Get back in the house!

And the tiny voice inside her, echoing nearly as loud as Grandfather’s roar: Run, run, run!

Heart thudding, vision blurring, she spun around and dashed away. Dimly she heard a dog bark, a man shout, but she didn’t slow. Her arms swung, her legs pumping, her strides closing the distance, but, God, not fast enough.

He caught her, arms wrapping around her, holding her close. His breathing was loud in her ears, his voice unfamiliar as he murmured, “It’s okay, Reece, it’s okay. Just an old memory. It can’t hurt you. They can’t hurt you. It’s just you and me and Mick. You’re safe.”

She inhaled sharply, intending to scream, but the scents caught in her nose: soap, shampoo, cologne, dog. She knew those scents. She trusted them.

Jones. Mick.

Pivoting, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as if only he could chase away the fear, the ghosts, the memories. Only he could make her feel safe.

She held on for dear life.

Dear Reader,

I’ve always liked things that go bump in the night—in theory, at least. I don’t like to be scared in real life, though having someone like Jones to hold onto could make the shivers more fun.

Jones is the kind of guy who could make everything better. He’s the sort who falls fast and hard; once he gives his trust, it’s given; and he’s kind to crotchety old women and needy puppies. He couldn’t possibly be any more perfect for Reece!

Marilyn

About the Author

MARILYN PAPPANO has spent most of her life growing into the person she was meant to be, but isn’t there yet. She’s been blessed by family—her husband, their son, his lovely wife and a grandson who is almost certainly the most beautiful and talented baby in the world—and friends, along with a writing career that’s made her one of the luckiest people around. Her passions, besides those already listed, include the pack of wild dogs who make their home in her house, fighting the good fight against the weeds that make up her yard, killing the creepy-crawlies that slither out of those weeds and, of course, anything having to do with books.

Copper Lake Secrets

Marilyn Pappano

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To my husband, Robert, who is also kind to crotchety old women and needy puppies. (Even if they do have you wrapped around their pinkies.)

Chapter 1

One, two, three, four …

Counting in her head, Reece Howard moved thirty-eight steps along the ancient brick wall, then counted out another six before reaching the gate recessed into the wall. She counted a lot, but only steps. She’d done it for as long as she could remember—which was only fifteen years with any clarity, a little more than half her life—but who knew why? Maybe she was obsessive-compulsive with that lone manifestation. Maybe she was just freaking nuts. Maybe, her boss suggested—teasingly?—she simply liked numbers.

If that was the case, then she must really like the number thirty-eight. That was as high as she went. No more, no less.

It was a warm October afternoon, and Evie Murphy was keeping her regular appointments in the courtyard of her French Quarter home. Evie was many things to Reece: friend, confidante, counselor, advisor. Officially her title was psychic, and she was very good at what she did, but even her talents had limits.

Evie was waiting at a wrought-iron table and chairs near the fountain. Playing in the grass a few feet away were Jackson, her four-year-old son, and Isabella, her two-year-old daughter. Eight-month-old Evangeline was asleep on a quilt in the nearby shade.

“Aunt Reece!” Jackson flashed her a wicked smile, the very image of his father, and Isabella wandered over, looking around with anticipation. “Puppies?”

“I had to leave the puppies at home today, sweetie. Next time I’ll bring them, okay?” Reece slid into the chair across from Evie, who was looking calm and serene and beautiful. Not in the least like the dark, mysterious “Evangelina” who told fortunes for tourists in the shop that fronted the house.

“How are you?”

A lot of people asked the question, Reece reflected, but few put the sincerity and interest in it that Evie did. She was the only one Reece answered honestly. “Terrible. I had the dream again last night. I woke up soaked in sweat with all three dogs staring at me as if I were possessed. And I didn’t remember a thing except that it had to do with my time at that place.”

She’d used the same words in a recent conversation with her mother, who’d scoffed. Your time in that place? You spent four months with your grandparents in a beautiful Southern mansion, and you make it sound as if you were incarcerated. Really, Clarice.

“Your dreams got worse when your grandfather died. Maybe he’s sending you a message.”

“Like what? I’m next?” Reece retorted. The response startled her, both in its content and vehemence.

Evie’s gaze steadied on her face. “Why would you think that?”

Good question. Why would she think that Arthur Howard wanted her dead? Besides those months she’d spent in his house, she hardly knew the man. When she tried to picture him, she couldn’t bring his face to mind but only images: large, hulking, menacing. And numbers: one, two, three, four …

And fear.

“Damned if I know,” she replied to Evie’s question. “I look at pictures of him, and it’s as if I’ve never seen him before. He’s just this blank in my memory.” A large, menacing blank.

“You have a lot of blanks in your memory.” Evie touched her, her hand warm and grounding. “How many people know what happened that summer, Reece? Three? Maybe four? Your grandfather’s death made it one less. If you ever want answers …”

Go to Fair Winds. Ask your questions.

They’d had the conversation before, but the idea of returning to Copper Lake, Georgia, to the Howard ancestral home on the Gullah River, tied her stomach into knots. Maybe she didn’t really want to know. Her mother was convinced that the best thing she could do was forget the past and move on in the present.

Of course, her mother—Valerie—wasn’t the one missing three months of her life, or facing the nightmares, or so full of resentment and distrust that every potential relationship became a burden too cumbersome to manage. Reece was twenty-eight years old, and her only real friends were Evie and Martine Broussard, her boss, and they made it easy for her. They didn’t ask for too much; they understood her as much as anyone could.

Much as she loved them, she wanted more. She didn’t have grand dreams, but she wanted to fall in love, get married and have children. She would like to make a difference in someone’s life, the way her father had made a difference in hers. She would like to be a part of something special, something she’d had in the years before Dad’s death had taken it from her: a family.

She wanted, she would like … she needed. Answers.

“Ah, Evie, I swore I’d never go back there again.”

“You were thirteen.”

“I didn’t even go back for Grandfather’s funeral.”

Evie echoed the words Reece had only thought earlier. “You hardly knew the man.”

Reece offered her last feeble excuse. “I have to work.”

“As if Martine wouldn’t let you off at a moment’s notice.”

Tension knotted in her gut. All these years, her refusal to return to Fair Winds had been a source of anger, frustration and more than a few arguments, but it had been a constant. Valerie had wanted to spend Christmases there; Reece had refused to go. Grandmother had invited them to Mark’s wedding; Reece said no. Grandfather had unbent enough to ask her personally to attend Grandmother’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration. Reece had stood her ground.

Valerie thought she was childish and melodramatic—ironic insults coming from the woman who embodied both. Grandmother thought she was stubborn and selfish. And Grandfather had told her that her father would be ashamed of her.

Not as much as he would be of you, she’d retorted before slamming down the phone. She believed that wholeheartedly. She just didn’t know why.

She was tired of not knowing.

Across the table, Evie was waiting patiently. If something bad would come of a trip to Georgia, surely she would sense it. She warned people of danger; she helped them make the right decisions. If she thought Reece should go …

Reece huffed out a sigh. “Okay.” Then … “I don’t suppose you’d want to go with me.”

“And leave Jack alone with the kids? His idea of day care would be sticking them in a holding cell while he interviewed suspects.” She squeezed Reece’s fingers. “You can call me anytime day or night, and if you need me, I’ll come.”

A knot formed in Reece’s throat, and she had to work to sound casual. “At least you didn’t say, ‘And take my kids to a haunted house.’“

Her brows drew together. Yes, she had a psychic advisor; yes, she worked in a shop that sold charms, potions and candles to true believers. But ghosts, haunting her father’s childhood home? The mere thought should make her laugh, but it didn’t. It felt … like truth.

“A place that old, that was worked by slaves, is likely to have a few spirits, but generally they won’t harm you.”

Maybe. Maybe not. It was impossible for Reece to know what she feared about Fair Winds and her grandparents without knowing what had gone on during those months she lived there.

Grimly accepting, she got to her feet. “All right. I’ll go. But if something happens to me while I’m there, Evie, I swear, I’ll haunt you for eternity.”

Evie stood, too, and hugged her. “I’d enjoy it, sweetie. Now, I’m serious—if you need anything, you call me.”

“I will.” Though, as she hugged Jackson and Isabella goodbye, she acknowledged she lied. Fair Winds was an evil, forbidding place, and she wouldn’t expose these kids’ mom to that for anything, not even to save herself.

It was a quick walk from Evie’s to the building that housed Martine’s shop on the first floor and both her and Martine’s apartments on the second. When she walked in, the faint scent of incense drifted on the air, sending a slow creep of calm down her spine. The tourists browsing the T-shirts and souvenirs glanced her way, and she automatically flashed them her best customer-service smile as she passed through to the back room.

“I suppose you’re going to ask me to take care of those mutts of yours while you’re gone.” Martine’s back was to Reece as she collected specimens from the bottles and tins that lined the shelves behind the counter. Some customers thought she had a sixth sense, maybe seventh and eighth ones, too, but Reece knew there were mirrors discreetly placed along the tops of the shelves.

“My puppers are not mutts.”

Martine sniffed. “What’s their breed? Oh, yeah, Canardly. You can ‘ardly tell what they are.”

“And they love their Auntie Martine so much.”

Another sniff before she turned, laying ingredients on the counter. “When are you leaving?”

“What are you, psychic?”

“iPhone and I know all.” Martine’s wicked grin was accompanied by a nod toward the cell on the counter. “I’ll have everything you need in an hour.”

Everything included charms, amulets, potions and notions. Reece couldn’t say from personal experience that they would ward off evil or work to keep her safe, but they sure as hell couldn’t hurt. “Then I’ll leave in an hour and five minutes.”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Martine asked drily.

The answer was a surprise to Reece, as well, but she knew if she put off her departure for even one day, the dread and anxiety that were tangled in her gut would just keep growing. The drive would give her plenty of time to think of all the reasons this was a bad idea; no use giving herself additional time to wuss out.

“I wish you could go in my place. Grandmother hasn’t seen me in fifteen years. She might not notice the difference.”

How did Martine make a snort sound so elegant? “Oh, sure, we look so much alike. Maybe the woman’s gotten deaf, blind and stupid in addition to old.”

Reece grimaced. Though they were about the same height and body type, she was light to Martine’s dark: fair-skinned and blond-haired. Having lived all her life in Louisiana, Martine had a pure and honeyed accent, while Reece’s frequent moves had left her with a fairly nondescript voice.

“Okay.” A sickly sigh. “I’m going to pack and tell the puppers that Auntie Martine will be taking care of them. They’ll be so excited.”

As she slipped through the rear door and trudged up the stairs, she wished she could dredge up a little excitement.

But all she felt was dread.

Thin streaks of moonlight filtered through the clouds to silver the landscape below, glinting off the stick-straight spears of wrought iron that marched off into the distance on both sides of the broad gate. Spelled in elaborate curls and swoops was the plantation name: Fair Winds.

Though this night there was nothing resembling fair about the place. Trees grew thick beyond the fence. Fog hovered low to the ground. No birds sang. No wildlife slipped through the dark. Silence reigned inside the wrought iron.

Jones had been in town for two days and had found plenty of people willing to talk. They said the place was haunted. Strange things happened inside those gates. On a quiet night, wailing and moaning could be heard a mile away.

This was a quiet night, but the only sound drifting on the air came from the dog beside him. Jones laid his hand on Mick’s head, scratching behind his upright ears, but it didn’t ease the quivering alertness that had settled on the animal the instant he’d jumped from the truck and scented the air.

Mick would rather be in town at the motel or, better yet, back home in Louisville. He liked traveling; he went with Jones on most of his jobs. But he didn’t like spirits, and here, there be ghosties.

It was his father’s voice Jones heard in his head, a voice he hadn’t truly heard in fifteen years. His father was loving and generous and good-natured, but he wasn’t forgiving. He nursed a grudge better than the meanest of spirits. His two middle sons were dead to him and always would be.

It appeared that Glen really was dead.

Absently Jones rubbed his chest as if that might make the pain go away. He’d been cold inside since he’d heard the news that everything Glen had owned in the world had been found buried under a pile of ancient brush outside Copper Lake. Clothes, books, driver’s license, money, photographs, hidden no more than thirty yards from where Jones had last seen him. Maybe Glen would have gone off without his books or his license, even without the clothes or the money, but not without the photos of Siobhan. He’d been crazy mad in love with the girl, had intended to marry her. He never would have left her pictures behind.

And it was partly Jones’s fault. All these years, he’d thought Glen was doing the same as him, making a life for himself that had nothing to do with family tradition. All these years, he’d been wrong.

Jones had rushed through his last job when he’d heard the news, then driven straight through from Massachusetts to Georgia. He’d had hours to come up with a plan, but after two days in town, he still didn’t have one. All he’d been able to do was think. Remember. Regret.

Had his life been worth everything he’d given up? Doing what he wanted, being what he wanted? If he hadn’t gone along with Glen, would his brother still be alive?

Their granny had been big on fate. Things happened as they were meant to, she’d insisted, and he’d been eager to share her belief. After all, that absolved him of responsibility. So he’d broken his mother’s heart; it hadn’t been selfishness but fate. He’d turned his back on the life his family had embraced for generations because fate had meant him to. He’d denied his heritage and lived for himself because that was the cosmos’s plan for him.

But had fate decreed Glen should die before his eighteenth birthday?

Jones didn’t think so. Someone else had made that determination, and he wanted to know who.

He figured he already had a pretty good idea of why.

Beside him, Mick gave a low whine. His ears were pricked, his tail stiff, his rough coat bristling. He was staring through the gate at the mists that formed, swirled, then dissipated, only to re-form a few steps away. Ghosts, essence, imprints—whatever you called them, Jones believed in them. His work took him to centuries-old houses all around the country, and every one housed at least one spirit. He didn’t bother them, and they returned the favor.

Mick whined again as an insubstantial form separated from the shadows of the live oaks that lined the drive and stepped into the moonlight. Jones’s jaw tightened with annoyance. Who would have expected the elderly and recently widowed owner of Fair Winds to be out haunting the place at nearly midnight?

She wrapped fragile fingers around one of the bars on the gate. “Who are you, and what are you doing on my property?”

Mentally kicking himself for coming to the place unprepared, he slid from the tailgate to the ground, felt his wallet shift and immediately knew his approach. As he walked to the gate, he pulled the battered leather from his hip pocket and silently handed her a business card.

It gleamed white as she tilted it to read his name, then tapped it on the bar. “I’ve heard of you.”

He wasn’t surprised. The business of historic garden restoration was an insular one. Word of mouth was still the best advertising; a satisfied client was happy to pass on his name to anyone who might be in need of his services. The subject was likely to have come up at least a time or two with the owner of Fair Winds, once home to the most spectacular gardens in the South.

“I’ve heard of you, too, Mrs. Howard.” Then he gestured behind her. “Actually, more of the gardens.” It was true. Because of the time he and Glen had spent at Fair Winds, he’d always paid attention when the name had come up. He’d researched the gardens while completing his degree, had seen plans, photographs and praise lavished by guests at the house during the gardens’ prime in the 1800s.

“Humph. They haven’t existed in the fifty years I’ve lived here.”

“But they’re legendary.”

“That they are.” She tapped the card again. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re sitting outside my gate close to midnight.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He shrugged. “I’m between jobs, and I found myself in this area. I was curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, don’t you know?”

His smile was cool. “Do I look like a cat to you?”

She stared tight-lipped at him for a moment, then folded her fingers over the card. “Come back tomorrow. You can see more in the daylight.” Turning, she took four steps and disappeared into the shadows. The only sound of her passing was the crunch of footsteps on gravel that quickly faded away.

Mick whined again, and after a moment staring into the darkness, Jones faced him. “You’re just a big baby, aren’t you? Come on. Let’s go back to town. We’ve got work to do.”

When he opened the pickup door, the dog jumped into the driver’s seat and started to settle in, grumbling when Jones nudged him over the console to the passenger seat. Jones had picked up the shepherd mix at a job in Tennessee. One day he’d appeared at a stop sign, looking into every vehicle that came along before sinking back to the ground. He’d stayed there for days, growing thinner and more despondent, waiting for the owner who’d dumped him to return. Knowing what it was like to be alone and on your own and not sure you were up to the challenge, Jones had begun taking food and water to the stop sign.

On the eighth day, after he’d delivered the meal, Mick had eaten, then walked back to the house with him. They’d been together since.

He followed the hard-packed road to the highway, then turned south. Copper Lake was just a few miles away, but he and Glen had camped on Howard property for a month without going into town once.

Not that it was a bad little town. Once past the poorer neighborhoods on the north side, the town was neat, easy to navigate and excelled at small-town charm. It was home to more than a few magnificent historic houses that made him itch for a sketchpad and pencil.

If he couldn’t talk his way into Fair Winds, maybe he could drum up another job as an excuse for staying in the area awhile.

Most of the motels in town were on the lower end, with The Jasmine Bed-and-Breakfast at the high end. He’d picked one in the middle—clean, comfortable, high-speed wireless—and they didn’t object to Mick. He parked in front of his end room, let the dog do his business in the narrow strip of grass nearby, then they went inside and he booted up his laptop, calling up the file he’d put together in college and carried with him since.

Fair Winds Plantation.

The place where his life had changed. Where his brother’s life had ended. Where he intended to find the truth.

A horn blared, long and angry, as a logging truck blasted past, the winds buffeting Reece’s small SUV. Dawdling on a two-lane highway wasn’t the safest driving she’d ever done, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Every time she saw a mileage sign for Copper Lake, her foot just eased off the gas on its own.

Taking a deep breath, she loosened her fingers on the wheel and pushed the gas pedal harder. Once the speedometer reached the posted limit, she set the cruise control. There. The speed was out of her foot’s—or subconscious’s—control.

She’d spent last night in Atlanta, sleeping badly, tossing through one dark, malevolent dream after another. She was tired, her body hurt, and she had the king of bad headaches. If it were any farther to Copper Lake, she’d be physically ill before she got there.

And yet here she was doing her best to make the trip last.

As the road rounded a curve, a beautiful antebellum mansion appeared on the left, and Reece’s fingers tightened again. That was Calloway Plantation. According to the map she’d studied, the turn to Fair Winds was less than a half mile south of Calloway.

Sure enough, there it was, identified with plaques set discreetly into the brick columns on either side. She braked, turned onto the broad dirt road, drove a hundred feet and stopped.

Could she do this?

Evie thought so. Martine did, too. The only one with doubts was Reece herself. Hand trembling, she reached inside her shirt to lift a thin silver chain that Martine had given her. Dangling from it was a copper penny. Appropriate, she thought unsteadily, since she was outside Copper Lake and the taste of both blood and fear, according to people who knew, was coppery.

Evie’s calm, confident voice sounded in her head. If you ever want answers …

She did. Desperately.

If you need me, I’ll come.

And Martine: I’ll have everything you need.

“Except courage.” Reece’s voice was shaky. “But Grandfather’s dead. I’m not thirteen. I can handle this.”

She repeated the words in her head as she slowly got the car moving again. Tall pines grew dense on either side of the road, testament to the lucrative logging business that had taken the original Howard’s fortune and increased it a hundredfold. As far as she knew, Grandfather had never worked in logging or any other business. He’d managed his investments from his study on the first floor and done whatever caught his fancy. She vaguely remembered fishing poles and rifles and shovels, and the glare every time he’d looked at her …

Before she realized it, she’d reached the gate. It stood open in welcome. She drove through, and the hairs on her nape stood on end. Was it quieter inside the gate than out? Did the sun shine a little less brightly, chase away fewer shadows? If she rolled the windows down, would the air be a little thicker?

“Oh, for God’s sake. Valerie’s right. I am being melodramatic. It’s a house.” As it came into sight, she amended that. “A big, creepy, spooky house, but still just a house. I haven’t entered the first circle of hell.”

At least, she prayed she hadn’t.

Live oaks lined the drive, huge branches arching overhead to shade it. The house and its buildings—a guest cottage, the old farm manager’s office and a few storage sheds—sat at the rear edge of an expanse of manicured lawn. The brick of the pillars that marched across the front of the house had mellowed to a dusky rose, but there was no fading to the paint on the boards. The colors were crisp white and dark green, but still looked unwelcoming.

A fairly new pickup was parked near the cottage—silver, spotless, too high for a woman of Grandmother’s stature to climb into without help. Its tag was from Kentucky, and she wondered as she pulled in beside it if some stranger-to-her relative was visiting. The recent generations of Howards hadn’t been eager to stick around Copper Lake. Her father had left at twenty, his brother and most of their cousins soon after.

When she got out of the car, Reece was relieved to note that the sun was just as warm here as it’d been outside the gate and the air was no heavier than anywhere else in the humid South. It smelled fresh like pine and muddy like the Gullah River that ran a hundred feet on the other side of the gate.

She was closing the door when she felt eyes on her. Grandmother? Her housekeeper? The driver of the truck? Or the ghosts her father insisted inhabited Fair Winds?

Ghosts that might have been joined a few months ago by Grandfather’s malevolent spirit.

Evie’s voice again: Spirits generally won’t harm you.

Oh, man, she hoped that was true. But if Arthur Howard’s ghost lived in that house, she’d be sleeping with one eye open.

The gazes, it turned out, were more corporeal. Seated at a table on the patio fifty feet away, just to the left of the silent fountain, sat a frail, white-haired woman and a much younger, much darker, much … more … man, both of them watching her.

Reece stared. Grandmother had gotten old, was her first thought, which she immediately scoffed at. Willadene Howard had been frail-looking and white-haired for as long as she could remember, but the frailty part was deceiving. She’d always been strong, stern, unyielding, and in spite of her age—seventy-seven? no, seventy-eight—she certainly still was. She didn’t even show any surprise at Reece’s appearance out of the fifteen-year-old blue as she rose to her feet. When Reece got close enough that Grandmother didn’t have to raise her voice—Howard women never raised their voices—she announced, “You’re late.”

Maybe she didn’t recognize her, Reece thought. Maybe she was expecting someone else. She thought of the responses she could make: Hello, Grandmother. It’s me, Reece, the granddaughter you let Grandfather terrorize. Or Nice to see you, Grandmother. You ‘re looking well. Or Sorry I missed your birthday party, Grandmother, but I thought of you that day.

What came out was much simpler. “For what?”

“Your grandfather’s funeral was four and a half months ago.”

There was nothing Reece could say that wouldn’t sound callous, so she said nothing. She walked closer to the table, knowing Grandmother wouldn’t expect a hug, and sat on the marble rim of the fountain.

Grandmother turned her attention back to the man, who hadn’t shown any reaction so far. “This is my granddaughter, Clarice Howard, who pretends that she sprang full-grown into this world without the bother of parents or family.” With a dismissive sniff, she went on.

“Mr. Jones and I are discussing a restoration project we intend to undertake.”

Reece’s face warmed at the criticism, but she brushed it off as the man leaned forward, his hand extended. “Mr. Jones,” she greeted him.

“Just Jones.” His voice was deep, his accent Southern with a hint of something else. Black hair a bit too long for her taste framed olive skin and the darkest eyes she’d ever looked into. Mysterious was the first descriptor that leaped into her head, followed quickly by more: handsome. Sexy. Maybe dangerous.

She shook his hand, noting callused skin, long fingers, heat, a kind of lazy strength.

He released her hand and sat back again. She resisted the urge to tuck both hands under her arms and laid them flat on the marble instead. Rather than deal with Grandmother head-on, she directed a question to the general area between them. “The house appears to be in good shape. What are you restoring?” Left to her, she would be tearing the place down, not fixing it up.

“You can’t judge a house by its facade. Everything gets creaky after fifteen years.” Grandmother’s tone remained snippy when she went on. “Mr. Jones is an expert in garden restoration. He’s going to bring back Fair Winds’ gardens to their former glory. Not that you ever bothered to learn family history, Clarice, but a few generations ago, the gardens here were considered the best in all of the South and the rest of the country, as well. They were designed by one of the greatest landscape architects of the time. They covered fourteen acres and took ten years to complete.”

She waited, obviously, for a response from Reece. The only one she gave was inconsequential. “I go by Reece now.”

Grandmother’s lips pursed and her blue gaze sharpened. Across the table from her, Jones was making a point of gazing off into the distance, looking at neither of them.

“Gardens. Really.” Too little too late, judging by Grandmother’s expression. The only flowers Reece had ever seen at Fair Winds were the wild jasmine that grew in the woods. Her mother had told her their name and urged her to breathe deeply of their fragrance. Not long after, Valerie had left, the emptiness in Reece’s memory had begun and the smell of jasmine always left her melancholy.

A shiver passed over her, like a cloud over the sun, but she ignored it, focusing on the stranger again. Did just Jones look like a landscape architect, or whatever his title would be? She’d never met a landscape architect, but she doubted it. He seemed more the outdoors type, the one who’d do the actual work to bring the architect’s plans to life. His skin was bronzed, his T-shirt stretched across a broad chest, and his arms were hard-muscled. He was a man far better acquainted with hard work than desk-sitting.

“Sit,” Grandmother commanded, pointing to an empty chair as she got to her feet without a hint of creakiness. “Entertain Mr. Jones while I get some papers from your grandfather’s study. We’ll let him get started, and then we’ll talk.”

Reece obediently moved to the chair, automatically stiffening her spine, the way Grandmother had nagged her that summer. Howard women do not slump. Howard women hold their heads high. Howard women—

The door closed with a click, followed by a chuckle nearby. Her gaze switched to the gardener/architect wearing a look of amusement. “That last bit sounded like a threat, didn’t it?”

And then we’ll talk. It was a threat. And even though she’d come there just for that purpose, at the moment, it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

Swallowing hard, she tried instead to focus on the rest of Grandmother’s words. She might have trust issues and abandonment issues and a tad of melodrama, but she could be polite to a stranger. Her mother required it. Her job required it. Hell, life required it. But the question that came out wasn’t exactly polite.

“So … is Jones your first name or last?”

Chapter 2

“Does it matter?” Jones asked, aware his lazy tone gave no hint of the tension thrumming through him. She didn’t appear to recognize either him or his name, didn’t appear to realize she’d asked him that question once before, the first time they’d met. Had he been so forgettable? Considering that he and Glen had saved her life, he’d think not … but she was, after all, a Howard.

Or was she just damn good at pretending? At lying?

He’d thought he’d lucked out when he returned to the farm this morning to a job offer that would give him virtually unlimited access to the Howard property, but having Clarice Howard show up, too … If there were a casino nearby, he’d head straight there to place all sorts of bets because today he was definitely hot.

He’d looked for her on the internet and had found several Clarice Howards, just not the right one. He’d asked the gossipy waitress at the restaurant next to the motel about her, but the woman hadn’t recognized the name, didn’t know anything about a Howard granddaughter. She’d had nothing but good, though, to say about the grandson, Mark, who lived in Copper Lake.

Mark, who, along with Reece, was the last person Jones had seen with his brother. Mark, who had threatened both Glen and Jones.

“I take it you don’t live around here,” he remarked.

“No.” That seemed all she wanted to say, but after a moment, she went on. “I live in New Orleans.”

“The Big Easy.”

“Once upon a time.” Another moment, then a gesture toward his truck. “You’re from Kentucky?”

“I live there.” He was from a small place in South Carolina, just a few miles across the Georgia state line. He’d been back only once in fifteen years. His father had begun the conversation with “Are you back to stay?” and ended it a few seconds later with a terse “Then you should go.” He’d followed up with closing the door in Jones’s face.

Big Dan was not a forgiving man.

“What brings you to Georgia?” he asked.

Reece didn’t shift uncomfortably in the wrought-iron chair, but he had the impression she wanted to. “A visit to my grandmother.”

“She was surprised to see you. You don’t come often?”

“It’s been a while.”

Then her gaze met his. Soft brown eyes. He liked all kinds of women, but brown-eyed blondes were a particular weakness. Not this one, though. Not one who, his gut told him, was somehow involved in Glen’s disappearance.

“What made you think Grandmother was surprised?”

“I’m good at reading people.” Truth was, he’d heard Miss Willa gasp the instant she’d gotten a good look at Reece. Lord, she looks like her daddy, the old woman had murmured. I never thought …

She’d ever see her again? The resemblance to her father couldn’t have been that surprising. She looked the same as she had fifteen years ago, just older. She still wore her hair short and sleek; she still had that honey-gold skin; she still had an air about her of … fragility, he decided. She was five foot seven, give or take an inch, and slender but not unappealingly so. She didn’t look like a waif in need of protection, but everything else about Reece Howard said she was.

But appearances, he well knew, were often deceiving.

Deliberately he changed the subject. “Do you know much about the old gardens?”

Despite the change, the stiffness in her shoulders didn’t ease a bit. Would she be against the project? Was she envisioning her inheritance being frittered away on flowers and fountains? “No, Grandmother’s right. I didn’t learn the family history the way a proper Howard should.”

History could be overrated. He knew his own family history for generations, but that still didn’t make them want any contact with him. They didn’t feel any less betrayed; he didn’t feel any less rejected.

“I’ve seen photos from as early as the 1870s,” he went on, his gaze settling on the fountain beside them. Built of marble and brick, with a statue in the middle, it was silent, dirty, the water stagnant in the bottom. “They were incredible. Fountains, pools, terraces.

Wildflowers, herb gardens, roses … They covered this entire area—” he waved one hand in a circle “—and extended into the woods for the shade gardens. Fair Winds once had more varieties of azaleas and crape myrtles than any other garden in the country.”

“And you’re going to replant all that.” Her tone was neutral, no resistance but no enthusiasm, either.

“Probably not all, but as much as we can. We have the original plans, photographs, detailed records from the head gardeners. We can make it look very much like it used to.”

“What happened to the gardens?”

He shrugged. “Apparently, your grandfather had everything removed. The pools were filled in, the statues taken away, the terraces leveled. Miss Willa didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask.”

Reece muttered something, but all he caught was mean and old. She’d missed the funeral, Miss Willa had said. Grandfather or not, apparently Reece wasn’t missing Arthur Howard.

Shadow fell over them, and the wind swirled with a chill absent a few seconds earlier. A few brown leaves rattled against the base of the fountain, then grew still as the air did.

As Reece did. She sat motionless, goose bumps raised all the way down her arms. He considered offering an explanation—a cloud over the sun, though there were no clouds in the sky; a gust of mechanically-cooled air from an open window or door, though he could see none of those, either—but judging by the look on her face, she didn’t need an explanation. She knew better than him the truth behind the odd moment.

Here there really were ghosties.

Did she know what he’d come to find out? Was one of them Glen’s?

Before he could say anything else, the door to the house opened and Miss Willa hustled out, her arms filled with ancient brown accordion folders and books. He rose to carry them for her, but she brushed him off and set them on the table. “These are all the records I could lay my hands on at the moment. Clarice may be able to find more in her grandfather’s boxes while she’s here.”

A look of distaste flashed across Reece’s face—at the use of her given name or the thought of digging through her grandfather’s files?

“Here’s the code to the gate—” Miss Willa slapped a piece of paper on top of the stack, then offered a key “—and the key to the cottage.”

Surprise replaced distaste in Reece’s expression, and witnessing that took Jones a moment longer to hear the words than he should have. Frowning, he looked at Miss Willa. “What cottage?”

“That one.” She pointed across the road. “There’s no place in town worth staying at for more than a night or two besides The Jasmine, and I certainly don’t intend to subsidize The Jasmine when you can stay here and keep your attention on your work.”

He generally liked staying at or near the job site. On long-term jobs, he often moved into a small trailer, which beat a motel any day. But he didn’t particularly appreciate being told where he would stay, or the assumption that he needed to be told to stay focused on his job. He was a responsible man, and while Miss Willa might well be accustomed to giving orders, he wasn’t accustomed to following them, except in the narrow scope of the job.

But he wasn’t stupid enough to argue, not when her high-handedness fit right in with his needs.

“I appreciate the invitation.” His sarcasm sailed right past Miss Willa’s ears, but earned a faint smile from Reece. “I should warn you, my dog travels with me.”

“Keep him quiet, keep him away from my house and clean up after him, and we’ll be fine.” Miss Willa shifted her gaze then to Reece. “Lois is fixing dinner. We’ll talk when that’s over.” With a nod for emphasis, she returned to the house.

The action surprised Jones. Miss Willa hadn’t seen her only granddaughter in years, and yet she casually dismissed her?

But wasn’t that what his own father had done with him? Hell, Big Dan hadn’t just dismissed him; he’d sent him away. Though Jones had betrayed Big Dan. Did Miss Willa think the same of Reece? And was there more to it than Reece missing the old man’s funeral?

Reece wasn’t surprised. Idly she opened one of the books on the table, an oversize title with musty yellow pages and decades-old plates of the most impressive gardens of the post–Civil War South. Jones had a copy in his office back in Louisville. “Grandmother doesn’t like to discuss unpleasant matters at the dinner table,” she said by way of explanation.

“What could be unpleasant about her granddaughter coming for a visit?”

“A long-neglected visit. I haven’t been here since …” Her attention shifted from the book to the house, her gaze taking in the three stories of whiteboard siding and dark green trim, the windows staring back like so many unblinking eyes. “Since I was thirteen,” she finished, the words of little more substance than a sigh.

The summer he and Glen had been there. Why? What had happened to keep her away all that time? A falling-out between her mother and grandparents? A petty argument that had grown to fill the years?

Or something more?

With a slight tremble in her fingers, she closed the book and smiled, but it lacked depth. “Fair Winds isn’t my favorite place in the world. It’s …”

He let a heartbeat pass for effect. Another. Then he softly supplied the word. “Haunted?”

She startled. Her gaze jerked to him and her arms folded across her middle as if to contain the shiver rippling through her. “You believe in ghosts, Mr. Jones?”

“I told you, it’s just Jones. No Mister. Why wouldn’t a house like this have ghosts? It’s nearly two hundred years old. Dozens of people have lived and celebrated and suffered and died here. Some of those spirits are bound to remain.”

“You’ve encountered such spirits before?”

“I have, and lived to tell the tale.”

He grinned, but the gesture didn’t relax her at all. Instead, a brooding darkness settled around her. “Wait until you’ve met Grandfather, if he’s still here. He might change that.”

Jones tucked the security code into his hip pocket, picked up the books and papers, then twirled the lone key on its ring around his finger. “He can’t scare me too much,” he said mildly as he started across the patio to the road. “After all, he is dead.”

Dead, but not forgotten, and still possessing the ability to frighten.

At least, he could still frighten Reece.

She watched until Jones had disappeared inside the cottage, wishing she could have claimed it for herself before Grandmother offered it to him. It was a miniature replica of the house, with a huge difference: it was memory-free and nightmare-free. Reserved for visitors, it had been off-limits to her and Mark that summer. At the moment it seemed the only safe place on all of Fair Winds.

But Jones had it, so she was going to be stuck in the house where Grandfather had lived.

And expected to go through his boxes, too. A shudder tightened her muscles as she recalled the one time she’d gone into his study. Only in the house a few days, she’d still been learning her way around, and Mark had told her that heavy dark door that was always closed led into a sunroom filled with beautiful flowers.

There’d been nothing sunny or beautiful about the room. Dark drapes pulled shut, dark paneling, the thick, heavy smell of cigars and age, and Grandfather, glowering at her as if she’d committed an unpardonable sin. He’d yelled at her to get out, and she’d scurried away, slamming the door, to find Mark laughing at the bottom of the stairs. Grandmother had chastened her, and Valerie had, too, and she’d felt so lost and lonely and wanted her dad more than ever.

Oh, God, she wasn’t sure she could do this, not even to find out what had happened those three months. Over the course of her lifetime, they added up to what? One percent of her time on this earth? Nothing. Inconsequential.

Except the months did have consequences: the nightmares, the fear, the distrust.

She breathed deeply. Across the drive, Jones came out of the cottage, climbed into his truck and drove away. She felt his leaving all the way to her bones. Aside from Lois, who must be Grandmother’s current housekeeper, there was no one left on the property but her and Grandmother.

Not a thought to inspire confidence in a drama princess.

Another deep breath got her across the patio and into the door. Dimness replaced bright sun; coolness replaced heat. Instead of pine, the lemon tang of wood polish drifted on the air, along with the aroma of baking pastry. A voice humming an old gospel tune came from the kitchen, ahead and to the right. Lois, Reece was sure. She’d never heard Grandmother hum or sing, had rarely seen her smile and couldn’t recall ever hearing her laugh.

No wonder Daddy had left the first chance he got.

She ventured farther along the hallway that bisected the house north to south. A glance through the first set of double doors showed the table in the formal dining room, set for two. Opposite was Grandmother’s study, a small room with airy lace curtains, a white marble fireplace and delicate-appearing furniture that looked hardly a year of its century-plus age.

The rooms were small, the ceilings high, the furnishings mostly unchanged. A broad hallway, easily as wide as the rooms themselves, cut through in the middle from east to west. The stairs rose from this hall, and portraits of early Howards—and, in one case, an early Howard’s prized horse—lined the walls. None of Grandfather, Reece noted with relief. His memory was enough to haunt her. She didn’t need portraits, too.

The salon was empty, the door to Grandfather’s office closed. Presumably Grandmother was upstairs. Readying a room for her? Gathering items Jones might need in the cottage? Or getting ready for the noon meal? After all, Howard women dressed for meals.

Reece paused outside the study door. The house was oppressive. So many rules, so little laughter. Her father had loved to laugh. Elliott Howard hadn’t taken anything too seriously. He must have felt so stifled within these walls.

She was about to go upstairs, left hand on the banister, right foot on the first tread, when a creak came from the study behind her. Another followed it, then more: the slow, steady sounds eerily similar to a person pacing. Her fingers tightened around the railing until her knuckles turned white, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go, to turn around and walk across the faded Persian rug to the door.

It was probably Grandmother, looking for more papers for Jones, having thought better of the idea of trusting the search to her. If she’d wanted company, she would have left the door open; she would have—

“Well, don’t just stand there. Either come up or get out of the way.”

So much for the theory of Grandmother. The old woman was standing on the stair landing, hair brushed, makeup freshened, a string of pearls added to the diamonds she always wore.

Reece glanced over her shoulder at the study door. The room was silent now. Just her imagination running wild. It always had, according to Grandmother. That girl lives in a fantasy world, she’d often complained to Valerie. Thinks she sees ghosts everywhere.

Heard them. Reece had never seen a ghost. She’d simply heard them, and felt them.

She loosened her grip on the banister and backed away as Grandmother descended the stairs.

“Dinner is served promptly at 12:30. Supper is at 6:30. If you miss the meal, you fend for yourself—and clean up after yourself.” With an arch look, Grandmother passed her and headed for the dining room.

Reece followed her and took a seat at the polished mahogany table as a woman about her mother’s age began serving the meal. There was iced tea in crystal goblets that predated the War, salad and rolls served on delicate plates her great-great-and-so-on grandfather had brought from France when he was still a sea captain in the early 1800s, roasted chicken and vegetables, and pie. Much more than the po’boy or muffuletta she usually had for lunch back home.

The conversation was sporadic, nothing more interesting than general comments about the weather or the food. It was ridiculous, really, to chitchat about nothing when they hadn’t seen each other in so long, but Reece was no more eager to have a serious conversation than Grandmother was willing to break her dinnertime rules.

It would have been nice, though, to have been greeted with a little more pleasure—a hug, a kiss, an I’m happy to see you. Valerie didn’t have much patience with her, but even she managed that much every time they met.

Finally, the meal was over and Grandmother, taking her tea along, led the way into her study. It was the brightest, airiest room in the house, but it was stifling in its own way. The furniture was uncomfortable, and Grandmother didn’t relax her rules there. A settee that didn’t invite sitting, spine properly straight, chin up, ankles crossed and Grandmother with her own rigid posture didn’t invite confidences or intimacy.

Grandmother had apparently exhausted her store of chitchat and went straight to the point. “All these years, all those invitations you turned down or ignored, and suddenly you show up without so much as a call. What changed your mind?”

She could claim tender feelings, but Grandmother wouldn’t believe her. Reece had always tried to love her; weren’t grandmothers supposed to be important in a girl’s life? But loving someone who constantly criticized and lectured and admonished … Fearing Grandfather had been easy. Feeling anything for Grandmother hadn’t.

Reece gave a simple, truthful answer. “Curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

How many times had she heard that? And Mark, always out of the adults’ earshot, creeping up beside her, his mouth near her ear. Meow.

“You look well,” Reece said evenly.

“I am well. Your grandfather, however, is dead. Your mother came for his service. Your aunt Lorna came, and Mark and his family were there. Several hundred people were there, in fact, but not his one and only granddaughter.”

The desire to squirm rippled through Reece, but she controlled it. Howard women met every situation with poise and confidence. “I couldn’t come.”

“You mean you wouldn’t.”

“It’s not as if we were close.”

“And whose fault is that?”

His. He never said a nice word to me. He yelled at me. He scared me. He threatened—

Reece stiffened. Threatened? She didn’t recall Grandfather ever actually threatening her, not with tattling or spanking or anything. Was that part of what she couldn’t remember? Part of why she couldn’t remember?

“It was my fault,” Reece said. She would take all the blame Grandmother could dish out if it helped her get a few answers. “That summer I lived here, I was frightened of him. He wasn’t exactly warm and cuddly.”

To her surprise, Grandmother nodded. “No, he wasn’t. But he was a good man.”

Maybe in the overall scheme of things. Reece couldn’t deny that Mark had adored him. Maybe Grandfather hadn’t known how to relate to girls. Maybe he’d never forgiven his older son for leaving and transferred that resentment to her. Maybe asking him to deal with his son’s death and a grieving thirteen-year-old girl at the same time was too much. She did look an awful lot like her father.

“That summer,” she hesitantly began.

“What about it?”

What happened? Why do I still have nightmares? Why can’t I remember? The questions seemed so reasonable to her, but she’d lived with them for fifteen years. Would they sound half so reasonable to Grandmother, who hadn’t been much better at dealing with a grieving thirteen-year-old than her husband?

“I’ve been thinking a lot about that summer lately,” Reece said, watching Grandmother closely for any reaction.

She showed none. “It was a difficult time for everyone. Losing your father that way … Your uncle Cecil passed four years ago. A mother’s not supposed to outlive both her children.”

The last words were heavy, as if she felt every one of her seventy-eight years, and sparked both sympathy and regret in Reece. She couldn’t imagine losing a child … or having a loving grandmother. If things had been different, if Daddy hadn’t moved to Colorado, if Reece had had a chance to know both her grandparents before Daddy’s death, would that summer have had such an impact on her?

But Daddy had had issues of his own with Grandfather, so their visits had been few. They’d been practically strangers when she and Valerie had come to stay.

And there was no wishing for a new past. It was done, and all that was left was living with the consequences.

“I’m sorry about Cecil,” Reece said, meaning it even though she hadn’t met the man more than twice that she could recall.

Grandmother’s unusual sentimentality evaporated. “He ate too much, drank too much and considered riding around a golf course in a cart exercise. It was no great shock that his heart gave out on him. His doctor had been warning him for years about his blood pressure and cholesterol, but he wouldn’t listen. He thought he would live forever.” Her sharp gaze fixed on Reece. “How long are you planning to stay?”

“I don’t know. A few days.” No longer than she had to. “If that’s all right with you,” she added belatedly.

“Of course it’s all right. Fair Winds has always been known for its hospitality. I already told your cousin Mark that you’re here, so he’ll be by to say hello.”

Reece swallowed hard. “He lives around here?” That was one thing she hadn’t considered. Much as she wanted answers, she wasn’t sure she wanted to face her childhood enemy to get them.

“In town. He moved here after college. He and Macy—she’s from a good Charleston family—they have one daughter and another on the way. He runs the family business and checks in on me every day.”

Reece smiled weakly. “Wonderful.”

Grandfather’s dead. I’m not thirteen. I can handle this.

If she repeated it often enough, maybe she would start to believe it.

Jones stopped at the grocery store to get the five major food groups—milk, cereal, bread, eggs and chips—before going to the motel to pick up his clothes and Mick. When he let himself into the room, the dog was stretched out on the bed, the pillow under his head, the blanket snuggled around him. He lifted his head, stretched, then rolled onto his back for a scratch, and Jones obliged him, grumbling all the time.

“You are the laziest animal I’ve ever seen. You eat and sleep all day, then snore all night. You’ve got it made.”

Mick just looked at him, supreme satisfaction in his big brown eyes.

“We’ll be bunking in a new place for a while. There will be room for you to run as long as you stay out of Miss Willa’s way. She doesn’t strike me as a dog-friendly person.” Jones considered it a moment. “She’s not a particularly people-friendly person, either. But we’ve dealt with worse.”

And there was the consolation prize of her granddaughter, whose own eyes were as brown as Mick’s but way less happy and a damn sight less trusting. He didn’t think it was just him, either. She didn’t seem the type to warm up to anyone quickly, if at all.

That was okay. Pretty as she was, all Jones wanted from her was information. She was still a Howard, still a part of Glen’s disappearance, and he was still the kid who’d been taught wariness and distrust of country people—anyone outside of his people, regardless of where they lived—from birth.

But she was awfully pretty, and she did have that vulnerable-damsel thing going on that neither he nor Glen had ever been able to resist.

But he would resist now.

After loading his bags and Mick into the truck, Jones slid behind the wheel and left the motel, turning west on Carolina Avenue. Catching a red light at the first intersection, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel until, beside him, Mick whined. Jones glanced at the dog, an admonishment on his tongue, then forgot it as his gaze settled on a man in the parking lot twenty-five feet away.

He was about Jones’s age, an inch or two taller, maybe thirty pounds heavier, and he wore a light gray suit so obviously well made that even Mick would recognize its quality. He was talking to a young woman, a briefcase in one hand, keys in the other, and he stood next to a Jaguar. He was fifteen years older, a whole lot softer and a hell of a lot better dressed, but Jones would have recognized him anywhere.

A horn sounded, and Jones’s gaze flicked to the traffic light, now green, then back at Mark Howard. The sound drew his attention, and he looked at Jones, their gazes connecting for an instant before Howard dismissed him and turned back to his conversation.

Hands tight on the wheel, Jones eased the gas pedal down, resisting the urge to turn the corner, pull into the lot, grab Howard by the lapels of his custom-tailored suit and demand the truth about Glen. There would be a time and a place to talk to the man, but this was neither.

By the time he’d turned north on River Road, a bit of the tension had seeped out. He liked Copper Lake. It was the quintessential small Southern town, war memorials in the square and the parks, beautifully restored antebellum homes. The people were friendly and happy to answer questions. No one had treated him with suspicion … though so far he hadn’t asked any questions that sounded suspicious. He hadn’t brought up the subject of Glen’s disappearance or the discovery of his belongings or his gut instinct that the Howard family was responsible. If he started asking that sort of question, they were likely to close ranks and protect their own.

Mick sat straighter in the seat when Jones turned off the highway onto Howard property. Shutting off the AC, Jones rolled the windows down, and the mutt immediately stuck his head out to sniff the air. When they drove through the gate, though, Mick drew it back in, let out a long, low whine and moved to the floorboard to curl up.

“Baby,” Jones accused, but Mick just laid his head on his paws. The dog knew the place was unsettled. Reece knew it. How the hell could Miss Willa not know, or if she did, how could she continue to live there?

The road continued past the cottage, leading to the other buildings. Jones drove past the small house, then pulled onto ground covered with a heavy layer of pine needles. The spot would block the view of his truck from any casual visitors to the house—maybe not a bad thing once Miss Willa’s grandson and others found out she was planning to spend a ton of money on their grand project.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get settled.” Jones climbed out and stood back, but Mick didn’t stir. “Mick. Out.”

The dog gave a great sigh, but didn’t move.

“C’mon, Mick, out of the truck now.” He stared at the dog, and the dog stared back.

He’d never had a battle of wills with an animal that he hadn’t won, and today wasn’t going to be the first. He snapped his fingers, an unspoken command that Mick always responded to, but the mutt just whined once and hunkered in lower.

“I guess we know who’s the boss in this family.”

Jones started. He’d been so intent on the dog that he hadn’t even heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel, and apparently neither had Mick. He reacted now, though, stepping onto the seat, sniffing the air that brought a faint hint of perfume and smiling, damn it, as he jumped from the truck and landed at Reece’s feet.

She offered her hand for Mick to sniff, then crouched in front of him, scratching between his ears. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you? And a pretty one. I don’t blame you for wanting to stay in the truck. I don’t much like this place, either. But we do what we gotta do, don’t we, sweetie?”

Jones watched her slender fingers work around Mick’s ears, rubbing just the way the dog liked. Hell, Jones liked a pretty woman rubbing him the same way, and Reece certainly was pretty crouched there, her khaki shorts hugging her butt, her white shirt shifting as her muscles did. For the first time since she’d climbed out of her car a few hours ago, she looked almost relaxed, and he doubted he’d ever seen her look that trusting.

Did she ever offer that much trust to a human being? To a man?

“He’s usually not that stubborn,” Jones remarked, leaning against the truck while Mick offered a toothy smile. It was almost as if the mutt was gloating: I’ve got her attention and you don’t.

“Animals are sensitive.”

“You have dogs?”

“Three. All throwaways. Like me.” The last two words must have slipped out, because her gaze darted to him, guarded and a bit anxious, and a flush colored her cheeks. He knew from Glen that she’d had abandonment issues that summer. Her father hadn’t chosen to die in that accident, but the end result was the same: he was gone. And her mother had preferred Europe with her friends over taking care of her daughter.

Jones could sort of relate, except from the other side of the matter: he was the one who’d done the abandoning. Had it cost Reece’s mother as much as it had him? Did she share even a fraction of his regret?

“Mick was dumped near a job site. When he got tired of waiting for his owners to come back, he decided to live with me.”

“Lucky you. After I fed the first stray outside the store where I work, he brought two more with him the next day. They’ve been living with me ever since.”

“Too bad you couldn’t bring them with you.” Traveling with dogs could be a hassle, but their company was worth it.

“Dogs in Grandmother’s house? And not even purebreds?” She scoffed as she stood.

Reaching into the bed of the truck, he took out his suitcase and laptop, then started for the porch. To his surprise, the rustle of plastic told him she’d taken out the grocery sacks and was following.

Mick jumped onto the low porch while Jones and Reece went to the steps in the center. He propped open the screen door, unlocked the door, then stood back so she and the dog could enter first.

The door opened directly into the living room, with the kitchen a few feet to the right. To maximize space, there was no hallway, just a door off the living room that went into a bedroom. He guessed the bathroom could only be reached from that room.

“I always wanted to see this place.” Reece set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and automatically began unpacking them.

He laid his own bags against the wall. “You lived here and never came inside?”

The refrigerator, a recent model, closed with a thud after she put the milk and eggs inside. “Did I say I lived here?”

The undercurrent of wariness to her voice stirred its own undercurrents in Jones. He, who’d always been cautious of what he said to country people, never should have made such a stupid slip. “I just assumed you grew up around here.”

She considered the words a moment as she crumpled the plastic grocery bags together, then shrugged. “I stayed here for a few months when I was thirteen. My cousin Mark was here, too, that summer. This cottage was off-limits to us. Grandmother said it was for guests, not hooligans who ran wild.”

He forced a grin. “Hooligans? She actually called you hooligans?”

Her own smile was half-formed. “She did. Grandmother had—has—very exacting standards that we often failed to meet.”

Jones didn’t know about Mark, but apparently Reece was still something of a failure in Miss Willa’s opinion. The old woman certainly didn’t approve of Reece’s long absence or missing her grandfather’s funeral. That was the sort of thing that got a person disinherited by a prideful woman like Willadene Howard.

Was that why Reece had come now, because her grandfather was dead and her grandmother was nearing eighty? Did she want to get back in Miss Willa’s good graces before she passed and left everything to cousin Mark?

Or maybe she’d heard about Glen’s stuff being found. Maybe she wanted to make sure there was no suspicion, no effort to find out what happened to the boy who’d saved her life and, apparently, lost his own as a consequence.

Jones watched her wander through the living room, giving Mick on the sofa an affectionate pat as she passed, and hoped neither suspicion proved to be true. Maybe she had come to realize over the years that family was important. Maybe she regretted not making peace with old Arthur before his death and didn’t want similar regrets when Miss Willa was gone.

God knew Jones had regrets about his family. He liked his life. He loved his job. But if he could do it all over again, he couldn’t say he would make the same choices. There was a lot he hated about his family’s way of life, but … he’d missed so much. He hadn’t gotten to stand up at his brothers’ and sisters’ weddings. He had nieces and nephews he’d never met. Birthdays and holidays and anniversaries, celebrations and funerals, good times and bad …

Reece broke the silence. “The furniture looks like it’s been here since the cottage was built.”

“It probably has. There’s a fortune in Chinese antiques in this room alone.” He opened the drapes, letting in the afternoon light, before sitting on an unpadded imperial rector’s chair. “The Howard who originally settled here was a sea captain. There’s a maritime phrase, Fair winds and following seas. A wish for good weather. That’s where the name comes from.”

Head tilted to one side, she sat beside Mick, resting her hand on his back. “I didn’t know that. I told you, I didn’t learn the family history.”

“He acquired treasures from all over the world. I’m sure Miss Willa’s given you the rundown of some things in the house.”

“Some. I was always terrified, using lamps and dishes and furniture that were irreplaceable. Being afraid made me feel clumsy and insignificant.”

There it was again—that hurt. Vulnerability. She’d grown up. She’d gone from cute and awkward to beautiful, from a child to a capable woman, but it didn’t seem as if time had done a thing to change that part of her.

Seem. Which meant it wasn’t automatically true. She could be a world-class manipulator. After all, she still hadn’t acknowledged that they’d met before. She hadn’t asked the obvious question: How is your brother? After all, she’d spent a lot more time with Glen that summer than with Jones.

Leaning back in the chair, he rested his ankle on the other knee. “Those months you stayed here … this must have been a great place to run wild. All the woods, the creek, the river … you and Mark must have had some fun times.”

“Not particularly.”

“You didn’t get along?”

A jerky shrug. “He was a fourteen-year-old boy. I was his thirteen-year-old girl cousin. I think we were genetically predisposed to not get along.”

“So what did a thirteen-year-old girl do for fun out here alone?”

Her expression shifted, darkness seeping into her eyes, caution into her voice. “I read a lot. Spent as much time away from the house as I could.”

The reading part was true; she’d been lying in a patch of sunlight near the creek reading the first time he and Glen had seen her, and she’d always brought books along every other time.

“Didn’t you have someone to play with? A neighbor’s kids?”

The caution intensified before she answered on a soft exhalation. “No.”

Realizing he was holding his own breath, Jones forced it out and did his best to ignore the disappointment inside him. Okay. So she was a liar. It wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t even a real disappointment. She was a Howard, and Howards were part of that segment of rich, powerful people who felt money raised them above everyone else. They weren’t bound by the rules that applied to everyone else. They were, as Miss Willa made clear at every turn, better.

Truthfully, though … he was disappointed.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.