house closed silently around her. She’d thought the garden was quiet, but in comparison to the house, it had been alive with rustles and chirpings and murmurings. The house was silent, dead silent, and she was uneasily aware that, for all intents and purposes, she was alone here.

She’d been alone in scarier places than this—backpacking in the mountains, or keeping a midnight vigil beside Aunt Ella’s bed those last few nights. She wouldn’t give in to fear.

The darkness and the light are both alike to Thee. The words of the Psalm came to her mind without conscious thought, and she started up the stairs.

The parlor floor lay black and empty, save for a small lamp Mrs. Andrews had left on in the hallway. Moonlight from the landing window traced a path down the stairwell. She paused, hand on the railing. That sound—was it a footfall from somewhere on the bedroom floor?

“Mrs. Andrews?” Her voice was tentative, although there was no one to disturb with her call.

Nothing. The house was as still as an old house ever is.

She went quickly up the steps before she could imagine anything else. No one was here. No one could be here.

Still, it felt good to close the bedroom door behind her and switch on the light. The cozy room sprang to life in its soft glow.

They’d laugh if they thought they’d managed to spook her, and she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

She crossed to the dresser, taking off her watch, and then paused in the act of laying it down. She pulled open one drawer, and then another.

There was no mistaking the signs. Her room had been searched. The searcher had been careful, but not careful enough. He’d left traces visible to someone as organized as she was.

Heart thumping, she went quickly through her belongings. Nothing seemed to be missing, but…

She hurried to the bedside table and opened the Bible. Her breath came out in a sigh of relief when she found the photo still there, the faces still smiling up at her.

She closed the Bible again, holding it against her chest for a moment. Everything had been searched—everything had been put back in its proper place.

Except for one thing. The notes she’d made about the family, based on the attorney’s briefing—those were gone.

By the time she’d finished breakfast the next morning, Corrie had decided on her course of action. There was nothing useful she could do. Accusing anyone would only lead to a fruitless quarrel.

She walked out into the garden, relieved that the air seemed to have cleared a bit. A faint breeze rustled the palmettos and sent a shower of withered magnolia blossoms down on her.

Who had it been? Lucas? He could have seen her linger in the garden and taken the opportunity, although he couldn’t have known how quickly she might have gone into the house. Deidre or Ainsley? They’d both come to dinner well after she’d arrived. That would have given them time. Even Eulalie could have done it, although she had trouble imagining Eulalie rushing out the front door as she went out the back.

It didn’t really matter. The notes that had been taken proved nothing, except that she had been briefed before she arrived in Savannah. She couldn’t even imagine what that unknown someone expected to prove by taking them.

She rounded a bend in the path and found herself face-to-face with Ainsley. He looked up, startled, hand arrested on a sketch pad.

“C-Corrie. Good morning.” The shy stammer was charming, as was the faint flush that rose under his tan at the sight of her. But she hadn’t forgotten his incisive voice on the phone.

“Good morning.” She moved a little closer, hoping for a glance at the sketch. “What are you drawing?”

“Nothing.” He slapped the pad closed and planted his hands on top of it.

“Someone mentioned that you’re very artistic. I’d love to see your work sometime.”

“It’s nothing but a hobby.” His tone was just short of rude, and he shot off the bench where he’d been sitting. “I have to get to work.”

He darted off as if she’d been chasing him, disappearing into the shrubbery. She didn’t have a chance to point out that since today was Saturday, it was unlikely he had to go to work.

“Corrie.” She turned at the sound of her name, to find Lydia standing near the fountain, waving. “I didn’t expect to find you out this early. Would you care to come and see my house?”

Her house. Well, Lydia had a right to think of it that way. It hadn’t been Gracie and Trey’s house in a long time.

“Thanks.” She crossed the garden quickly. “I’d like to.”

There were faint shadows under Lydia’s eyes, as if she hadn’t had a restful night, and the lines in her face were more pronounced in the sunlight, but she still moved as lightly as a girl.

“Come in. I was taking my morning look at the garden.”

“I can see why you’d want to. It’s beautiful.” Corrie followed her through the garden-level door. Inside, the space that was a sort of family room in Baxter’s house was an efficient-looking office here.

“My work area.” Lydia waved dismissively at a computer station and filing cabinets. “I’m on far too many boards and committees not to stay organized.”

Corrie stopped at a cabinet filled with trophies—sailing, riding, shooting, tennis—apparently whatever Lydia did, she did well. “You’re obviously quite a sportswoman.”

“Don’t believe that image of Southern women as belles who languish on the veranda, drinking mint juleps.”

“I’m learning not to, but I have to confess, until I came here, I didn’t know anything about Savannah except the clichés.”

“You’ll learn. Although I don’t suppose you’ll be here that long.” She was already heading up the stairs, so apparently the comment didn’t require an answer.

Corrie followed, wondering where Lydia stood in all this. She could be a disinterested party. Lucas had called her a family friend, but which member of the family had her loyalty?

“Did you know Trey very well?” she asked as they came out into the center hallway—smaller than the one in Baxter’s house, but beautifully proportioned.

“My dear, Trey and I were close from the diaper stage on.” Lydia smiled, but her mind seemed focused elsewhere. “Our mothers were best friends. Supposedly Trey kissed me in the sandbox at age two, and I boxed his ears.”

“You must have been surprised when he married so suddenly.”

Lydia considered, her head tilted to one side. “Not surprised that he rebelled against his father, no. Just a bit surprised that his rebellion took that form.”

Corrie blinked. “My aunt said—” She stopped, not sure she wanted to repeat what Aunt Ella had said—that Trey had taken one look at Gracie and fallen head over heels in love.

“There he is.” Lydia nodded to the wall above the staircase, and Corrie realized she meant the portrait that hung there. “Trey Manning, painted on his eighteenth birthday.”

This wasn’t the laughing, jeans-clad figure of her faded photograph. This was a golden boy, someone who had the world in the palm of his hand and the confidence that went with it. He stood erect, hand placed carelessly on the back of a chair, staring at the artist with something she could only call arrogance. She thought she preferred the photo.

She had to say something. “I’m surprised it’s here, rather than in Baxter’s house.”

Lydia was turned toward the portrait, so Corrie couldn’t see her face. “It very nearly wasn’t anywhere. Baxter told Mrs. Andrews to burn it.”

“Burn it!” How could any father want to burn his son’s portrait? “Why?”

“Anger. Sheer, unadulterated anger at Trey for disappointing him. Luckily Mrs. Andrews had sense enough to tell Eulalie, who came to me. I rescued it. I thought someday he’d want it back, but he never has.”

She didn’t need to ask what the disappointment was. Obviously Baxter hadn’t wanted his son to marry an insignificant waitress when all of Savannah society was his for the taking.

She could add up two and two as well as the next person. Lydia had been right. Baxter had sent her here to push his family into doing his bidding with the threat of a new potential heir. Even if he became convinced she was Trey’s child, he’d never welcome her.

Lydia swung back to face her. “I hope that doesn’t put a bad taste in your mouth. Baxter’s all right—one just has to know how to handle him. That was something Trey never mastered. He needed a wife who could do it for him.”

“Meaning my mother couldn’t?”

“I’m afraid she was too unhappy during her marriage to handle anyone.”

“Unhappy? My aunt said that she and Trey were deliriously happy.”

“Did she?” Lydia’s voice was gentle. “Well, perhaps that’s what she wanted to believe. I saw them both from the time they came back to this house. Oh, Trey put on a good front. He’d defied his father at last and gotten away with it, I suppose he thought. Grace knew better. She knew their marriage was destined to fail from the moment they got here.”

The rest of Lydia’s tour went over Corrie’s head as she struggled with that careless comment. When she was finally out in the garden again, she walked slowly toward Baxter’s house, mind preoccupied.

Aunt Ella had emphasized one thing clearly, in spite of her faltering speech after the stroke—how happy Gracie had been. That had been the only thing that reconciled her to the sudden marriage that she knew would take Gracie away from her.

Poor Aunt Ella. She’d had no one else. Her parents dead, her only brother killed in Vietnam, leaving his daughter for Ella to raise when his wife drifted off into the hippie subculture. Ella had given all her love to Gracie, and later, to Gracie’s daughter,

Now Lydia claimed the love Aunt Ella saw between Gracie and Trey wasn’t true—or at least, that her mother’s happiness had vanished by the time she arrived in Savannah. What would it have taken them to drive from Wyoming to Savannah? Three days, four? How could all that newlywed joy have been gone already?

“Ms. Grant?” Mrs. Andrews stepped out of the garden door, shading her eyes with one hand. “There was a message for you. Mr. Courtland’s secretary called, and they need you to come to their office right away.”

She didn’t answer until she’d covered the space between them, having no wish to advertise her business to anyone who happened to be around.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, ma’am. Just the secretary, saying please stop by this morning. Do you want me to call a taxi for you?”

“How far away is it?”

“Not that far.” Lucas’s voice had her spinning around to face him. He stood on the path that led to his house. “I’ll walk with you and show you the way.”

Another tête-à-tête with Lucas was the last thing she wanted, with the memory of the previous night’s emotion fresh in her mind. His face showed no discomfort at all. Had he forgotten so quickly?

“Thanks anyway. I’m sure I can find the office on my own if Mrs. Andrews will give me directions.” But Mrs. Andrews had disappeared back into the house, apparently feeling that her duty was done.

“You wouldn’t want me to think you don’t enjoy my company, would you?” Lucas touched her arm, gesturing toward the gate in the wall that led onto the street. “I’ll show you a bit of Savannah while we walk.”

Her impulse was to prolong the argument, but that would make his presence into too big a deal. Instead she stepped through the gate and onto the sidewalk, determined to ignore him as much as possible.

Then she paused. “Maybe I should change clothes. I keep forgetting that you people dress a lot more formally than I’m used to.”

Lucas’s amber gaze slid from her violet challis top to her white slacks. “You look fine,” he said, closing the gate behind them. “What do you think of Savannah so far? Or have you been here before?”

“I’ve never been east until this trip. All I know comes from the guidebook I read on the plane.” They crossed the street to the square. “I did read about the squares, of course.”

The city’s founder had laid it out around a series of squares, with houses, public buildings and churches grouped around them—quiet oases in the midst of a busy city, the guidebook had said. Now she understood what the book had meant. Tree branches met overhead, and the traffic suddenly seemed faraway. She and Lucas might have been alone in the country.

Lucas gestured toward a row of white brick town houses, each with an intricate wrought-iron railing leading up to a glossy black door. “The wrought iron is characteristic. Kind of reminds you of New Orleans, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Corrie smiled, realizing they’d embarked on yet another fencing match. “I’ve never been farther south than St. Louis. As I think I mentioned.”

His eyes acknowledged the point. “Savannah is one of the most livable cities in the country and one of the most historic. We aim to keep it that way.”

“We?”

“We, as in native Savannahians. You won’t find people more devoted to their heritage. It takes quite a few generations to really belong.”

A point to him. Obviously she would never belong, any more than her mother had. She thought again of what Lydia had said, realizing she was beginning to feel protective of that young Gracie, as if she were a younger sister instead of her mother.

“You can’t walk a step in Savannah without tripping over history and legend, so mixed up together you can’t tell which is which.” Lucas had continued his own train of thought. He stopped in front of the monument in the center of the square. “A case in point.”

Corrie looked up at the city’s founder, James Oglethorpe, sword in hand, cast in bronze.

“Facing the enemy.” Lucas’s voice was soft in her ear.

“What?” For an instant she thought he meant her, as if the founder of Savannah himself would take a sword to this interloper.

“Oglethorpe. He’s facing south, because his enemies were the Spaniards in Florida. What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing.” She shouldn’t let this get to her. “Thanks for the history lesson.”

“Any time, sugar. There’s nothing a native enjoys more than talking about his city.”

She looked at him, curious at the feeling in his voice. “You sound as if you’re in love with it.”

“Not it. Her. Savannah is always a female. A faded, genteel Southern lady with just enough eccentricity to make her charming.”

Not the place for a forthright Westerner, obviously. Maybe that was why her mother had been unhappy. She’d known from the beginning she’d never belong.

Corrie turned away, and a flight of pigeons took off from the square with a rustle of wings. If she let Lucas make her uncomfortable with every other word, she was in for a very long visit.

“How much farther is it?” Maybe she should have argued a bit more about coming alone. She could have walked along and indulged her own thoughts, instead of being constantly on her guard.

“It’s this way.” Lucas took her hand as if she were a child who needed guiding. No, not a child, she corrected. There was nothing parental about the way his fingers interlaced with hers. She pulled her hand free.

Lucas smiled. “The office is on Broughton Street. That was the main shopping street of town before the malls wiped it out. It’s starting to come back now.”

When they’d walked another block to the corner, she saw what he meant. The busy commercial street had a few empty storefronts, but it also boasted the sort of shops usually found in upscale malls. People thronged the sidewalks.

“Is Saturday a big shopping day?” She dodged a large man with a camera who walked backward, focusing.

“Tourists. It’s June, and they’re out in force. A bus must have just unloaded.” He nodded to the crosswalk. “We cross here, and then we should be clear of them. Courtland’s office is just down the street.”

However, the mob of tourists had apparently decided to go in the same direction, gathering ready to cross as soon as the light changed.

Corrie balanced on the edge of the curb. Even the busy shopping area had its Southern charm, with the gold-embossed plate glass windows of what had probably been old-fashioned department stores now displaying the latest in sportswear.

A bus whizzed by, close enough to the curb to send a blast of hot air in her face. She tried to step back, but people formed a solid mass around her, as if they were afraid they’d never get across the street unless they were first in line.

Annoyed, she turned to look for Lucas. The crowd pushed forward, catching her off balance. She threw out her arms, trying to right herself, just as a shiny sports car accelerated, the driver obviously intent on making it through on the yellow light.

One instant she was safe, her foot hugging the curb. The next a strong shove in her back sent her plunging helplessly into the street, directly into the path of the oncoming car.

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