“I’m not sure how long this will take,” Felix said. “Do you need the research completed by any special date?”
“No. Take your time.”
Thanking Julian, Felix left, and Julian watched from the window as his guest departed. Since his retirement, the historian had adopted all the trappings of a rural lifestyle. He had the requisite ski jacket, the tough boots, the worn wool sweater, the catalog trousers and chamois shirt. But somehow Julian was surprised to see the urbane intellectual bouncing down his frozen driveway in a mud-splattered Jeep.
When the sound faded into the distance and then altogether, Julian was struck by the silence of his house. He could hear the dogs breathing and the crackle of the fire, and he closed his eyes a moment, enjoying the peace. It was one of the aspects he most loved about his isolated existence. And, at times, most hated.
Finally he returned the goblets to the iron case in which he’d found them buried in the old dirt cellar of the Danvers House. He’d had the goblets polished and the case cleaned and lined with fresh black velvet. They were in remarkable condition. He enjoyed brushing his fingertips across the silver, smooth and cool to the touch. But he wasn’t a man to let any material possession change his life.
And yet...
He shut the case hard, and the dogs stirred behind him. They seemed to sense his uneasiness. There was something about the goblets he didn’t understand. He hoped Felix Reichman’s history would explain why a strange feeling overcame him whenever he handled the damned things. He sensed, oddly and uncontrollably, that they had the capacity to change his life. Last night, there had seemed such an air of inevitability about it that he’d almost marched down to the house and re-buried them. But that was too extreme, and he wasn’t a coward. He was a thorough man, however. He had to know what the goblets meant.
He would wait for Felix’s report.
Meanwhile, he would entertain himself with finding out what had brought Holly Paynter to Mill Brook. The goblets, perhaps? It was farfetched, but not beyond the realm of possibility. He settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, imagining her stealing to his house in the dead of night to steal the Revere goblets.
Come ahead, sweetheart, he thought. Come ahead.
Chapter Three
“The bastard might as well live on the moon.” Holly grumbled, tucking her recently purchased map of Mill Brook back into the glove compartment of her van. She sat back with a sigh. So far her third day in Mill Brook wasn’t going any better then her first and second, but she did feel better that at least she’d discovered where Julian Stiles lived, for future reference. All she’d had to do was explain to the man at the gas station where she’d bought her town map that she’d stumbled on a stray golden retriever pup with tags declaring Julian Stiles as the owner, and he’d graciously pointed out Julian’s house.
“Lives out in the woods a piece,” the man had said. His greasy nametag identified him as Bert. “Driveway’s two, two-and-a-half miles long. Not many folks like to drive it this time of year, but Julian doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Is he a hermit or what?” Holly had asked.
“Just keeps to himself is all.”
That was the only good news she’d had since crossing the Mill Brook town line the day before yesterday. If Julian kept to himself, he wouldn’t necessarily find out she’d been buying maps and having his place red-marked for her. Not that she especially cared if he found out. She was hell to intimidate, and rattling Julian
Danvers Stiles could suit her purposes. Maybe he’d make a mistake or just give her the goblets to get her out of town.
“Didn’t know he had a puppy,” the man at the gas station had said, perplexed. “He’s already got two dogs. What’s he want with another?”
“Beats me. Are the other two goldens?”
“German shepherd.”
Given her healthy dose of Wingate bad luck, it figured.
She supposed she could march down to a lawyer’s office, explain she was Zachariah Wingate’s great-granddaughter and wanted her family’s goblets back. The powers-that-were at the Mill Brook Preparatory Academy back in 1889—namely Jonathan Stiles and Edward Danvers—had rejected them, hadn’t they? They’d never proven Zachariah had stolen them, had they? All Holly had to do was let her and Julian’s lawyers fight it out in court.
But where was the challenge in that? She’d rather stand up for what was right and restore the goblets to the Wingates, then slip back to Florida and finish her wanderings there before going home to Houston for a few weeks. She wasn’t one to stay anywhere for long.
Unlike Julian Stiles. Obviously he was a stick-in-the-mud of the first order. What did he do out there in the middle of nowhere when it snowed?
Pushing Julian from her mind, she followed the Mill Brook up into the hills beyond Old Mill Brook Common. She had spent most of the morning poking around town, stopping at the library to surreptitiously look up the Wingates. She’d learned the old Wingate sawmill was located farther up the river, and although she had no idea if it remained standing, she was determined at least to see the site where her ancestors had made their hard-scrabble living.
There was no need to rush to get the goblets back. It was an inconvenience that Julian had caught her sneaking around in the Danvers House and out among the Wingate stones in the Old Mill Brook Burying Ground—and had her license number and was related to the owner of the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying. But she’d have to work around all that. She wasn’t leaving town without the goblets. Julian might have an idea of who to come looking for when they turned up missing, but she couldn’t worry about that now. From here on out, she’d be careful and just bide her time.
With residential Mill Brook well behind her, in a few minutes she came to a low-slung building of dark, rough-cut lumber with a steeply pitched slate roof and a stone foundation. It was nestled into a hillside along a rapidly flowing section of the river. A small gravel parking lot was carved into the hill, below an old dam and its small mill pond. Move the Land Rover, Ford truck and beat-up old Chevy out of the way, Holly thought, and the place was worthy of the front of a picture postcard.
Holly started to turn into the parking lot.
Then she spotted the small hand-hewn sign posted out front: Mill Brook Post and Beam.
“How quaint,” she muttered, wondering if she should turn back. “Oh, what the hell.”
But it did stand to reason a Danvers-Stiles would have profited from a Wingate’s misfortunes, didn’t it?
She pulled in next to the Land Rover. The air was colder up in the hills, close to the water, but Holly didn’t mind. Maybe a good gust of cold air would restore her equilibrium. The Wingate sawmill being in the hands of the descendants of Jonathan Stiles and Edward Danvers didn’t sit too well with her. What next? She felt frayed on the edges, ready to short-circuit.
The stone steps leading to the upper main floor of the old sawmill were slippery, but there was a rail and Holly managed. She followed the flagstone walk to the front door, which was made of the same solid rough-cut lumber as the exterior. A small plaque told her to please come in. She did.
The main floor of Mill Brook Post and Beam was offices, a large, open room divided into a half-dozen work spaces. The walls and floors were of old, rough, dark board, but paned windows offered stunning views of the river and mill pond, as well as much needed sunlight.
Standing in the space that served as an entry, their mittens dripping onto a thick straw mat, were a girl of about eleven and a boy a few years younger. They looked contrite as a man, green-eyed and powerfully built, older than Julian, quietly dressed them down.
“You’re not to go near the saws unless I’m with you,” he told them. “You both know that.”
They nodded. Obviously they did know.
“There are no second chances with saws.”
This time they didn’t nod, although Holly guessed they knew that as well. The man—Julian’s brother Adam?—was missing his left hand.
“Sorry doesn’t get it, Abby. I believe in actions, not words.”
“Fred was with us—”
“Fred isn’t your dad, is he?” His eyes narrowed, and his voice lowered even more. “Stay away from the saws.”
Holly could see the children swallow. She was swallowing herself. Like Julian, this Stiles wasn’t one to cross. Then all at once the outraged father’s face relaxed, and he gave something that passed for a smile as he patted his children’s cheeks. “Go warm up by the wood stove. Then get busy. The steps outside and the parking lot need sanding.”
They grinned brightly, and the boy said, “Will you pay us?”
“No, I’m not going to pay you! I’ll spare you a hide-tanning is what I’ll do.”
Something about his tone and look of unconditional love toward his children made Holly doubt he’d ever laid a hand on either one of them. He came forward to greet her. About Julian’s height, he wore heavy corduroys, a functional plaid wool shirt and scarred boots. “Hi, I’m Adam Stiles.” he said. “What can I do for you?”
She didn’t want to be too obvious about looking around for Julian, so she simply answered him in a straightforward manner. “My name’s Holly Paynter.
I’m staying here in town and just thought I’d come have a look at the mill.”
“Great. I’ll get someone to show you around.”
“Allow me.” Julian said, coming forward. He was dressed like a mountain man again today, yesterday’s preppy tie and blazer a sudden incongruity. If she presented certain contradictions, so did he.
Holly dealt with, Adam retreated to his work area before she could voice a decent protest. For once, she was at a loss for words. She realized she should have turned around and headed back to town the moment she’d discovered the old Wingate sawmill was in enemy hands.
“Hello, there,” Julian said cheerfully.
“Hi. I was just poking around town and couldn’t resist stopping by.”
“You weren’t lured here by lost puppies?”
She smiled. “Nope.”
“Come on. As long as you’re here, I’ll give you the nickel tour. Know anything about Mill Brook Post and Beam?”
“Not really.”
“We sell high-quality kits for houses and other buildings. We cut most of the wood right here ourselves, using native trees. Post and beam structures go up fast. They’re versatile, economical, attractive. Anyway, we’re doing all right.”
“That’s nice,” Holly said, hoping she’d kept the acid out of her tone. Didn’t his people always fare well? “It’s a family business?”
“Right. My mother’s family has owned the mill since the turn of the century, but it’s only been in the last ten years or so that we’ve really made it pay—once we got into the post-and-beam-kit business. Adam pretty much runs the sawmill side of things and works directly with clients, helping them choose the best building designs for their needs and sites. Beth does some of that as well, but her main responsibilities are advertisement and promotion, mailing lists, keeping people paid and coming to work. We’ve got the business worked out so any one of us can handle the other’s job. Adam, Beth and I all know how to run every piece of equipment in the place. We’re all needed, but none of us is essential to keep the place running.”
“Then you get along pretty well?”
“Sure. We have our squabbles, but we try to make most decisions on a consensus basis.”
“What about your parents?”
“They’re retired. At the moment they’re vacationing in Florida.”
“Smart people,” Holly muttered.
He led her down a narrow set of stairs, explaining that they were in the original early nineteenth-century structure, with its waterwheel and old up-and-down saw, still in use. It was one of the few water-powered sawmills left in New England. There was also a newer mill, using modern equipment, out back.
“Sorry about that little scene you wandered into,” Julian said. “Abby and David tend to be somewhat overconfident of their ability to fend for themselves around here.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
She meant it: the saws were frighteningly huge. Holly could understand why Adam Stiles didn’t want his children running around down here unescorted.
“The way Adam works, this is their home away from home.”
“Does their mother work here as well?”
Julian’s face tightened, and instantly Holly realized she’d brought up a difficult subject. She tried to back out gracefully, but Julian shook off her halfhearted attempt. She was, she had to admit, madly curious.
“Adam’s wife was killed in a car accident four years ago,” Julian explained. “Three months later he lost his left hand in a saw accident. It was a rough period—for all of us.”
Holly wondered what that meant, but decided it wasn’t her place to press for specifics. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t tell Adam that—he hates sympathy. He rides herd on all of us, but that’s just his way. We all know he’s not half as indispensable as he thinks he is. And he’s got the kids. They have a way of keeping him from turning into a total curmudgeon.”
And what stops you? She wondered why he lived out in the woods all alone, how he could stand the isolation. She liked being on the road, poking around here and there, snooping for story ideas. Being in one place for too long drove her nuts.
With the smell of sawdust all around them, Julian showed her around and explained about logs and saws and the central concept behind post and beam, how all load-bearing walls were on the exterior, making for an infinitely malleable interior. Holly didn’t have to feign interest. She’d always been an informational sponge.
Back upstairs, he loaded her up with brochures and booklets illustrating various basic house plans.
“Daydream material.” she said, thanking him.
“You don’t have a house, then?”
She could see the reluctant interest in his eyes; he wanted to know more about her. “Just an apartment in Houston, but I live out of my van a lot.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Tell stories,” she said, with a grin.
He gave her a skeptical, “Right,” and warned her to watch for icy patches on her way out.
Holly could take a hint as well as anyone, when it suited her. ‘Thanks for your time—and I’ll be careful.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to scrape you off the steps.”
There was a sudden husky, sensual quality to his voice that made the blood rush to her cheeks. She’d hate to have him scrape her off the steps as well. And injury had damned little to do with her uneasiness. She made her way outside and held tight to the handrail, imagining Julian Stiles sweeping her up into his arms after she’d fallen, pressing her against his warm, solid chest.
“Lordy,” she muttered to herself.
The image, however, didn’t disappear of its own volition. She had to force it back to her subconscious. She was far, far too drawn to Julian Stiles. To his rare smiles, to his tenacity, to his strong legs and shoulders. To the questions and contradictions he presented. She wanted to know him better. In spite of his being a Danvers-Stiles, or because of it?
Letting the question linger, unanswered, she climbed back into her van. When, she wondered, was he going to put her illicit presence in the Danvers House, her poking around the Old Mill Brook Burying Ground and her interest in the sawmill together and come up with the Paul Revere goblets?
Knowing Julian Danvers Stiles as she was beginning to know him, she’d bet it’d be sooner rather than later.
“And then what?” she asked herself aloud.
She’d just have to punt.
“Was that who I think it was?” Beth Stiles asked, coming in from the storage room.
Julian frowned at his sister. One could never be entirely sure what she was getting at. She was a solidly built woman with the Danvers tawny hair and the Stiles gree
n eyes, the exact shade of his own. She had married right out of college, divorced three miserable years later, then wandered around for a few years before coming home, finally, to Mill Brook. She prided herself on being able to do anything her two older brothers could do. Julian, for one, had learned not to doubt her. His equal in the corporation, Beth was vital to the success of Mill Brook Post and Beam.
“You mean the redhead who just left?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah. Holly Paynter, right?”
Julian nodded. “I take it you’ve been down to Aunt Doe’s.”
“No, but she told me about her. It’s pretty exciting she’s picked Mill Brook to investigate. I don’t think she’s ever done anything set in New England.”
“Beth, what are you talking about?”
“Holly Paynter,” she said, as if that should clear up everything. She sighed. “You’ve never heard of her?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Knowing you, probably not. She’s a storyteller.”
Julian couldn’t argue with that.
“She’s performed all over the world.” Beth went on eagerly. “She’s done live performances, radio, television. I read somewhere she once did a birthday party for a European princess. I always thought storytellers would be a little too brown rice and granola for me, but I heard her on the radio once, and she’s real straightforward and down-to-earth—and absolutely captivating. She got me caught up in her story. She made it seem so natural, effortless.”
She was good, he thought. If he hadn’t seen the one set of tracks across the academy football field, Julian might have swallowed her puppy story himself. How clever of her to find a way to make a living putting that glib tongue of hers to work.
“Why do you think she’s so interested in Mill Brook?” he asked.
“Who knows? I just think it’s neat that she is.”
His sister’s enthusiasm for Holly Paynter was getting on Julian’s nerves. If she was so damned reputable, how come she hadn’t come clean to him by now? Why the lost puppies? Why’d she been snooping around in the Danvers House? He could have had her arrested. She’d risked her reputation with her crowbar and lies.
Finders Keepers Page 4