“Hello,” she said, giving his broad, warm hand a quick shake that did nothing to quiet the apparently all-too-easily aroused parts of her body. “So . . . you’re renovating the old mill?” She asked the question to steer them toward a topic—any topic—that would help get her mind back on track, but also because she wanted to know the answer. How would the work he was doing fit in with the fact that she and Bailey now owned a third of the place? Maybe Sawyer and Addie hadn’t thought they’d show up to claim their share? Sunny realized this was maybe going to be a bit more complicated than she’d thought. Like finding out I have family hasn’t complicated things enough.
Or, upon further consideration, maybe not. If he and Addie were renovating, then perhaps that made Sunny’s share all the more lucrative and they’d be that much more eager to buy her out. Of course, that didn’t resolve the concern about Bailey’s share. But one problem at a time.
At Sawyer’s nod, Sunny said, “It looks like the place hasn’t been in use for—”
“One hundred and seven years,” Addie finished for her. “Last time that wheel worked was nineteen-ten. A few folks have sniffed around it over the ensuing years, a historian here or there, but it’s a monument to our beginnings and the one thing D. Bart had left that originated with the first Hartwells to come to this country. He didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body, the old coot, and he wasn’t much of one for sticking around, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—get rid of his birthright. What’s ours stays ours. Despite the neglect, it’s stood the test of time.”
Sunny suspected Addie might have had more than a little to do with why Doyle had held on to the property. And she didn’t react to the “what’s ours, stays ours” part, but she tucked that bit of information away. Good to know. On further observation, Sunny noted that the renovations hadn’t just started. Looking down the slope around the back of the place, she could see stacks of lumber, some construction machinery. So, it appeared they were well under way on at least some part of it. Which meant they’d begun the process before Doyle had passed. Sunny didn’t say anything about that, either. Instead she asked, “So, why now?”
Sawyer flashed another grin, making those dimples flash and making her want to fan herself again . . . or something. It was as if he exuded pheromones along with his sweat. You’re related, her little voice singsonged.
“I guess I mean for what purpose?” she said, forging on determinedly through the pheromone cloud.
“For the purpose of making my home actually habitable.”
That gave Sunny pause. “Your . . . home? You live here? In the mill?”
“I do,” he said, happily, proudly even. “If you can call an old cot and a camp stove under a heavily leaking roof living.” He let out a short laugh. “But I’ve survived on a lot less and in a lot worse.” He said all this without so much as a hint that she might be a bit troubled by such a pronouncement.
Though why she cared, she didn’t know. Because, really, what did it matter? What did any of this matter?
“Why did she call you Sergeant Angel?” This from Bailey.
It was the first sentence she’d spoken, other than yes, ma’am or yes, sir, since Sunny had first laid eyes on her. Bailey’s voice was soft, her accent distinctly Southern, making Sunny wonder how and where she’d spent her young life thus far.
“Don’t mind that,” Sawyer told Bailey. “You can call me Sawyer.”
“He was a master sergeant, actually,” Addie began, but a friendly, if direct glance from Sawyer shushed her from going any further.
Addie’s responding smile wasn’t so much abashed as it was indulgent. It was clear she and Sawyer were close. Very close. The family kind of close. And Sunny had the sudden thought that—could he be—was Addie Pearl his . . . mother? Sawyer appeared to be close to Sunny’s own age, maybe a few years older, early thirties at most. So . . . no. More likely Addie—who was at least in her seventies—would be his grandmother. Wouldn’t she have mentioned that at the courthouse, though, when Sunny had asked about him? That could explain why Sawyer hadn’t felt the need to show up in person.
This new piece of information scrambled around in her brain, along with all the rest, and she tried to quickly figure out, if he was Doyle’s grandson, what that would make him to her. Some kind of second cousin? No, wait—gah—her nephew? What?
“And you two would be . . . ?” Sawyer asked courteously, mercifully interrupting her mental gymnastics. His gaze encompassed both her and Bailey.
And that was the moment Sunny realized he had no idea. He hadn’t been hoping she and Bailey wouldn’t show up to claim their share of the mill. He hadn’t shown up himself because he hadn’t thought there was anyone but him and Addie left to claim the mill.
Oh, boy.
Addie hadn’t looked particularly surprised to see Sunny or Bailey at the proceedings, hadn’t seemed upset, or angry, but what did Sunny know about the old woman or her motives? Nothing. That was what.
“Sunny,” she said to him, skipping over her full name. “Sunny Goodwin. And this is Bailey Sutton.” Sunny lifted the key she’d palmed from her pocket.
She noted that Bailey had fished hers out of her pocket as well.
Sunny let the key dangle from her fingertips, and she felt her lips curve a little as Bailey did the same. “She and I have different mamas, but it turns out Doyle Hartwell was our biological father,” Sunny told him. “And now Bailey and I officially own a third of your house.”
Chapter Two
Sawyer felt his smile slip just a tic. It took a lot to catch him off guard, but the pretty brunette and her cute little redheaded sidekick had just managed to do a very fine job of it.
He immediately shot a questioning look at Addie, who merely lifted a knobby shoulder and smiled, utterly unrepentant. That last part didn’t surprise him one bit. “Did you know about this?” he asked her, keeping his tone easy, body relaxed, his smile still in place. “Before you left here this morning, I mean?”
“If you’re asking if I knew D. Bart fathered other children, well then, yes, of course I did.”
At her use of the word other Sawyer felt the brunette’s gaze laser back to him. So she thought they were related by blood? What had she said her name was? Sunny? Sunny Goodwin. She looked about his age, give or take, and despite how young her sidekick was in comparison, he didn’t doubt her claim that Doyle had fathered them both. That wasn’t the shocking part. He looked back at Addie. “Whether or not Doyle fathered any progeny isn’t what I’m asking. I’m asking if you knew about the will?” He knew he should be having this conversation in private, but at this point, what the hell? They would all know the full story at some point. “Are there—” He broke off, glanced at Bailey. Then again, maybe this wasn’t a conversation she needed to be hearing.
“More progeny?” Sunny asked, placing emphasis on the last word. “I have no idea. I never met the man. From what I understand, neither has Bailey.”
The young girl shook her head, and he was struck at how calmly she was taking all this. Calmer than the adults, it seemed.
“So, you two—?” he asked.
“Just met today,” Sunny finished for him, smiling despite her direct, no-nonsense tone. She didn’t seem particularly emotional either, neither pro nor con; she was definitely all business. While Bailey was dressed like she’d just gotten done at the stables, and Addie was dressed, well, like Addie, Sunny had put on a nicely pressed go-to-court city suit, complete with a tailored brown skirt that fell just below the knee, stockings, and sensible brown pumps to match, a smartly tailored tweed jacket over a cream-colored silk blouse, topped off with a pretty teal and green paisley scarf and tasteful gold studs tacked to her earlobes.
Her dark hair was a waterfall of thick waves, made glossier by the afternoon sun and styled to fall neatly just past her shoulders. It was all one length, no bangs, no nonsense, but he guessed that little widow’s peak just to one side had something to do with that. She wore little noticeable makeup, w
hich suited her even features just fine. She was pretty enough, but not overtly striking in any particular way. She had nice cheekbones, a square chin that suited her determined air, dark eyebrows, neatly shaped, that matched dark lashes framing eyes the color of whiskey. Really good whiskey, he found himself thinking. So maybe she was striking, if you paid close attention. Her mouth suited the frank nature of her face, lips well defined, but neither full nor thin, with faint brackets lining either end, which could be from excessive frowning, or smiling. The jury was still out on that. Her speech was easy and smooth, but quick and a little clipped, as if she was used to getting things done in an orderly and swift fashion.
He couldn’t help it; he smiled. “Not from the country, are you?”
“Alexandria,” she said by way of response. “Old Town. And Bailey and I were the only other two named in the will, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He didn’t respond to that. “So, if you just met, where is her—are her—” He broke off, then looked to Bailey. “I’m sorry. You’re standing right there. When I was a kid I hated it when people did that to me.” He gave her a reassuring smile. Or maybe he was just trying to reassure himself. Because What the hell, Doyle?
“Foster care,” Bailey said matter-of-factly. She looked up at him, her eyes squinting a little in the sun as her gaze reached his face, but her expression otherwise unreadable. “So, it’s just me.” She had a sweet, soft, Deep South accent that was completely at odds with her otherwise smooth, seemingly unflappable demeanor.
“But surely you had—?” He stopped, looked at Sunny, then shifted toward the older woman. “Addison Pearl Whitaker, tell me you didn’t just bring a child on up here without telling someone.” He didn’t make it a question.
For her part, Addie merely dug her cane a bit more firmly into the gravel and held his gaze squarely with her own. “She’s a Hartwell, no matter the last name on her birth certificate. Makes her family.” For all that the top of Addie’s head came up no higher than the middle of Sawyer’s chest, she wasn’t the least bit cowed. “And don’t go trotting out my full name, sonny boy. I can still apply this cane to your behind, even if I have to swing a little higher these days.”
His mouth might have kicked up a little at that, mostly because they both knew it was true, and from the corner of his eye he saw Sunny and Bailey do the same. “And what about her foster family?” He looked at Bailey. “Do they know you’re here?” he asked the young girl directly.
“My caseworker knows,” Bailey said, again not seeming overly concerned. She wasn’t defiant or smug, which told him she was smarter than he’d been at her age. Nor did she strike him as being particularly pliant, which was also a good thing. It was more that she was just used to the shuffle. And wasn’t that a sorry statement about the world?
But then, he’d seen parts of the world with kids in situations far sorrier than hers. Still, he admired her evenness. He was sure it had stood her in good stead. Poor kid.
“Good,” he told her; then his smile broadened. He crouched down and braced his hands on his thighs so she wouldn’t have to squint to look up at him. “I only asked because, well, let’s just say Addie Pearl has a reputation for adopting a variety of strays. Most of them of the four-legged variety.” He glanced at Addie, who was once again smiling indulgently at him, then back at Bailey. “But there have been a few of the two-legged variety in there as well. Only one other time, though, was that two-legged stray underage.” He saw the brunette bristle and automatically put her hand on Bailey’s narrow shoulder, but he kept his gaze on Bailey as he finished.
“You?” Bailey asked, not seeming at all intimidated by him. If he could read anything in her expression, it would be curiosity.
He nodded in response.
“How old were you?” Bailey asked, her bright blue eyes glinting with interest for the first time. Now that they were more eye to eye, he noted the freckles hidden under her tanned cheeks. So, she wasn’t so fair skinned she couldn’t be out in the sun, but she sported the requisite redhead sprinkle across the cheeks and nose nonetheless. He wouldn’t say she was a cutie-pie type; her life had made her too cool for that. But there was kidlike spunk mixed in with all that older-than-her-years evenness. He’d bet on it.
“Nine,” he told her.
“I just turned ten,” she offered. “September third.”
“Almost thirty-three,” he told her. “November twelfth.”
“That makes you a Scorpio. I’m Virgo.”
Her comment got an interesting reaction from Sunny, who had already tucked her hand back in the pocket of her jacket, but was now studying the young girl with an unreadable expression on her face.
“I am indeed,” he said, looking back at Bailey.
“You lived here since then?” Bailey wanted to know.
“I spent some time overseas working for Uncle Sam, but this has been home base, yes.”
“Army, right?”
He nodded, surprised at the guess, then saw her gaze dart to the tattoo of two arrows crossed over a sword on his right bicep. “Yes, ma’am.” That didn’t answer how she knew that particular symbol belonged to an Army vet. “Did you know someone who served?”
In response, Bailey merely looked past him to the mill, and her nose might have wrinkled the slightest bit. It was the first hint of any kind of opinion she’d allowed him to see. “You lived in there since you were nine? On a cot?”
“No, child,” Addie said, answering for him. “He lived with me.” Before Sawyer or Bailey could say anything else, Addie smiled and clapped her hands around the knob of her cane, then tapped it decisively into the dirt. “How about it? You two want a closer look at your inheritance?”
Sunny and Bailey both glanced down at the key each held in her respective hand, then shared a brief smile when they caught themselves mirroring each other’s actions again. It was Sunny who spoke next. “I’m guessing we don’t actually need the key to get in,” she said dryly.
The banging of hammers and buzzing of saws had continued unabated while he’d been chatting with them. “At the moment, no.” Sawyer realized they would need to have a much more serious talk, figure things out, but for now, there was certainly no harm in letting them see their grand inheritance, such as it was. Hell, one look at the ancient heap in its current state might resolve everything before they even got started.
He turned and motioned for them to follow him. “Careful, the ground is a bit uneven. More rocks than dirt and they can shift or slide.” He headed back across the grounds toward the big sliding door he’d emerged from earlier. “Do you know the history of the place?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Sunny said, keeping her stride short he noted, so she and Bailey walked side by side, and allowing Addie to keep pace while using her cane over the scrabbly ground. “I didn’t know that silk was ever milled in Virginia, or anywhere in the States for that matter. It’s not one of the exports or crops I ever learned about in school.”
“It was a short-lived experiment,” he told them. “Blue Hollow Falls began as a farming community, very early, in the seventeenth century, in fact. These were British colonies then, and they brought mulberry tree seeds and moth eggs with them that had been given to them by the king.”
“Moths have eggs?” This came from Bailey.
“More like little pods,” he said, deciding that was better than getting into a fertility discussion of any kind with a minor. “These were special moths called bombyx mori. They start as silkworms and spin their pods in mulberry trees. It’s from those pods that silk is made.”
“With babies in them?” Bailey looked disgusted, though he wasn’t sure if it was because that was gross, or an insult to living beings.
“No, after they hatch,” he said. “The pods are like a chrysalis. Like how caterpillars turn into butterflies,” he added, having no actual idea if that was how it worked, but it was close enough for the purposes of history and young ears. “It used to be that the Chinese
were the only ones who knew the secret to making silk, but once the news got out, France and Italy started producing, and King James, who was the king of England at the time, decided he wanted in on that business. But the silk moths weren’t too keen on the damp and cold weather in England, so he decided to ship them over here, and see what his loyal subjects could do with them.”
“So, what happened?” Bailey wanted to know.
He caught Sunny intently listening, too. “It took some time,” he said. “After all, they had to grow trees and such. It did work, but because they had to send the pods on big ships across large oceans, which took forever, eventually the folks here figured out it would be better if they could just mill the pods and actually spin the silk right here. Spinning machinery had improved during that century-plus span of time, and we’d become independent from England by then. That’s when this mill came into being.” He paused just outside the big door, sliding it shut to block some of the construction noise as he finished his story. “The mill was initially constructed back in the early eighteen-hundreds by the first Bartholomew Hartwell, but soon after that, crops like tobacco and cotton gained in popularity because they were a lot easier to grow and harvest, with cotton in particular being much easier and cheaper to weave into fiber, and therefore more immediately profitable. Eventually, most of the silk trade died out.”
“Most?” This came from Sunny.
He nodded. “There are still silk mills operating in this country today, but the Hartwell mill shut down around nineteen ten. And the town here, such as it is, mostly shut down then, too.”
Sunny looked around. “There was a town?”
“Still is,” he answered, smiling, liking that she was showing some sincere interest, even if it might make the larger issue at hand more complicated. It was her birthright, too, now. More so than his, truth be told, even if he’d spent most of his life here and she’d just set foot in the place. “You came up and into the Hollow from the north. The town proper is a bit south of here. It’s not very big,” he added, “but we’re a solid community.”
Blue Hollow Falls Page 3