Cider Brook

by Unknown

  Samantha jumped off the desk, and he handed her the small white card, tucked in a matching envelope. She opened it and read the neatly printed note. “‘Warmest regards, Ben Magowan.’” She smiled, placing the card back in the envelope. “I should have known, but I haven’t thought of Ben in forever.”

  “Who’s Ben Magowan?”

  “He was one of Grandpa’s closest friends. They met at Amherst College and stayed in touch until Ben’s death—it must be ten years ago now. He encouraged Grandpa’s work and helped fund his Antarctic expedition. I met him several times. He was from Boston.” Samantha pointed vaguely in the direction of Beacon Hill. “Louisburg Square.”

  “So he was well-off,” Justin said, not making it a question.

  “Well-off, and a man of many and varied interests.”

  “Scotch being one of them.” He traced the Celtic A on the Ardbeg box. “Want to see what else we can find?”

  “I’d like that,” Samantha said.

  They dug through the closet together, pulling out two more unopened bottles of expensive Scotch and several loose photographs that depicted Ben Magowan with her grandfather. Justin laid them side by side on the desk. In each shot, the slightly older, distinguished-looking Ben was always conservatively dressed, calm and smiling next to high-energy, often disheveled Harry Bennett.

  Only one photograph was labeled. Justin found it. “Hell, Sam,” he whispered, pointing at the inked cursive handwriting on the back of a photo of a young Ben and Harry grinning at the camera as they stood in front of a building at Amherst College.

  Harry Bennett and Benjamin Hazelton Magowan

  Samantha’s shock was so complete that she couldn’t speak. Justin stepped back from the desk where he’d set the photo. “I think we know what happened to Zeke and Henrietta’s son.”

  “I had no idea.” She touched her fingertips to the regal man standing with her grandfather on some mountaintop. “Ben was married. His wife’s gone now, too. They never had children. I didn’t spend much time with him, but I...” She looked up at Justin. “I don’t think he did the painting of the cider mill or wrote the pirate story, but what if he gave them to Grandpa? For him to figure out what they meant. Or something.”

  Justin brushed an errant curl off her face. “Your grandfather encouraged your interest in pirates. He put you on to Farraday. Maybe he wanted answers, too, for his own reasons, and never got around to telling you the whole story.”

  “I wonder if he forgot the painting and the story were up here, or if he never really looked at them.” Samantha realized she was shaking. “Justin...I didn’t see this coming.”

  “Zeke and Henrietta named their son Benjamin.” Justin frowned at the bottles of Scotch, the array of old photos and the general mess that was her grandfather’s office. “This is a start.”

  “The answers aren’t here. They’re in Knights Bridge.”

  “Then come back when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready now.”

  “You don’t think that’s your impulsive nature talking?”

  “I don’t care if it is. Justin, I need to know what happened to Henrietta Hazelton. I need to know—”

  “Everything,” he said, finishing for her.

  “Yes. Everything. If Ben Magowan gave my grandfather the painting and story, where did he get them? And why would he do that?”

  “Lots of questions,” Justin said.

  Before she could respond, he swept her into his arms and kissed her, not a restrained peck on the forehead, either—a lift-her-off-the-feet kiss that left her breathless, wanting more, when he set her back on the thick carpet.

  He winked as he started for the door. “See you, Sam.”

  She listened to his footsteps on the stairs, heard the front door shut. Could she wait for her family to return to Boston, then drive back to Knights Bridge after they boarded their flights?

  No.

  She ran up to the third floor to her bedroom. She stuffed things into the overnight bag her mother had given her at ten, anticipating, she’d said, that her one and only daughter would need a proper bag, given who she had for parents. Samantha paid little attention to what she grabbed—just enough to get through a day or two at Carriage Hill, in her tent, on Justin’s couch—it didn’t matter.

  Except it did matter. She wanted to be with Justin.

  It wasn’t a wheeled bag. She slung it over one shoulder and slipped back down to the second floor and into her grandfather’s office, debating only a few seconds before she tucked the cider mill painting under one arm. She would be careful, but she wanted it with her in Knights Bridge.

  She ran down the stairs and out the back door, barely remembering to lock it behind her. She took a shortcut through the alley and caught up with Justin before he reached Storrow Drive.

  She pulled open the door with her free hand. “Your truck’s easy to spot, and I know Boston streets,” she said. “There’s a difference between being impulsive and acting on what you know you want. I want to go back to Knights Bridge.”

  His deep blue eyes settled on her. “Get in before someone runs you over.”

  * * *

  Once they cleared the city, Samantha called her father. “I know why you and Uncle Caleb came to Knights Bridge and why you went to Amherst.”

  He sighed. “Because of you, Sam.”

  “Because of Benjamin Hazelton Magowan. I remember him smoking cigars and drinking Scotch with Grandpa, but I never made the connection.” Her heart was still racing with the realization. “I didn’t know Hazelton was his middle name.”

  “Caleb and I started wondering. We didn’t know the Hazelton part, either, or didn’t remember if we did know. Isaac told us. He’s fascinated with Pop’s history at Amherst College, and Ben’s name came up on the tour. I think there’s a building or something named after him on campus. We wanted to be sure before we said anything.”

  “There are still so many unanswered questions,” Samantha said.

  “You’ll find answers. That’s why Pop put you on this thing. You don’t give up. It’s who you are, Samantha. Tenacious as a terrier.” Her father added, “And we love you just as you are. All of us do.”

  “Even if I never find lost pirate treasure?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that....” He laughed. “Would it be corny to say you’re all the treasure your mother and I ever wanted?”

  “Very corny.”

  “Yeah, but it’s true. Where are you now?”

  “Driving back from Boston.”

  “Caleb still has the Mercedes. You rented a car?”

  She glanced over at Justin and smiled into the phone. “I’m with Justin Sloan.”

  “I guess that’s no surprise at this point.”

  She laughed. “Talk to you soon, Dad. Say hi to the gang for me.”

  When she disconnected, Justin downshifted, almost at the turnoff for Knights Bridge. “Your family doesn’t give you any peace, do they?”

  “Not a minute.”

  “Then the Bennetts aren’t that different from the Sloans after all.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Justin set Samantha up on the couch again. He was being stubborn, or just plain stupid. But he was fast learning that it was first things first with her. She lived an open-throttle life. What he saw wasn’t just courage and high energy, but also vulnerability. She trusted easily and needed people in her life who could help her see the rakes, scoundrels and jackasses coming.

  The way he’d felt when he’d kissed her in her grandfather’s crazy office...

  He was all of the above, he thought. Rake, scoundrel, jackass.

  If not for having to be back in Knights Bridge, he’d be in bed with her somewhere in that big Bennett house now—or on the office floor. The rug would have served nicely for the kind of lovemaking he’d had in mind.

  She didn’t seem that put out about the couch. Maybe she could see through him to what he was thinking, feeling, imagining.

  Hell if he couldn’t
be her pirate rogue.

  He grinned at her as she set her overnight bag on the floor by the couch, but a call came in that shut off any conversation. A fire. A big one at a factory just west of town. A five-alarm blaze requiring the response of every available unit in the area.

  “I have to run,” Justin said, then winked at Samantha. “Be good.”

  * * *

  An hour after Justin left, Samantha was up on her feet, pacing in the dark, quiet sawmill. Usually she wasn’t one to pace. She would just decide what she wanted to do and do it. But what she wanted now was to have Justin’s safe return—to have an idea of the danger he was in—and that, she knew, was out of her hands.

  Then Maggie and Olivia arrived, alone, without either Brandon or Dylan. “It’s a bad fire,” Maggie said, entering the small apartment. “It’s scary as hell.”

  “We thought my mother might be at her office,” Olivia said, “but she’s with my grandmother—Audrey. My father’s mother. You met her the other day.”

  “Then we saw the light on up here,” Maggie said. “We thought it might be Justin.”

  “He was on call,” Samantha said.

  Olivia nodded, pale.

  Maggie crossed her arms over her chest, shuddering as she plopped down on the couch. “Brandon used to think about becoming a volunteer firefighter. I don’t think his mother could take another first-responder in the family.”

  Olivia pointed at the cider mill painting, leaned up against the coffee table. “That’s Cider Brook, isn’t it? And Justin’s mill?” She glanced back at Samantha. “Where did he get this?”

  Samantha seized on the distraction. They all needed one. Her stomach twisted as she relived again, just for a few seconds, the cider mill fire. Justin hadn’t waited. He’d taken action. He would be doing the same now, she realized. And tonight’s fire wasn’t an ordinary chimney fire or lightning strike. It was something different—or Maggie and Olivia wouldn’t be here now.

  “I found the painting in my grandfather’s office,” she said. “It’s quite a story. We don’t have the ending yet, but would you like to hear what we have so far?”

  Olivia sank onto a chair, nodded tentatively, as if she understood she needed to keep her mind occupied but wasn’t sure she could. Samantha started with her grandfather introducing her to the privateer-turned-pirate Benjamin Farraday and took Maggie and Olivia through to digging in his Back Bay office closet with Justin. She didn’t mention their spine-melting kiss, but she had a feeling the two women could guess that part.

  “Let’s have a look at this painting,” Olivia said, easing off her chair and kneeling in front of the small oil. “The Mill at Cider Brook. Simple but enticing.” She drew the painting toward her and checked the back. “There’s a paper backing. We could cut that off without damaging the painting.”

  “Think there’ll be clues to the identity of the painter?” Maggie asked, obviously intrigued.

  Olivia shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Samantha was already on her feet, rummaging in a kitchen drawer for a sharp knife. She found a paring knife that would do the trick and returned to the living room with it, sitting on the floor next to Olivia.

  “It’s your painting,” Olivia said. “You do the honors.”

  “You’re the artist. Tell me if I’m screwing up, okay?”

  Carefully, working slowly, Samantha cut away the brown-paper backing around the edge of the frame, keeping as much of the paper as possible intact. Olivia peeled it away and set it on the coffee table.

  “What’s that say?” Maggie asked, pointing at a few lines of writing on the back of the canvas.

  Samantha recognized the neat, feminine handwriting—it was the same distinctive writing of the author of The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth.

  “It’s an inscription,” she said.

  They all read the simple words at the same time:

  To the girl I once was and to the man she loved with all her heart. Oh, what might have been on Cider Brook. I owe you my life, and our son’s life, my beloved Zeke. HHM

  Olivia covered her mouth. “Oh...oh, I’m going to cry.”

  Maggie was already crying. “That’s the sweetest, saddest thing.”

  Samantha sniffled, crying, too, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. “Henrietta painted a scene from the life she and Zeke had dreamed of having together.” She got out Grandpa Bennett’s silver flask and she, Maggie and Olivia each took a quick sip of the Lagavulin. “Courtesy of Benjamin Magowan, Zeke and Henrietta’s kind and extraordinary son.”

  She started to pass the flask for another round, but Brandon and Dylan arrived. Brandon, especially, was pale. “It’s a nasty damn fire,” he said, taking Maggie into his arms.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “Eric called. Damn, Maggie...”

  “There are injuries,” Dylan said, finishing for his friend. “We don’t know who or how many—”

  “How bad?” Olivia asked.

  He shook his head. “We don’t know.”

  * * *

  They waited together in the sawmill apartment before Randy Frost finally called his daughter. She listened to him, ashen, then disconnected. “Christopher is hurt. He’s in the emergency room. He’s likely to be admitted, but he’ll be okay. A beam fell on him. Three firefighters from other towns were also hurt. Their injuries are serious but not life-threatening.” She finally breathed. “It’s still chaotic. We’ll know more soon.”

  “Your father?” Samantha asked.

  “Good. Fine. It’ll be a while before he gets freed up.” Olivia reached for her jacket on the back of a chair. “I need to go be with my mother and grandmother.”

  Dylan was already on his way to the door.

  Olivia hesitated. “I’ve got your cell number, Samantha. I’ll call if I hear anything else. Justin...” She swallowed, obviously controlling her emotions. “He got Christopher out just in time. Dad says it was close. Too close.”

  Maggie looked at her husband. “We need to be with the boys.”

  “Go,” Samantha said. “Please. I’ll be all right here. Be with your families.”

  Brandon Sloan gave her a quick, brotherly hug. “Trust me, Sam. Justin will want you here when he gets back.”

  * * *

  Samantha was awake when Justin returned at dawn, gray-faced, exhausted. He didn’t say a word until he got a beer out of the refrigerator, opened it and sat next to her on the couch. He had a long drink, then turned to her. “How are you, Sam?”

  “I’ve been into the Lagavulin.”

  He grinned, but there was little spark in his eyes. “Good for you.”

  “And how are you, Justin?”

  “Hell of a night. Christopher will be all right. They wanted to keep him overnight, but he’s up at the house. He’s got plenty of people watching over him.”

  “It really was a close call, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It was close.” Justin drank more of his beer. “I almost died saving my baby brother’s sorry ass.”

  “That’s what we call gallows humor.”

  He winked at her. “That’s what we call Sloan humor. ‘Gallows’ makes me think of dead pirates. No one died tonight.”

  “I’m glad of that.”

  “I know you are, Sam.” He set his beer on the coffee table and touched a fingertip to her cheek. “We have unfinished business.”

  She thought she said his name. She might not have, not out loud, at least. As tired as he was, he still managed to sweep her up off the couch and carry her into his bedroom without any apparent effort.

  “I was hoping you might be in your flannel pj’s,” he whispered as he laid her on his bed. “I’ve been dreaming about taking those damn things off you.”

  “In one fell swoop or inch by inch?”

  “Both,” he said, his mouth finding hers, his hands raising her shirt, finding the warm skin at the small of her back. “When does it stop, Samantha? When do you quit trying to prove yourself a
nd let yourself off the hook? Live your life.”

  “I am living my life right now.”

  He laughed softly, easing her pants over her hips. “Damn straight. I’m more about action than words.” He coursed his palms along her bare skin. “Shall I demonstrate?”

  Her answer was a small moan of pleasure, and he took advantage, deepening their kiss. She slipped her arms around his waist, under his canvas shirt, pulling at his T-shirt until she had it out of his jeans. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the hardness of the muscles in his back, his hips, his thighs.

  He moved against her, as if they were already making love. Any fatigue seemed to lift off him, and he rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She ended up on top of him but saw right away it was only so that he could get her clothes off. Pants, shirt, bra. They were gone in a flash, cast off onto the rubble on the floor from his bashed-in wall. She didn’t care where they ended up.

  He held her still, straddling him, and gazed at her. Then he lowered her slowly to him, taking one nipple between his lips, then his teeth, until she felt the wet heat of his tongue. She tore at his clothes but with little effect, given the distractions of his mouth. She could feel his erection through his jeans, stark evidence of what lay ahead. She outlined it with her fingertips, felt him thrust hard against her hand even as she ended up on her back, flat against the cool sheets.

  His mouth again, tongue and teeth working their delicious torture down her stomach. He smoothed her underpants over her hips and down her legs, flinging them aside as his fingers slid between her legs. No words. Just the pure ecstasy of his touch. When she thought she would melt under him, he followed his fingers with the flick of his tongue.

  She didn’t know when he got his clothes off, or how, but she was quivering with want, aching, when she realized he was naked. She took him in her hand, guided him to her. “Justin...now...please...” But he was thrusting into her before she finished her last plea.

  As if just to torture her some more, he went still, raising himself above her.

  “Samantha,” he said softly, lowering his mouth to hers. “Damn.”