by Unknown
“In a hurry, Sam?” he asked.
“Not really, no, but I am getting a later start than I wanted.” She glanced into the mudroom but saw no sign of Olivia or Dylan, or even Buster. She tightened her hold on the strap of her backpack. “It got quiet all of a sudden.”
As far as she could see, Justin didn’t move a muscle. “Dylan and Olivia went up the road to meet with their architect.”
“Mark Flanagan. The almost-brother-in-law.”
His eyes leveled on her. “You’re getting to know the players.”
She felt a rush of awareness that she couldn’t explain. Had to be the aftereffects of yesterday. She tried to keep any hint of her physical reaction to him from showing in her voice or manner. “Olivia and I chatted over breakfast. It’s a beautiful morning. I’m looking forward to a good walk.”
“Are you planning to finish following Cider Brook into Quabbin?”
“I’d like to try. I thought I’d start where I left off at the cider mill. I can collect my stuff at the same time.”
“No point. It’s ruined. I’ll toss it when I clean up.”
“I don’t mind—”
“The mill’s taped off until I go through it and decide it’s safe.”
The man did have a cut-to-the-chase way about him. Samantha debated what to say next. Normally she was one to plunge in and think and talk at the same time, but Justin’s directness combined with her missing journal had her rattled.
“I still want to go back there,” she said, firm but not argumentative.
He stood straight, lowering his arms to his side. “Why?”
“I had nightmares last night.” True, as far as it went. “It would help to see the mill on such a nice, sunny morning. I don’t have to go inside.” Assuming she found her missing journal out by the brook. If not, she would have to go inside the mill. She wanted that journal back—she needed to know what had happened to it, even if it meant asking Justin for his help. But she wasn’t there yet. “I won’t stay long.”
“I have some stops I need to make. I’ll give you a ride over there.”
Not what she had in mind. “Really, I don’t mind walking—”
“That’s good.” He pointed at her backpack. “Want me to carry that for you?”
“I’ll manage. I hiked with more yesterday.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Are you always this abrupt?”
His sexy look caught her off guard. “Not always.”
He went out the front door, obviously expecting her to follow him. Samantha could feel his padlock in her jacket pocket, but she’d slipped the documents pouch and her grandfather’s flask into her backpack. She’d meant to return the lock, but Justin’s manner had her second-guessing herself. Now she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Keep acting as if she didn’t have it, maybe.
She supposed she should appreciate his offer of a ride, but it felt off, too. It wasn’t just a grudging offer, and it wasn’t impromptu—because he was heading out on errands, anyway. He had waited for her in the kitchen. Keeping an eye on her? Suspicious of her?
If she didn’t accept his offer of a ride out to the mill and kept arguing and finding excuses, she would look as if she had something to hide.
Which, of course, she did.
She would also come across as ungrateful and rude, although she wasn’t sure Justin would even notice.
There was also nothing to stop him from driving out to the cider mill and waiting for her while she walked away.
Hoisting her backpack onto one shoulder, she headed outside. Justin had left the passenger door to his truck open and was behind the wheel. Presumptuous, but Samantha realized she had little choice at this point and continued out the stone walk. A few red leaves had fallen from a nearby tree and lay scattered on the lush grass. Chickadees swooped from pine branches. She wished she could relax and enjoy the gorgeous day, but meeting Dylan and now the prospect of driving to the cider mill with Justin had her feeling unusually self-conscious. She didn’t like skirting the truth and wasn’t one to waffle, but she needed to find her journal and regroup.
She had good reasons for being in Knights Bridge.
She slid her backpack onto the floor in front of the passenger seat and climbed in, grimacing when the first thing she noticed was Justin’s right thigh. Not good. “This is a beautiful place,” she said, pulling her door shut. “It was a good idea for me to stay here last night. Thanks for your help with that.”
He started the engine. “Sure thing.”
“Olivia couldn’t have been nicer. She wouldn’t take any payment from me.”
“That’s Olivia for you.” He pulled out onto the narrow road.
“You two grew up together?”
“More or less. I’m a few years older.”
“You’ve always lived in Knights Bridge?”
“Yep.”
The stiff movements, the abrupt manner. He definitely didn’t trust her. Samantha decided she would be smart to keep her mouth shut and head out on her own again as soon as possible. She had a lot on her mind, and one wrong word—one slipup—and Justin would be all over her. It wasn’t just his mood, she realized now. He was like that. Alert, observant and not one to suffer fools gladly.
Or liars.
Except she hadn’t lied. Not to him, anyway. Not really.
And not really to Duncan, either, even if he hadn’t seen it that way.
A Sloan & Sons van and several trucks were in the driveway at the McCaffrey construction site up the road. A trio of men stood at one of the trucks with to-go cups—coffee, undoubtedly—and were going over what appeared to be a set of blueprints spread out on the hood.
“Would you be with those guys now if you weren’t carting me around?” Samantha asked.
“Probably.”
“You’d have waited to do your errands. You’re just doing them now because of me.” She decided to match his bluntness. “Were you elected to keep an eye on me?”
He glanced at her. “Self-appointed.”
His response took her by surprise. He was as much as admitting he was suspicious of her. “So, you didn’t offer to drive me to the mill just to be nice. Okay, I get it, but there’s no need for me to inconvenience you. I can walk from here. I like to walk.”
“I mind you walking.” He didn’t ease off the gas pedal. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll end up tripping and falling into the millpond.”
“So what if I do? It’s not deep.”
“I was trying to be funny. You’re not laughing?” He drove with one hand loosely on the wheel. “If we’re going to spend the next couple of hours together, we might as well laugh, right?”
Samantha shook her head. “We’re not spending the next couple of hours together. We’re spending the next ten minutes together.” Her heart was pounding now. “You’re dropping me off at the cider mill and then going about your business.”
He slowed for a curve on the narrow road. “I’m not leaving you alone out there.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. It’s not safe.”
That wasn’t the reason. She knew it wasn’t. “The mill already caught fire. That’s not going to happen again, and you said yourself the damage is minimal.” She sat back in her seat but didn’t relax. “The odds are with me. I’ll be fine.”
“Is that how you live your life? Calculating the odds?”
“Actually, I don’t often take the time to calculate the odds at all. I usually just plunge in headfirst and hope for the best.”
“Is that what you did yesterday?”
“I planned my hike, maybe not down to every possible scenario, but I had everything I needed—”
“Including Scotch.”
“Exactly.” She kept her tone light despite her self-consciousness. He had her rattled. She suspected he knew it, too. “I admit the thunderstorm caught me by surprise, but I managed. I took quick, decisive action.”
“Quick, decisive action, huh?
Was that before or after you broke into the mill?”
She ignored his sardonic tone. “Both. Not that I broke in. Technically.”
“Right.” He didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. “Breaking into the mill kept you from getting struck by lightning. What was your ‘quick, decisive action’ once you were inside?”
“Dropping low and making for the door when I smelled smoke. If I’d stayed by the wall where the fire came up from the cellar, we could both be dead now.”
Justin glanced at her, his deep blue gaze going right through her. “You want me to thank you for saving my life?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t, either. I’m not reckless. I knew what I was doing when I rescued you.”
“That word again. Rescue.”
“Tough for you to admit when you’re in a mess, isn’t it, Sam?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Did you know the mill was there?”
“How would I have?”
“Lots of ways, I imagine, and that doesn’t answer the question.”
She knew it didn’t, but she had no intention of getting into what she did or didn’t know about his cider mill. “I wasn’t surprised to run into an old mill on a winding New England brook.”
“Uh-huh.”
Justin turned onto the dirt road out to the mill. He had a sure manner and not a hint of self-doubt—a plus in the fire but disconcerting now. Samantha sighed. “You can be uncompromising, can’t you? Hard on other people—hard on yourself.”
“Calling me a bastard, Sam?”
She smiled. “I don’t know you well enough to call you a bastard.”
“Ha.”
“Maybe having five siblings taught you not to beat around the bush.”
He slowed as the truck bounced over a series of deep ruts. “You’re just not used to having someone see through you. You’ve parsed nearly every word you’ve said about yesterday. You don’t want to tell me what you’re up to out here, but you don’t want to outright lie, either.” He glanced sideways at her, his expression unreadable. “Am I right?”
Samantha pretended he had no effect on her. “You’re the second eldest, right? So that’s three younger brothers and one younger sister. They must have gotten into your stuff a lot. You had to figure out who did what. Protect your space.”
“We’re not talking about my siblings.”
“Ah. So it’s not a two-way street. You get to analyze me, but I don’t get to analyze you.” She kept any note of irritation out of her tone. “Got it.”
“I’m not analyzing you. I’m telling you what’s what.”
“You and Dylan seem to get along. He strikes me as intuitive about people but not as blunt as you are.”
Justin’s hands tightened visibly on the steering wheel, but he said nothing.
Duncan, Samantha remembered, had been smart, imaginative, daring and scrupulous. After he’d fired her, she’d buried herself digging out her grandfather’s London office, still feeling terrible about how her first and only non-Bennett job had ended. She would sort through a box or a drawer and plot how to fix things with Duncan. Then had come word of his sudden death.
She became aware that Justin was eyeing her as he came to a stop at the cider mill. She could feel the heat in her cheeks and realized she must have turned red, thinking about the past—about those awful weeks two years ago. She unfastened her seat belt, anxious to get out of the truck and away from her driver’s scrutiny.
He turned off the engine. “You haven’t said if I’m right about you.”
“Of course I haven’t told you everything about me. We don’t know each other.” She pushed open the door and looked over at him. “I didn’t think I’d see you again once you left yesterday.”
He winked at her. “Maybe that explains your nightmares.”
“I had nightmares about the fire. I didn’t have nightmares about never seeing you again. You know, you’ve accused me of breaking into your mill and basically of lying to you. Why would I want to see you again?” She held up a hand. “Don’t answer.”
“Don’t need to, anyway. You already know the answer.”
Cocky as well as taciturn. She changed the subject. “What would you have done if I’d insisted on walking out here?”
“Made my stops and met you here.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yeah, Sam.” He smiled, real amusement in his deep blue eyes. “Lucky you.”
Nine
The brook had returned to its normal level after yesterday’s rain, but Samantha could still smell the fire in the cool morning air. She stood on the bank, arms crossed on her chest as she watched a red-orange leaf float in the small millpond, dragged inexorably to the dam by the strong current. Finally the leaf plummeted over the spillway, then spun downstream. It would likely get hung up on a rock, a fern, driftwood or a patch of mud or moss long before it got near Quabbin—and it wouldn’t care, because it was a leaf and it had no plans, no goals, no one to disappoint or cheer it on. Footloose and fancy-free or pathetic?
Samantha lowered her arms to her sides and glanced at the boulder where she’d sat yesterday, recovering from her relatively minor bout of smoke inhalation and waiting for the firefighters.
No journal.
She would have easily spotted its bright red cover among the tall grass, ferns and rocks. If it had slipped into the brook, the water was clear and shallow enough that she would have seen it.
That meant she hadn’t dropped it out here, or someone else had found it.
Justin? Had he come back here last night or early this morning? Wouldn’t he have said something if he had found it?
Not necessarily, she thought. In his place, she might not have, either. Wait, say nothing, let the outsider with his padlock in her pocket show her hand.
Samantha didn’t want to show her hand.
She needed to get into the mill and look for her journal there.
Justin had asked her to wait outside while he checked out the mill. He was inside now. He didn’t appear to be in any hurry to get on with his workday. If not for his obvious suspicion, she might not have minded his direct manner. She was used to straightforward people.
She stepped over the drooping yellow caution tape. If the fire was out, how unsafe could the place be? She mounted the stone step and peered inside, almost choking on the strong, acrid smell of charred wood and wet ashes. Her heartbeat quickened, and her breathing was rapid and shallow, as if she were just now smelling smoke for the first time and realizing the place was on fire.
A minor flashback, she told herself. She would be all right in a second. She placed a hand on the doorjamb and blinked deliberately a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light, giving herself a chance to accept being back here. She could see Justin, standing between her and the spot where she’d dumped her things yesterday. She remembered how happy she’d been to be out of the worst of the storm, unaware the mill had been struck by lightning and a fire was brewing under her.
She could see her destroyed tent and sleeping bag and the remains of her wool throw. She felt her mouth go dry, her hands tremble as her gaze leveled on the spot where Justin had found her yesterday. She hadn’t gone as far as she’d thought before the smoke had overcome her.
Without warning, her stomach lurched. For an awful moment, she thought she would vomit.
Justin was there, his hand on her arm, steadying her. “Easy, Sam.” His voice was soothing, firm, deep—as if he knew just what she needed to hear to get her bearings. “You’re having a flashback.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. “I’m okay. I just...” She shut her eyes, letting the nausea pass, his hand still on her. When she opened her eyes again, she attempted a smile. “I’m not going to faint or be sick.”
“Good to know.” His tone was casual, reassuring, sincere. “A bit of a panic attack isn’t uncommon after a scare like yesterday. One can grab you from behind when you least expect it.”
> “Has one grabbed you?”
“Yesterday wasn’t a scare for me.”
“More of an annoyance,” she said.
“At first, maybe.” He let go of her arm but stayed close. “Sure you’re okay? You looked like Casper thirty seconds ago.”
She nodded. She hated feeling vulnerable, but she noticed the change in his tone. The abruptness, the sarcasm—the suspicion—were gone, if only for the moment. “How long have you been a volunteer firefighter?”
“Since I graduated high school. There are about forty of us. It was a natural thing for me to do.” He spoke pragmatically, without any detectable bravado. “I can jump off the job easily enough to respond to a call.”
She raised her gaze and met his eyes. But the flashback wasn’t over yet. Again she remembered the feeling of his arms coming around her, remembered clutching his canvas shirt—remembered the hard muscles underneath.
Those strikingly blue suspicious eyes of his narrowed. “Sam?”
“Sorry. Mind wandering.” She cleared her throat and stepped over the threshold into the mill. “It doesn’t look unsafe in here.”
“There’s damage, but the roof and walls won’t cave in on you, and you won’t crash into the cellar.”
“That’s good.”
The bright morning sun shining through the open door and filtering through the dirty plastic-covered windows helped the interior of the mill seem less claustrophobic—less threatening—than it had been not even twenty-four hours before.
“Imagine making cider here a hundred years ago,” Samantha said.
“This area was very different then.”
“I imagine so.” She took a few steps deeper inside. “When was this place built?”
“Mid-1870s. 1874, I think.” Justin remained by the door. “It operated as a cider mill until a few years after World War II. My grandmother says it was the best cider she’s ever had.”
“What a nice memory to have.”
He shrugged. “She’s got a bad case of nostalgia, but I’m sure it was good cider.”